SLINGS AND ARROWS OF OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE

At eight thirty, the attending doctor comes in to talk with us. Dad pulls himself out of the chair to shake her hand. He looks ragged. His face is gray.

“How’s he doing?” asks the doctor.

“Better,” says my dad. “He woke up a few hours ago and asked for water and a blanket. He’s not quite himself yet, still kind of shaky, but he’s a heck of a lot better than he was last night.”

“That’s great news,” says the doctor. “Hi Max. I’m Dr. Keene. We met in the emergency room last night, but you probably don’t remember. How do you feel?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Any dizziness?”

“A little,” I say. “When I sit up.”

“Headache?”

“Yeah,” I say, and now I am sobbing again.

“He’s scared,” my dad explains.

Shoulders shaking, I stare at the ceiling and the tears roll down the sides of my face. Dad comes back to my bed and pulls me toward him.

“His mother died of cancer,” he tells the doctor. “He’s worried he has it too.”

“What kind of cancer was it?” the doctor asks.

“Sorry?” Dad asks. He has been looking at my face and has become lost and overwhelmed by my tears.

“Your wife,” says the doctor. “What kind of cancer was it that she died from?”

“Oh,” says Dad. “They told me it was HER2. Does that sound right? It started out as breast cancer. She was in remission for ten years, and when it came back it was in her brain. There were only nine months between her second diagnosis and her death. It was horrible. But she wanted us to be strong. So we were.”

Everything is silent except my sobbing.

Dad sits next to me on the bed and puts his arm around me.

“You don’t have cancer,” says the doctor.

My heart stops beating.

“How do you know?” I whisper.

“Well, for one, HER2 is not a genetic form of cancer. You can’t inherit it. If your mom had this form, even though it was devastating for her, there is really no way on earth that she has passed it on to you. Not now. Not ever. Do you hear me? Max. Stop crying. Listen. This is not a trait that can be inherited. You are not going to get this from her. You might have her eyes or her temper or her hair color, but you are not going to get her cancer.”

Dad wipes my eyes. “Are you hearing her?” he asks.

“You don’t have cancer,” repeats Dr. Keene. “You do, however, have a concussion. And a hangover. You may also have some depression and anxiety because of what happened to your mom. But I can tell you with great confidence—and I would not say this to a patient unless I was sure about it—that you do not have brain cancer. You. Do. Not. Have. Brain Cancer.”

“But what if I got it some other way?” I ask. “I can still feel something pushing against my eye. Right here. Do you think there might be some kind of tumor in there?”

“No,” says the doctor. “There is nothing pushing against your eye.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am completely sure. I had a chance to take a careful look at the CT scan. If there was a tumor big enough to push against your eye, I would have seen it. You’re a lucky guy, Max Friedman. You knocked yourself pretty hard right on your frontal lobe. But besides confirming that there are no tumors in there, the scan shows there is no internal bleeding. No swelling around the frontal lobe or any other parts of the brain. No fracture of the cranium. You, my extremely lucky friend, are going to be okay.”

“Thank God,” says Dad.

Dr. Keene opens up her iPad. She types quickly, swipes a few times, and then looks at me with a sly smile. “Ever look inside your brain?” she asks.

I hesitate. “No,” I say. Although this is a metaphorical lie because of how much cranium gazing I have been doing lately.

“Well, I want to show you what a healthy brain looks like. Come closer, Mr. Friedman, if you want to take a look at the scan too. So here we are. This space here is your sinus cavity. Your temporal lobe is here. That’s the part that retains memory. And back down here are your medulla oblongata and cerebellum. Can you see that?”

Dad and I lean forward. We gaze at my brain.

“It looks like a butterfly,” says my Dad.

“Yes,” says Dr. Keene. “It kind of does with the lobes spreading out on either side. But mostly what it looks like to me is a perfectly healthy brain with no tumors, no swelling, and no bleeding. This is the brain of someone who is going to be okay.”

“That is wonderful news,” says my dad.

Dr. Keene closes her iPad. “You may have some symptoms over the next few days. Headaches, dizziness, nausea, irritability, maybe even sleepiness, confusion, trouble concentrating. All of these things are normal after a moderate concussion. But they will subside if you take care of yourself. Rest. No school until you’re feeling better. No television. No computers. No reading. No heavy concentration.” She looks at my father. “Schedule an appointment with his pediatrician to make sure things are moving in the right direction. And if the pain increases or his mental state deteriorates, make sure to bring him in right away.

“And one more thing,” says Dr. Keene. “Be careful with alcohol. Your blood alcohol level was .25 last night. That is extremely high. Especially for a thin guy like yourself. Do you drink frequently?”

“No,” I say. “This was my first time.”

“They all say that,” she says, winking at my dad. “Anyway, besides the fact that you are underage, which makes it illegal, you had about two hundred times more alcohol than someone of your weight should ever consume. It could have been very dangerous for you.”

“Okay,” I say.

“We’re printing out the discharge papers now, and they have specific information you need about caring for a concussion. You’re going home, my friend. What do you think about that?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

For some reason that I can’t understand, I feel unspeakably sad.

“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” says Dad. “Thank you, Dr. Keene. Thank you so much.”

The doctor shakes my dad’s hand again. Then she shakes my hand, puts her hand on my shoulder, and leaves.

The nurse comes in to disconnect my IV and help me out of bed.

She gives my dad the discharge papers, goes over the details, and tells him that whenever we are ready we can be on our way.

I look out the window so my dad doesn’t have to see me crying again.

He finds my plastic bag of clothes and starts laying them out for me. T-shirt. Sweatshirt. Skinny jeans. Red Converse All Stars. He comes up behind me and places both his hands on my shoulders.

For a moment or two, I lean back against him and we look out the window at the world below us: the cars, the snow, the heavy sky, the hurrying mortals on the sidewalks who are not even thinking about their mothers and fathers and grandparents and great-grandparents who have been gone all these years, all these generations. They hunch into their winter coats, trying to keep themselves warm despite their losses. They keep trudging on, their hearts still beating inside their chests, their blood still coursing through their veins, their eyes straight ahead, never looking back at the empty footsteps they have made in the snow.

“Come on, Max,” says my dad. “Let’s get out of here.”