From the call he had just taken from the hospital, Stone knew that this was never going to be a good day. The appointment was for early that afternoon. Looking in the mirror as he shaved, the lines on his face were deepening; his eyes looked hollow; and his hands had fingers as thin as matchsticks. With a body that was lean and lithe, he never had a big appetite, but without standing on the bathroom scales, just from the fit of his trousers round his waist, he knew that he was losing weight.
Stone felt the urgency to get today’s appointment with the smart-suited consultant over. He took a taxi, and in the carpeted hospital consulting room, all Stone now wanted to know was how this man facing him was going to clear him of incessant pain. Comfortable chairs faced the doctor sitting across the desk, and Stone sat upright, rigid, his hands clutching each arm. The doctor, as last time, looked straight at Stone with a blank expression that gave nothing away.
‘Harry, I’ve had the biopsy results, and I’m afraid it shows that your expected cancer may be developing at a fast rate. It could be aggressive, and where we go from here will all depend on how quickly we’ve caught it.’ The consultant looked down at his notes as if he was not sure of something. ‘So, tell me again, how long did you say you’ve been having this pain in your back and your urinary symptoms?’
‘Three, four months,’ Stone replied, though he knew it was closer to nine months or even a year. This thing had been around a long while.
The doctor looked away and Stone moved in his chair. He was now very uncomfortable even as he sat there.
‘We should talk about treatment options. And I think a scan at this time is important to see how far it has spread. They are not a cure but hopefully can alleviate symptoms and keep you going for a while.’
‘How long is a while?’ Stone blurted back.
‘It can vary. Maybe eighteen months but maybe a lot fewer. Until we’ve seen how advanced it is, we shall not know. I shall make an appointment for you to have a full MRI scan. Have you had one before?’
‘No and I’m not sure I want one now,’ Stone said, feeling techy.
‘I understand how you feel, but it would be in your best interests.’
Stone hardly moved for the next ten minutes. He sat upright in his chair, staring to the blank white wall ahead. The consultant, in the same dark suit and bright-red tie, described the time-consuming and painful medical interventions that he could have. Possibly remove the prostate and undergo radiotherapy treatment. But Stone tried not to listen. It was becoming clear that his life expectancy, as long as he sat there, was probably getting very much shorter. In the end he agreed to have a scan, though nothing more. And even a scan, for Harry Stone, was only in the hope that he could see that this cancer had not spread and that this hospital had got it all wrong.
At just after midday, Harry Stone was ready to leave the London hospital. In a move that was just as clinical as the urologist’s investigations and this morning’s consultation, he was told that his credit card, presented on the first visit to the hospital, had now been charged with £3,250. He was handed the account in an envelope, but paying for professional services this morning, unusually, meant nothing for Stone. The high cost passed over him; he just felt numb from the bleak message, and he stood outside on the pavement for two minutes waiting for a taxi.
It was beginning to rain heavily and, as he climbed into the back seat of a taxi, he felt his heartbeat in his neck, and his hand was shaking. This pain in his back had been with him for many more months than he had told the doctor, but the diagnosis presented to him was as if nothing had happened until this morning. It had all just started today and again, he thought they had got it all wrong; they didn’t know what they were doing.
Today left Stone tense, frightened. What would come next was beyond his control.