Light rain, heavy traffic. We’re nearing the two-hour mark of what promises to be a four-hour drive from Baltimore back to New York. Nina is piloting the SUV, just as she had from New York to Baltimore earlier this morning. This day has been circled in red on the calendar for months: Dr. Theodore had scheduled a follow-up MRI on my spine, six months after the surgery. The results would reveal if the procedure had been successful: if there had been any regrowth of the tumor, or re-impingement on the spinal cord.
Going into today’s test, I’ll admit to a degree of anxiety. Normally I could bluff my way through it, relying on an old standby axiom: “If you imagine the worst-case scenario, and it actually happens, you’ve lived it twice.” It didn’t ring true this time. I wasn’t imagining things. What I was feeling was fear. Not frozen-in-my-tracks, don’t leave my room, don’t make eye contact terror, but legitimate fear of a negative result. I had already lived it, and had no desire to live it again. If these films showed regrowth of the mass, or deterioration of my spine, I was screwed.
At the halfway point of our return journey, Nina wisely pulls into one of those generic, one-on-either-side-of-the-turnpike mini-malls, basically life support systems for cavernous toilet facilities. I stumble out of the car and into the building. I’m wearing sweatpants, a green-checked flannel shirt, two weeks of stubble, and an aggressively unkempt head of hair. I blend right in. Clumsily, I make my way through the crowd of fellow travelers, stabbing at the floor with my four-pronged HurryCane.
After the restroom, I make a beeline for the Cinnabon concession. I select the sleeve of four minis, figuring I’ll have at least three opportunities to “Just Say No” and show my arteries mercy.
I lean against a pillar, a few steps away from Nina, who’s waiting to buy some candy from the newsstand, which is temporarily shuttered. The Cinnabon lady says that the cashier is on minute four of a five-minute break.
As I wait, my mind is processing and analyzing the day’s events. I convinced the anesthesiologist to employ a lighter touch, and without the heavy sedative, I somehow managed to remain still during the MRI. Shaking off only a mild Valium hangover, I think about the significance of Dr. Theodore’s reading of the results.
Tracy stayed in New York to attend Esmé’s swim meet, the kind of event I miss on a regular basis because of my freakin’ health issues. Dr. Theodore had spoken to my wife on the phone the moment I was out of the machine, so she already knew the outcome. We’d have a lot to talk about when I got home.
After almost forty years in the public eye, I am acutely aware of being observed. A slow pan to my right, and sure enough, about ten feet away, a guy stands eyeballing me. I’m guessing he’s talking himself into coming over to say hi, or to get a selfie.
And here he comes, a big guy, 6' 2" maybe, short black hair with a six o’clock shadow, in jeans and a work coat. He’d be intimidating if it wasn’t for his eyes … they’re light, bright, and disarming.
“Are you Michael J. Fox?”
I nod.
“Oh, wow,” he says. “I’m binge-watching every episode of Spin City.”
“Thanks,” I say. He glances down at my cane and back up again. “I’m sorry about your…”
Suddenly I feel the need to explain. “I had back surgery…” Am I really going to go through the whole thing with this guy?
Then he saves me: “I’m ex-military. I’m being treated for depression—PTSD—for a while now. It’s going well, really good.”
“That’s great,” I say, happy to be talking about him.
“I just wanted to tell you that, because, you know, you’ve helped me a lot.”
He didn’t want anything, this gentle giant. He just wanted to give me something—and it was beyond valuable. “I’m glad,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Derek.”
Nina shows up with her candy. I say goodbye to Derek, shake his hand, and he watches me limp-shuffle off. I’ll bet he’s thinking: I feel better than Michael J. Fox looks.
Back in the car, I fluff my pillow, ready to nap all the way to Manhattan. My mom will be visiting us soon from Vancouver. I look forward to telling her the news. It’s official: The surgery took. The tumor is not growing back. The spinal cord is free and clear. It couldn’t have gone better.
I think about the encounter with Derek. It stirred a feeling of gratitude: that through my example of living with adversity, I was able to positively affect someone else’s life.
Another feeling remains, however. No matter how I try to suppress it, there’s a lingering fear.
I sleep, though not well.