by Claire Adams
I’m scared and embarrassed, but I’m also exhausted. Even the suggestion of getting rest is enough to convince me to close my eyes.
When I wake up again, the doctor is standing next to the bed, saying they’re ready to get me in for an MRI.
They do their tests and get me back to my room where John is waiting for me, hunched forward in his seat, his hands clasped supporting his chin.
“Grace,” he says as I’m wheeled back into place, “are you all right?”
“I have no idea,” I tell him. “What happened? I mean, I know I had a seizure, but…”
“I don’t know,” he says. “One minute you were sitting there talking to me and the next, you were on the floor convulsing.”
I’m not entirely sure why those words make me cry.
“You’re going to be all right,” John soothes. “You can have as much time as you need. Just focus on getting better, all right?”
I would argue with him, but I’m still too tired to make much of a showing.
“If we don’t take risks,” I tell him, “we’re not going to survive.”
He just smiles at me. “Why don’t you just get some rest? We’re not going to make a move on anything for a while anyway, so you just focus on getting better so you can be back in my office, monopolizing my lunch hour soon, okay?”
My eyes start to close on their own, but I’m still muttering, “…got to get out there… people should know who we are…”
The last sound I hear before falling asleep again is John’s laugh.
* * *
I don’t know what time it is, but it’s got to be the next morning when I wake up, again with Dr. Jones standing next to my bed. This time, though, he brought a colleague: a tall, tan, almost statuesque man with a lab coat, covering what I’m imagining to be a toned upper body.
“Hey, I’m sorry to wake you,” Dr. Jones says. “This is Dr. Churchill.”
“No relation,” the other doctor says. I’m assuming it’s a reference to the British Prime Minister. “Grace, I’ve looked at your slides, and we’ve found an oligodendroglioma, stage two.”
I’m expecting him to say more, but it looks like he’s waiting for my reaction.
“You’re going to have to give me a little more than that, doc,” I answer, my throat sore. “I don’t think I can pronounce that, much less have any idea what that is.”
The doctor smirks, his hazel eyes intent on mine. “I’m surprised that I could,” he says. “Basically, it’s a small tumor in your brain. You’ve probably had it for years, as oligodendrogliomas are particularly slow-growing.”
“A brain tumor?” I ask. “You seem pretty calm about that. What’s the plan? Someone goes in and digs it out or what?”
“Unfortunately, due to its location, surgery isn’t a viable option,” he says. “That said, I think we’ll be able to combat this with a mild course of oral chemotherapy.”
I think about those words for a minute.
“A mild course of chemotherapy?” I ask. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t chemotherapy poison that’s just as likely to kill healthy cells as it is to kill cancer cells?”
“Chemo is serious stuff,” he says. “There’s no way around that, but I think that we can approach this with a five-day regimen, once a month. Like I said, oligodendroglioma is particularly slow-growing.”
“So the seizure shouldn’t worry me?” I ask. “That’s a relief. I was thinking that I had a major medical event because of something in my brain that shouldn’t be there.”
Dr. Churchill sighs and runs his hand through his short, black hair. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he says.
“How long do I have?” I ask. “I mean, assuming that the chemo doesn’t wipe it out entirely.”
“We’ve found that patients in your stage of oligodendroglioma have a very good shot of making it past ten years,” he answers.
“Oh, good. I was thinking this might significantly shorten my lifespan, but hey, I wasn’t planning on living past the next decade, anyway.”
“It’s difficult to say precisely what’s going to happen in your specific case,” Dr. Churchill says. “Every case is different. I’ve seen people live out full lives with this diagnosis and I’ve seen people who have had their lives considerably shortened-”
“So if you can’t tell me anything, why are you still talking?” I snap.
Yeah, it was a little rude, but let’s be fair: this guy just told me that I might not be alive in ten years. I get that it’s not his fault, but that doesn’t make this any easier to swallow.
“We’d like to go ahead and get you started on your first course of chemotherapy right away,” he says. “That way, we’re on top of it and it’ll be that much sooner before we can get a better idea which direction this is going to go.”
“Five days?” I ask. “I have to get back to work. I can’t sit here for the next five days while you pump toxic shit into my veins. I have things to do.”
“I really do think it’s best that we get on top of this as soon as we can,” he says. “That said, if you’d like to schedule a time in the coming days that would be better, like I said, this is a slow-growing tumor, so a few days shouldn’t make that great a difference.”
“You’re really inspiring that confidence,” I tell him. “The problem is that I don’t really think a few days is going to be enough of a wait. Why don’t we just all go back to our lives, you can give me a prescription for something that’s going to prevent any more seizures, and we can call that good?”
“I know you’re scared,” he says, “but the sooner we start your treatment, the sooner we’ll have some clearer answers. And I know that I’ve said a few times that this is a slow-growing tumor, but it’s already progressed far enough that you’re having seizures-”
“Seizure,” I interrupt, “singular. What you’re telling me is that I have a brain tumor, that it’s in a place where you can’t just go and dig it out, and that even with chemotherapy, you’re not sure how much time I may or may not have left on this planet, so if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll-”
“It’s your choice whether or not you consent to treatment,” Dr. Churchill says. “This is the best course, in my medical opinion. If we sit back and do nothing, your oligodendroglioma is going to continue to grow unabated and yes, I’m going to prescribe you something to help prevent seizures, but that’s not going to treat the underlying cause. So, it’s up to you.”
“You know, you’re kind of sexy when you’re frustrated,” I tell him.
It’s a deflection, sure, but I don’t feel the slightest bit comfortable making this decision right now. I don’t know if I ever will be, but right now, I want to make him feel just as uncomfortable as I feel.
The problem is, that’s not really possible given the current situation.
“Thanks?” he says, looking to his colleague who, for some reason, hasn’t yet left the room. “But I think we should talk about your treatment.”
“You said oral chemotherapy, right?” I ask.
“That’s right,” he answers. “It comes in a capsule that you can take at home.”
“So, it’s less effective than the needle-in-the-arm stuff?” I ask.
“Not necessarily,” he answers.
“I thought people came to the hospital when they were taking chemo,” I retort. “Tell me it’s not my particularly rosy demeanor that’s made you decide to send me home instead.”
He smiles with a mouth full of straight, white teeth, saying, “That’s not it at all. I just think that this is the course that would be best in this situation.”
“Then why do other people come in when they get chemo treatment?” I ask.
“There are a few reasons,” he says. “First and foremost, when IVs are involved, it’s best to have as close to a sterile environment as possible. Outside of a sterile or mostly sterile environment, all kinds of nasty things can enter the system through the IV site and especially with something like chemo t
hat has a profound impact on the white blood cell count, that’s not a risk that’s really worth taking.”
“But oral chemotherapy doesn’t have that problem?” I ask. “I mean, I know there’d be no injection site or whatever, but the white blood cell count — that wouldn’t be knocked-”
“You’ll still want to be careful,” he interrupts. “Stay away from people who are sick, have recently been sick, or are at risk of getting sick — you know, like parents with sick kids and that sort of thing. There are some other things that you’ll want to know before we send you home, but first, I’d like to answer any other questions you may have.”
“Is the treatment any better than the disease?” I ask.
“We’ve found that chemotherapy can be very effective for people with oligodendroglioma,” he answers.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I tell him.
“Chemo’s not without its risks,” he says. “There are side effects, and you’ll need to contact me when or if they happen to you. That said, I’m confident in this course of treatment.”
“Is the treatment any better than the disease?” I ask again.
“With any treatment, it’s important to weigh the risks and the benefits,” he says. “In your case, I feel confident in this course.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that a few times,” I scoff. “You still haven’t answered my-”
“It’s not going to feel better,” he says. “Most people on chemo, oral or intravenous, have serious side-effects, many of which are not very pleasant.”
We go on like that for a while. He tries to convince me that chemo’s the way to go and I try to avoid the reality that I’ve got this thing growing in my brain that may or may not kill me before I have a chance to settle down and maybe squeeze out a kid or two.
I’m only twenty-four years old.
This can’t be happening.
Chapter Two
Being the Entertainment
Jace
I knew when I went into medicine that it wasn’t going to be an easy thing. That’s not why I did it. I’m not a doctor because I have some delusion of always being able to save the day, and I didn’t go into oncology because it’s an easy specialty to deal with.
Still, it never gets easy telling someone they have cancer.
“Hey,” I call to Melissa, my girlfriend, “I’m going to be out for a couple of hours.”
“All right,” she calls back from the other room.
Melissa: she’s been with me since before I graduated med school. We both knew that my life wouldn’t slow down after graduation, but we only knew that intellectually.
The reality has been a bit harder on our relationship than either of us had expected.
It was her idea for me to start telling her that I’m “going out,” rather than “I’m going to work.” In reality, I don’t know if it’s made things any better between us, or if it’s actually changed anything at all.
I’m not headed to the hospital, though.
I didn’t get a page or a phone call. I’m not scheduled to be in, and I’m not on call.
Where I’m going, well, it’s just part of the reality of a recent med-school graduate in the second decade of the new millennium in America.
“Recent med-school graduate” these days means anyone who’s still looking at six figures in student loan debt. At the rate I’m going, I’m going to be a recent grad for at least another decade.
I’m wearing my finest set of clothes, and I’m just hoping that I don’t get recognized by anyone while I’m out on the town. What I’m doing is a risk in a number of ways, and I’d really rather avoid an awkward situation if at all possible.
“When do you think you’re going to be home?” Melissa asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I don’t think it’ll be any later than midnight, though.”
“All right,” she says. “Just remember the rules.”
Ah, the rules. I couldn’t forget them.
Where I’m going, what I’m doing tonight…it wasn’t my idea and it took Melissa a while to open me up to it as a possibility.
You hear things all the time about people who do what I do for my second job and none of them were things that I saw as being compatible with my station as a doctor or as a man in a committed relationship.
Unfortunately, with the way the interest is accruing on those student loans, I had to find something to fill in the gaps.
“A bit heavy on the cologne, don’t you think?” Melissa asks. The fact that she’s asking from the other room is enough for me to wash my wrists and my neck until I can barely smell the stuff.
I dry myself and button my shirt back up before I take one more look in the mirror.
Sure, Melissa may have talked me into doing this initially, but the fact remains that I’ve come to love what I do. If nothing else, it’s a great way to disconnect from my day job.
I walk out into the living room, but I don’t bother asking Melissa how I look. I just give her a kiss on the forehead and tell her that I’ll be back before too long.
I’m an escort and I’m on my way to pick up my date.
I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve never had sex for money. That’s not what I do; I’m simply good arm candy for single women who don’t want to go out alone.
I don’t kiss and physical contact even on the level of holding hands or putting my arm around my client is a rarity. That’s not to say that I’ve never been propositioned by a client, but I’m content in my relationship.
All right, maybe it’s been a while since I’ve been able to say that I’ve been “happy” in my relationship with Melissa, but I haven’t felt the need yet to risk everything—and I do mean everything—by sleeping with a client.
Melissa is a beautiful woman and, what’s more, she’s intelligent. Even if she didn’t have the long, flowing blonde hair, the big blue eyes, the large—if fake—breasts, and the tight butt, I still would have fallen in love with her mind.
The rest is just a perk: a very, very nice perk.
She purses her lips as she looks down at her crossword, completely ignoring my lingering presence.
This is how it goes before I head out for a job.
The service sometimes springs for a town car, but it looks like I’m stuck in a cab tonight.
I don’t have fancy tastes or anything like that; the problem is that the kind of transportation arranged is indicative of a client’s pocketbook. Town cars are generally somewhere in the middle of the road. Limousines, while one might think they’d only be requested by a wealthy client, are generally reserved for recently-eighteen-year-old girls looking for someone to take them to prom, and those ones never pay very well.
The best of all possible worlds is when a client asks that I show up driving some exotic sports car, although I’ve only ever gotten that particular call a couple of times in the year that I’ve been doing this. Those are the clients with the deep pockets.
Getting a call to pick someone up in a cab…I’m not expecting a big tip at the end of the night.
I head downstairs and wait for my cab.
The rules for tonight, just like any other night on the job, are simple.
First, never am I to give any kind of physical contact other than incidental touching of the hands. Putting my arm around someone or allowing them to put their arm around me is extra, and that’s as far as it can ever go.
Second, Melissa insists that I don’t have more than two cocktails on any given night while out on the job. I don’t know if she thinks people want to get me drunk to see what happens or what, but I’ve never been in a situation with body shots or beer bongs.
Not since college, anyway.
Third, if we have plans and I get a call, I don’t take the job. This one has never really been an issue, though, as we never seem to have plans anymore.
Finally, at the end of the night, it’s my sworn duty not to tell her anything about what happened on the date — and I mean absolutely
nothing.
She doesn’t want to hear where we went or who I was with, she doesn’t want to know if things went well or went poorly. Despite this whole thing being her idea, she’s a little squeamish with the reality of it.
I tried to tell her once a while back that the most anyone’s ever asked me to do is to escort them by the arm — that was a prom thing — but that itself was too much information for her.
To be honest, I don’t know why Melissa suggested that I do this if she feels the way she does about it, but the extra money it’s bringing in has been enough to keep me going out when I get the call.
The cab pulls up and the driver calls my last name out the window.
“Yeah,” I answer and get in the back.
I pull out the card on which I wrote the address and read it off to the driver.
He starts the meter and we’re on our way.
Tonight is supposed to be a low-key event. What Jenny, my agency contact — that’s not really her title, I just like referring to her like that — told me about the evening was that a young woman needed someone to escort her to “some minor charity event, or an opera performance or something.”
Jenny’s not that great with details.
When we pull up to the building, I’m a bit surprised that my client asked that I show up in a cab. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve lived in the city long enough to know this place is on the upper end of things.
I get out and ask the driver to wait.
He answers with the obligatory, “Whatever,” and I make my way to the door.
The doorman stops me and asks where I’m going.
I pull the card back out of my pocket and read off the name. “I’m here to pick up a Miss Miller,” I answer and he directs me to the elevator.
“You’ll find her on floor fifteen, apartment 105,” the doorman says as I’m walking away.
I wonder if my client’s just slumming it with the cab. It’s happened before, but if that’s the case, I really should have dressed down a little.
