He turns back and I know that’s the end of the discussion. I’m being dismissed because he wants to pretend he’s not freaking out. I make sure to lock the front door as I leave. I’m going to have to call my brother tonight because we are obviously going to have to take shifts with our dad to make sure he’s doing all the things he needs to do.
I’m a few miles away from home when I remember I left my half-eaten apple on his table. Shit. I’m going to hear about that in the morning.
When I walk in the door of my house, Mr. T bolts to his food bowl. Asshole. He never comes over to greet me when I get home. I’m just his meal ticket. “I should’ve gotten a dog!” I yell at him.
I went to a pet store around the time I quit my job. I had every intention of getting a dog, but that jerk was at the front of the store. He looked pitiful. He was skinny and missing patches of fur. The kid who worked there told me he had birth trauma or some shit. They had named him Tibbles, and that was what really pushed me over the edge. Birth trauma, my ass. He had a sissy name and he needed some confidence.
I took him home in one of those cardboard houses and changed his name to Mr. T. He needed confidence to be the badass motherfucker he was meant to be. I took him to the vet for a once over and he told me Mr. T had anxiety. I would too if I were stuck in a glass case with a crap name. He said Mr. T needed to wear tight T-shirts at all times to make him feel safe and keep him from biting his fur.
Finding a T-shirt to fit an underweight ferret is a fool’s errand. He didn’t exactly come with a list of his measurements and greatest accomplishments. He’s not a Playboy centerfold. My friend, Lisa, is a fashion designer who makes clothes that cost more than my van. I asked her to use her training for something worthwhile and make my unstable ferret some sanity shirts. She’s come through like a boss and keeps him looking more stylish than me.
He’s wearing his Pink Floyd shirt today—part of his vintage concert shirt series. He stopped chewing on himself a while ago, but he starts it again anytime I take off his shirt. This guy has issues.
After Mr. T eats, I sit on the couch and think of what I’m going to tell Jacob. Funny story, Dad has ass cancer. That’s going to go well. Guess who has cancer. If you guessed Dad, you’re right! Time to rip it off like a Band-Aid. I pick up the phone and call my brother.
CHAPTER 2
THE FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLAR PROBLEM
BEN
I pull up in front of Dad’s exactly on time. He’s waiting on the porch, which I expected.
“Good morning, Dad,” I say as he opens the van door.
“You left a half-eaten apple on my table yesterday.” He pulls the seatbelt across his body and snaps it.
Like clockwork. “I’m sorry about that. I got distracted by your big news.” I start down the street, trying to remember to use my turn signals and stay two car-lengths behind the Miata in front of me.
“I don’t come over to your house and leave half-eaten fruit all over the place.” He lives for times like this when he can bust my balls about something. He hands me a piece of paper with an address on it. I don’t know much about medical care for veterans, but I’ve learned you have to go to a different place for everything. Thank God for Barry.
“I said I was sorry about the apple. What doctor are we seeing today?”
“The ass cancer doctor.” He’s looking out the window.
I knew he wasn’t going to make this easy. I should have let Jacob come with us. I stupidly thought it would be better to split up the appointments. “Does he go by Doctor Ass Cancer, or does he have a name?”
“His name is Dr. Patel, but that’s probably not what I’m going to call him when he has his finger up my ass.”
This is going to be a long day.
I pull into a space four hundred miles from the door. Dad qualifies for handicap parking, but he refuses to get a tag. So we walk. And walk.
Then we wait. And wait. And wait some more. I have four cups of coffee that taste like it’s made from the ashes of people who died here waiting. We get moved from one waiting room to another waiting room. Dad’s appointment was three hours ago. I ask anyone with a badge for an estimate, but they all say he’ll get called when it’s his turn. I’m scared to take a piss because I don’t want to miss our window.
Dad gets called back about thirty minutes after I’ve given up hope of ever leaving this godforsaken building. Now that we have some movement, I want answers and I want them now. What’s the plan of action? What’s the prognosis? Is he as sick as Mom was?
The nurse taking Dad’s vitals is nice, but she doesn’t have any information. She says the doctor will be in shortly. He’s not. He comes in almost an hour later when I’m thinking about peeing in the sink. I wish I hadn’t drank all that coffee.
“Mr. Wright, I’m Dr. Patel.” He shakes Dad’s hand and smiles politely like we didn’t have an appointment half a day ago. I don’t want to like him, but I do. He seems like someone I would have a beer with under any other circumstances. Plus, there’s something reassuring about a white coat when you need help.
“Hi, I’m Ben.” We shake hands and I’m ready to get down to business. “What are we looking at here, doctor?”
He sits on the rolling stool near the sink. I’m glad I didn’t pee in there now. “Well, Dr. Jordan sent over your chart and the early test results. I’d like to get another colonoscopy done here.”
“Over my dead body and probably not even then,” Dad grumbles. He scoots farther back on the table, making the paper crinkle.
“Why are you redoing a test he’s already done?” We’re off to a bad start.
Dr. Patel closes the chart. “Well, the initial procedure was done in a private doctor’s office not in the VA system. The military likes to diagnose the diseases it treats.”
I thought we came here to get a treatment plan started, but we’re back at square one. “This makes no sense.”
“We’re not in the business of making sense. Our job is to keep servicemen and women healthy.” He says it like a reflex. He probably tells his patients this all day.
I look at my dad and he looks so out of his element on that table. “Okay, so say he gets a new colonoscopy today. What next?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t be able to have one today. We could schedule an appointment today for sometime in the next few weeks. The results should be back within four to six weeks after that.”
Un-freaking-believable. This is why I like working with plants and not people. “That’s two months wasted just to get us back to this point. He could be getting treated in that two months. What’s the step after that?”
Dr. Patel hesitates then opens the chart again. “I would expect surgery to remove as many of the cancerous cells as possible.”
“Ass surgery?” Dad chimes in like he’s got PTSD with anything involving his ass.
The doctor folds in his lips to hide a smile. “That’s one way to describe it.”
I’m seriously pissed I wasted more than half my day for someone to tell us to come back later. “So when would the surgery happen?” Somebody’s going to give me some answers I want to hear.
“That depends on the test results. Sicker patients get priority. If it’s as early as it looks now, your dad will be scheduled with the non-critical patients.”
“So he has to be closer to death before he can get some help?”
Dr. Patel doesn’t even have to answer that question for me to know I’m right.
I’m frustrated and I’m tired of dealing with cancer. It’s like a monster who follows us. I’m not even a doctor and I know what needs to happen. They operate if they can and then there’s the horrible chemotherapy and/or radiation. Mom’s was too late to cure. Everyone seems to think Dad’s isn’t too advanced, so I don’t understand why this process isn’t moving faster to make sure he doesn’t get to where Mom got.
I rub my face. “Why are there so many steps before you can start treating his cancer? I thought that was kind of the whole point of a
hospital.”
Dr. Patel closes the chart and rolls his stool closer. “I know this is frustrating. We all want your dad and all our patients to be as healthy as they can be. The system isn’t perfect, but we have to work within it. It’s just the way things are.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t like the way things are.” I’m waiting for my dad to smack me upside the head because I sound like a whiny child. Maybe he’s saving it for later.
“There are things we wish we could change as well. Let’s get a new colonoscopy scheduled first. Then we’ll talk again and see what we need to do next. I’ll have my nurse schedule it and she’ll give you the details.” He shakes our hands and he’s gone.
I turn and stare at my dad, who’s been a man of fewer words than usual.
The expression on his face gives away nothing, which is so like him. “I’ll be damned if they’re going to put another camera up my ass just to make their paperwork easier.”
There’s my dad.
I thought I was freaking out before, but that was just the opening act. All I can think about is what I would give to have caught my mom’s cancer earlier. My dad is a huge pain in the ass, but I will do whatever it takes to keep him around. I wish more than ever that I had made Jacob come with me. He’s my little brother by two years, but it would be nice to share this trauma with someone else.
“Let’s let them schedule the appointment here and we’ll call Barry on the way back to see what our other options are.” I want to punch something or someone. As pissed off as I am, I know the people here are just doing their jobs with one arm tied behind their backs.
We get the appointment set for the “massive invasion of privacy” as Dad calls it. It’s scheduled for three weeks and one day from today. I wonder how much of a difference three weeks and one day could have made for Mom.
***
I think Barry is expecting this call because we didn’t have to hold at all. Dad doesn’t allow talking on the phone in his car and that somehow extends to my van, so we had to wait until we got back to his house before we could call Barry. I call him on my cell phone so we have a speakerphone option. Dad would still have a rotary phone if Mom would’ve let him.
“Barry, why did you send me to that place to get pictures of my asshole if the VA was just going to want to do it all over again? Jesus Christ. If you treat me like a porn star, you better pay me like a porn star.” Dad’s silence at the hospital has passed.
“Russ, calm down.” My dad must be the only patient Barry can talk to like this. “I sent you to the VA because it’s your best option. You’re a veteran. You’re not on Medicare. You’re partially retired and have no health insurance. Unless you want to rack up enough debt to bankrupt yourself, the VA is your only option.”
“Why would I need insurance when you always have samples of my meds?” Dad is shaking his head.
The desire to punch someone comes back. We had this conversation after Mom passed. They were both working when she got sick and had insurance through their jobs. Dad cut down his hours at the plant so he could be with her more at the end. He never went back to full-time, which means he has no benefits.
“Can he sign up for Medicare now, Barry?” I would love for anything to have a simple answer.
“Not immediately. You have to be sixty-five to qualify outright. Your dad is a little too young. There are other special circumstances that will qualify you, but those take time. Sometimes up to two years.”
Of course. Why would it be any other way?
Barry keeps going. “You’re going to have the same issues with coverage through Medicare as you do with the VA. It’s better to stick with that. I know it’s not ideal. I’m sorry.”
Fuck that.
“How much will it cost to get treatment through a good, regular hospital?”
There’s nothing on Barry’s end for a minute. “Ben, I know you’re frustrated…”
“Of course I’m frustrated. My dad has the thing people fear most and we just spent most of the day being shuffled around to get a rain check. This is bullshit. He’s not going back there. How much will it cost?”
Dad’s looking at me and I have no idea what’s going through his head. Barry is as silent as Dad was earlier. You can tell they’re friends.
“Um.” Barry finally talks. “I could call in some favors and maybe work out something with the hospital and some other doctors, but it’s still going to be a lot of money.”
“How much?” I just want a straight answer out of someone.
He clears his throat. “At least fifty grand.”
Ouch. That’s so much money. I know Jacob will chip in what he can, but we both make about the same amount of money. I look over at Dad and his expression is plain as day. He was probably expecting Barry to toss out a number like a hundred bucks or something. I think he paid less than fifty grand for this house.
I’ve already decided my dad is going to a hospital with better resources. I don’t give a shit about anything else. Now I just need to figure out how to make fifty thousand dollars, and fast.
CHAPTER 3
DICK WHISTLES
MIRYAM
“Do you want big dicks or small dicks?”
“Do I want what?”
My best friend Sheba sits on the floor of my living room with her iPad. “What am I saying? Of course you want the big dick whistles. Those are going in the cart. Do you want a plain tiara, or do you want a giant dick on that, too?”
My life is literally perfect, except for the bachelorette party Sheba has been planning for weeks. When I was taking the bar a few years ago, I never imagined I’d be forced to choose between tiaras with or without genitalia. I survived law school, I got a job at the firm on the top of my list, and I got engaged to the most handsome attorney in Miami.
David Rosenberg is the youngest junior partner at Klein, Horowitz, and Liebman. He’s accomplished more in thirty-two years than most people in their fifties. He’s intelligent, he’s driven, and he’s drop-dead gorgeous. I don’t consider myself a shallow person. There are far more important things than being good-looking. However, attractiveness has long been synonymous with strength and health. Both are paramount when considering a mate. Survival of the species depends upon it. I studied this in my required semester of sociology. Ergo, I cannot be shallow. I’m concerned with the survival of the species.
I saw David on my first day and I was intrigued. He is that person who can command a room simply by walking into it. Juries hang on his every syllable. He’s poised at all times. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It almost became an obsession. I pursued him. It’s the twenty-first century and women have more than just voting rights now. I asked him out for drinks one night when we were leaving the office. He accepted. We just clicked.
He understands me in ways no one else ever has. We skipped all of the fake mating dance I hate in relationships. We didn’t pretend to like things the other person liked. We weren’t artificially nice to each other. We were unapologetically ourselves. After a few dates, we mutually agreed to become exclusive. Three months later, we took a trip to Napa Valley to advance our relationship. That went well, so we took the next step of introducing the other to our families. His family was perfectly cordial. All the members of his family are attorneys. I think their dog even had his J.D.
He checked all the boxes for my family. He’s Jewish, he’s single, and he’s financially stable. The fact that he’s an attorney bumped him up a few notches in my aunts’ eyes. Nothing has ever made more sense to me than to marry David. He proposed exactly one year and four days after our first date. He took me to our favorite restaurant. He handed me an envelope containing an engagement ring with a three carat center stone wrapped in a prenuptial agreement. I came close to crying. Nothing could’ve been more perfect.
We hired a wedding planner to take care of all the details because we are far too busy to get bogged down in the minutia of choosing music and menus and the like. Sheba is horrified I let the weddi
ng planner pick my dress. She insists that I let her have full control over the bachelorette party. I could not care less about a party, but she says I am not allowed to get married without one.
“I’ll get you the regular tiara. That’s my gift to you, Miryam. I won’t put any dicks on your head. At least until the stripper gets here.” She pretends to be looking at her iPad, but she is really watching my expression out of the corner of her eyes.
“I was clear on the no stripper policy. I had two requests: No strippers and no bouquets made of condoms. I’m adding one more. This house has to stay in pristine condition. I can’t have it trashed in case the buyers want to do more inspections.”
I am moving into David’s condo as soon as I’m done packing. I already have a buyer for my house and we’re closing in a month. I can’t wait to get married and start the next phase of my life as Mrs. Miryam Wexler-Rosenberg.
“We’re not trashing your house. We’re only meeting up here and then the limo will pick us up. We’ll go bar hopping until we can’t hop anymore.” She jumps up and hugs me from the side. “I just want everything to be perfect. Well, as perfect as it can be.”
I turn my face away from her until I can blink back the tears. My mom passed when I was ten. I miss her so much every day it hurts. I don’t remember her as well as I want to. I think she would be happy to see the life I have now. My grandmother raised me. I would do anything for her. I love seeing how proud she is of what I’ve made of my life. She lost her eyesight to glaucoma about six months ago. I try not to think of how little time I might have left with her. Grandma is a tough cookie and she will probably outlive us all, though.
Sheba has been trying to make up for my mom’s absence. She knows I don’t like talking about her, so she’s made sure our wedding planner has reserved a special place in the ceremony to honor her. Sheba takes good care of me. We’ve been friends since we were in pigtails. She’s the yin to my yang. She pulls off a short hairdo like a pro, where I have the same long, dark hair I’ve had since a teenager. Her hair color ranges from white blonde to fuchsia. It’s currently blonde. She gets tanned from walking near a window, so of course she’s stunning with the contrast.
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