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Monticello, NY
I watched with fascination as the technician moved the sound emitting probe slowly over Val’s right breast, pausing ever so often to fiddle with one of the myriad dials on the surface of the device’s control panel. A tightly coiled wire ran from the machine to the probe, and for a moment I was reminded of the snake I had encountered the day before. Then, the technician’s hand stopped, the probe hovering over a particular spot on Val’s skin, just to the right of the nipple.
“There,” he said. “Right there. Do you see it?”
I stared hard at the negative image of Val’s breast showing on the screen above her head. I could see the white outline of her breast, with the tangle of veins showing as white spider-web like lines. But, I didn’t see what the technician saw.
“What am I looking for?”
“It’s not very large. Probably less than a centimeter.” He pointed to what looked like a tiny, black image of the sun, with a ragged corona surrounding it. “Do you see how irregular the edge is?”
Okay, I thought, so the edge is irregular. What does that mean? “Is that bad?”
“It’s probably a just a fibro adenoma—a benign tumor,” said the technician.
I realized we were talking “around” Val, as if she weren’t even there. I reached out and rubbed her shoulder. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to ignore you. Are you doing all right?”
Val didn’t answer, and it suddenly occurred to me that all her nursing experience was of no use now. She was in a complete fog, unable to process anything because it was just too close to home. But there was another possibility that made even more sense—especially knowing my wife as I did—and that was that she was processing, knew exactly what the implications were, and was frightened to death. My money was on the latter.
“I’m sorry,” said the technician. “The significance is this. It’s definitely not a cyst. If it were a cyst, the edges would be smooth. The mass would be round—like a perfect circle. But what I’m seeing is an irregular mass. Can you see that?”
“I g-g-guess so,” stammered Val. I squeezed her shoulder harder.
“I think I’d like to have Dr. Morsky, our head radiologist, take a look. I’ll be right back.”
The technician left the room, taking with him what felt like every molecule of air. Val and I held our collective breath.
* * * *
In less than five minutes, the technician returned, accompanied by a slightly portly man in his forties, with dull brown hair and a receding hairline, whom he introduced as Dr. Roger Morsky. “Now, I don’t want you to be upset, Mrs. Davis,” said the radiologist. “It’s probably nothing—but, I think we should get a needle biopsy, just to be sure.”
“But I thought he said it was benign,” I whispered to Val, aiming my eyes at the technician.
“No, honey,” she corrected me. “He said it was probably benign.”
The technician nodded his affirmation.
“Well, there’s no point in speculating,” said Dr. Morsky, “We’ll just get a biopsy and we’ll know for sure. One good thing, though, if it is a cancer, it’s a tiny one.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. I could feel my eyes filling with tears.
“It means that it probably hasn’t had a chance to go anywhere. Most likely it hasn’t spread.”
Well, well, I thought, it was all out there: the word “cancer,” with all its horrid implications. Hell, he’s already talking about it spreading.
“Do you think it could have spread?” I asked impulsively, immediately wishing I hadn’t opened my mouth.
“Now, now, let’s not go jumping the gun. We don’t even know if it’s malignant yet.”
But it was too late. He couldn’t fool us. We’d been through too much together. I could see from the expression on Val’s face that she had reached the same conclusion as I had. It was cancer. All that remained was to find out how big it was, and if it had metastasized. Suddenly, I felt as though someone were squeezing my chest in a ferocious bear hug. I forced myself to take deliberate, even breaths, exhaling slowly through my lips. Val reached up from the examining table on which she lay and squeezed my hand reassuringly. Just like her, I thought—her comforting me.
“Well,” she said. “We might as well get that biopsy done, don’t you think?”
"I guess we don't have much choice," I replied.
“It's really a simple procedure," said Dr. Morsky, already preparing the biopsy equipment. "You'll feel a little discomfort when I give you a local anesthetic and that's all. And then, once you're numb, we'll take the biopsy. I promise, all you should feel is a little pressure."
* * * *
True to his word, Dr. Morsky finished the biopsy in less than five minutes, and Val didn't appear to feel any pain.
“Do you have a surgeon?” asked the radiologist.
Do we have a surgeon? Oh, yeah, and a hematologist or whatever you call those blood guys, too. I couldn’t believe this was happening. “No, we don’t,” I managed to reply. “Can you recommend someone?”
“I’d be happy to. Tom Eisenhauer is a very good man. His office is over in Liberty. I can call and set up an appointment for Friday if you’d like.”
Sure, I thought. And, while you’re at it, let’s schedule a tune up, an oil change, and a tire rotation.
“That would be fine,” I heard myself say.
Val just nodded.
* * * *
Neither of us said a word during the ride home, and I forced myself to focus on the Billy Stillwater homicide in order to keep from speculating about Val’s condition. There was something peculiar about Billy’s murder, and it really bothered me, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. Then, it hit me. Why did the murderer have to hit Billy over the head? He’d already been forced to drink the strychnine—probably at gunpoint—so why bash his head in? There was only one explanation: it had to be personal. There must have been a history between the two of them—or some kind of rivalry.
I needed to get back to the Twin Islands bar.