All You Could Ask For: A Novel (26 page)

Then the phone rang, and a voice on the other end said, “Katherine, I need to see you tomorrow.”

What’s funny now is that I didn’t recognize the voice at first. I thought it was Phil, my CEO, to whom I had resigned earlier in the day. I cackled into the phone at the very thought. I thought he was calling to say he needed me back, the firm could not survive without me, to remind me of the tens of millions of dollars in stock options I was leaving on the table, and oh by the way his wife just left him (which she did) and he realized it was, in fact, me he’d loved all these years and he was begging me to marry him.

Then the voice continued, “There are some things on your MRI that concern me and we’re going to need to get you to see an oncologist.”

That was when I realized it wasn’t Phil on the phone.

But the gravity of the moment did not strike me so quickly. I hardly ever get sick, so I really don’t
speak
doctor. I suppose I was aware that an “oncologist” meant “cancer,” but I didn’t put it together quite so quickly.

“What are we looking at, doc?” I asked, still thinking it was back trouble. “Something serious?”

“We should talk in person,” he said. “Tomorrow in the office.”

That was when I knew we weren’t talking about a herniated disc. I sat down and watched my knees begin to shake. I was gripping the phone really tightly. I didn’t want to let go, and I didn’t want to stop talking, either. I would be alone the moment he hung up and I really didn’t want to be alone.

“We need to talk now,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You’re scaring me.”

“We should sit down and talk in person.”

“Okay,” I said. “My driver will pick you up in ten minutes.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Katherine, I don’t know if I can make that work,” he said hesitantly.

“Okay, that’s fine,” I told him. “Then all you need to do is tell me right now this isn’t something very serious and I don’t need to be that worried about it. Because, frankly, calling me at six o’clock in the evening and scaring the living shit out of me and then going on about your day isn’t my idea of bedside manner. If this is serious, doctor, I want to know and I want to talk about it right now.”

He paused again.

“What kind of car is it?” he asked.

“Holy shit,” I said. “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

“I have concerns, Katherine. No one is saying you are dying,” he said. “I’ll be outside the Madison Avenue entrance in ten minutes.”

A half-hour later, Dr. Armitage walked into my apartment with my driver behind him. My eyes went right to Maurice. I wanted to see his face, the way I always look at a flight attendant if there is trouble on an airplane. If the attendant looks calm, all must be well, right? But Maurice never looked at me, never lifted his eyes off the ground. He just shuffled to a chair and sat quietly, staring at his feet.

“I asked Maurice who your closest friend is,” the doctor said. “He said it was him.”

“He’s right,” I said, though the words caught in my chest. “Why does he need to be here?”

“We need to talk about what we found on the MRI, and some of it might get a little complicated,” he said. “Having another set of ears is always helpful.”

“Just tell me,” I said. “This drama has gone on too long. I can’t wait anymore.”

Dr. Armitage took off his glasses. “We see some things that concern me,” he said, “some abnormalities. It appears to be some kind of tumor on your spine.”

“I have cancer?”

“That is very likely, yes,” he said.

There was a lovely gentleness in the way he told me. Even though his expression was stoic and I was aware that he was making a speech he probably makes every day, there was still kindness in his voice.

“It is quite unusual for a tumor to arise in the spine,” he continued. “These things typically come from other places, most frequently breast cancer. Either way, I think you need to see an oncologist right away. I’ve spoken to my friend Dr. Richard Zimmerman, he’s the best in the city. He will be able to see you tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to give you something for the pain and something for your anxiety, and the best thing you can do is try to relax tonight as best you can. And call me if you have any questions at all.”

I didn’t have any questions.

Or maybe I had too many to think of one.

Either way, I didn’t say anything.

Maurice did. “Doctor, she has a prescription for Ambien. More than anything I think it would be best for her to sleep tonight. Would it be all right if I gave her one of those?”

“Absolutely,” I heard the doctor say, but I was already fading away. I would have slept without the pills. And I did, right there on my sofa, with all my clothes and jewelry and makeup on. Maurice didn’t move me, though when I woke up I found myself tucked beneath a soft blanket with a pillow from the bedroom beneath my head.

The next afternoon I met Dr. Z, the kindest man in the world. He explained to me, in his heavy Brooklyn accent, that he became a doctor because his beloved mother died of breast cancer and he decided, at her funeral, to dedicate his life to helping other women fight the disease. And I thought to myself that sometimes you meet the best people in the worst of circumstances. I wish I’d known that a long time ago. It doesn’t make any of it better, really, but in some ways it does.

After Dr. Z’s introductory speech, he brought out the MRI results and laid them on a table. Then he asked me to remove my shirt and bra and gave me a breast exam.

“Did you notice this lump?” he asked, as he kneaded an area just to the side of my right nipple.

“Not really,” I said.

I was too ashamed to tell the real answer, which was that I hadn’t noticed it at all. I know I’m supposed to give myself breast exams, but I do not, never have. I know that is stupid, but if you think about it it’s no more stupid than wasting twenty years of my life pining for a man. We do a lot of stupid things. That’s what I was thinking as he continued to manipulate my boob between his thumb and forefinger. For a really intelligent woman, I do a lot of stupid things.

Dr. Z leaned back when he was done and pulled off his eyeglasses. “Okay,” he said, his tone unchanged, nothing to read into at all, “here’s what we need to do. We need to get some blood work, we need to do some more tests, we should biopsy your breast lump, and we may need to do some other biopsies as well.”

“I’m sorry, doctor, but I thought we were worried about my spine and my bones.”

“Most cancers start somewhere else and they travel,” he said. “For example, it’s very uncommon to have liver cancer. Usually, cancer of the liver starts somewhere else, like in the breast.”

“So in this case, what you’re telling me is I have breast cancer that has spread to my bones?”

I thought I saw just a little bit of emotion then. He seemed to swallow especially hard before he answered. “That’s what we need to find out. We’re going to send you for a biopsy, we’re going to get a CAT scan of your chest and belly, and we’re going to do a bone scan. You’ll be back by the end of the week and we’ll go over the results.”

I could go on and on about the subsequent tests I took and the chalky fluid I drank and the Ambien-fueled nights that passed, but there isn’t really much point in any of that. By Friday I was back with Dr. Z and he was telling me, in a matter-of-fact tone, that I have breast cancer that has probably spread to my spine.

What was amazing about that moment was that I had no reaction whatsoever. You know how when you see someone in a courtroom be pronounced guilty and sentenced to life in prison, they don’t ever seem to scream or cry or even flinch? I’ve always wondered how they manage to remain so stoic, but now I understand. It is because they already know. Just as I did. I knew what Dr. Z was going to tell me before I set foot in the office.

“Are you saying I have a terminal disease?” I asked.

“What I’m saying is that you have a disease we cannot cure,” he said. I could tell he’d made this speech many times. “That does not mean we can’t treat it, we can often treat it for years, but based on what we know now this is not a disease that we can cure.”

I wanted to ask him how long I had but the words got stuck inside.

“You should know, Katherine,” he went on, “that miraculous progress is being made in research every year, every day, every hour. We will treat this, we will make this as comfortable as we can for you, we will see to it that you will live your life however you choose to, and we will be comforted by the fact that five years ago there was a lot less we could do for you than we can today. And by that, I mean that there is every reason to believe that next year there will be more we can do, and even more the following year. So that is the game we are playing.”

I closed my eyes and asked, “How much time do you think we have to play it?”

He smiled. “How’s your sense of humor?”

“Some people say it’s my best quality.”

“Okay, then I’ll tell you that if you are asking me when you are going to die, I will tell you that if I knew I would arrange right now to take that day off, because there’s a lot of paperwork involved. And then you’d smile—just as you are right now—and I’d tell you I’m not giving any thought to when you are going to die. The only thing either of us needs to be thinking about is how you’re going to live.”

So, Samantha, that is my story. I haven’t been back to see him yet. I will go, probably tomorrow or the next day. I just haven’t been able to manage it yet. I haven’t been able to do anything. I haven’t left my apartment, have hardly eaten, barely slept. I can’t really describe the way I feel. But I
can
tell you that I’m afraid I can’t do what the doctor is asking. Because I am so alone. I don’t have a husband, a boyfriend, a sister, or a priest. I can’t involve Maurice in this. He’s a wonderful man but he’s my driver, and I can’t put all of this on him. You can’t ask people who work for you to do things like this, because the truth is you don’t know how they really feel about you and it’s probably better that way.

And while I don’t know if I can face this alone, I know I would rather try that than involve my mother. I haven’t told her a word of this and I don’t plan to. If I die, she’ll find out when someone invites her to the funeral.

So, what I’m saying is that I just don’t know that I am ready to go back to the doctor and hear all of it and ask the questions and get the answers and begin the treatment all by myself. I’m sure I will change my mind tomorrow or the next day. I’ll go back because I have to. But it would be a lot easier if there was someone with me. To take notes. And ask questions I don’t think of. And maybe hold my hand. No one has held my hand in a long time. I know we have never met, and so I am a little embarrassed to say this, but right now I think you may be the best chance I have. Probably because you’re the only chance I have. So if you want to meet in the city tomorrow, maybe I could buy you lunch and we could talk, and who knows what might happen next.

You just might save my life.

Person2Person

From: Samantha R.

To: Katherine E.

BreastCancerForum.org

What time and where?

SAMANTHA

I HOPE I DIDN’T do too blatant of a double-take when the maître d’ led me to the table. It’s just that if you had given me the choice of any of the women in the restaurant—Michael’s on the East Side—I think Katherine would have been the last one I’d have guessed. She looked so healthy, so well put together, she didn’t look at all unwell or uncertain, or un-anything. She isn’t a beautiful woman but she is striking, and younger than I expected.

“I’m Katherine Emerson,” she said, rising, as I approached. She had a deep voice, not masculine, more like she might sing opera in her spare time.

“Hi,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else.

She extended her hand and I shook it. Her grip was firm, the way my father shakes hands, but when it was time to let go she didn’t. She held my hand a beat longer than I know she normally would have. That’s what having cancer does. It makes you hold someone’s hand a beat longer than usual, no matter how fabulous you look.

“It’s good of you to meet me,” Katherine said.

“It’s funny,” I said, as I sat opposite her at a sunny two-top with a gorgeous centerpiece of white lilies, “I feel as though I should be saying that to you. I know that makes no sense, but somehow I feel like I’m the one who should be grateful.”

I laughed a little. Katherine did not, she didn’t even smile. Actually, she didn’t look like she smiled much, even before she had cancer.

“Here’s my story,” she said. “I’m a single woman. I quit my job the day I was diagnosed, literally the same day. The timing of that didn’t work out so well for me, but there isn’t much I can do about it now. I had plans to go out West to be with a man I just met, and that doesn’t seem to be in the cards now either. In a nutshell, I am all alone and I have to deal with this, and something inside of me is saying that if I don’t have someone to encourage me, then at some point I’ll just decide it isn’t worth it. So, I guess that’s what I’m looking for, someone to tell me it’s worth it on days when I’m not so sure.”