| |
Facing the solid wood door that bears a plastic plaque with the name Dr. Allison Ferguson, M.D. embossed on it, I make a fist and knock.
“Come in,” comes the slightly raspy female voice.
Opening the door, I enter a cramped office, the walls of which are covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with all sorts of medical volumes and journals. She’s got a wooden desk and a laptop resting on it. The wall behind the attractive, fifty-something, long, sandy-blonde-haired woman is covered with framed diplomas that prove she’s accredited enough to examine my brain. To the right is a window that overlooks the front parking lot. Mary is standing beside the window, her face tight and concerned.
“Uh oh,” I whisper to myself. “This might not be so good.”
The white lab coat-wearing Dr. Allison hasn’t yet looked at me while her eyes are studying whatever images are presently appearing on her laptop. I glance at Mary.
“What’s going on?” I say. “Why do I get the distinct feeling the time has come to sell my golf clubs and pick out a casket?”
My chest feels tight, and my mouth grows dryer than it already is. Mary remains silent. However, the doctor finally raises her head and locks her big brown eyes on my eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Jordan,” she says. “I’m going to get right to the point. I have good news and potentially bad news for you.”
Once again, I glance at Mary.
“Listen to what the doctor is telling you, Martin,” she says.
“I’m all ears, Doc,” I say. “How about the good news first.”
“The good news is that other than that tiny epidermal laceration on the back of your head, there’s no bleeding or swelling of the brain that I can see anyway. No ruptured veins or capillaries that will cause you to stroke out.”
“So, no need to stay overnight for observation?” I pose, feeling suddenly optimistic.
“Not tonight,” she says. “Although I want you to monitor yourself for forty-eight hours and absolutely no alcohol intake and I mean it. I know how you writers can be.”
Again, Hemingway comes to mind.
“Scouts honor,” I say making the Boy Scout two-fingered salute and crossing my heart with it. “And for the bad news?”
“I’m not entirely sure yet, but you could be developing a tumor on the hypothalamus,” she says her eyes shifting back to the computer images. “It’s probably why you passed out while jogging this morning.”
Suddenly, my stomach shrinks to somewhere around my ankles. Every writer’s worst nightmare. Brain cancer. Of course, you don’t have to be a writer to suffer nightmares about it. I glance at Mary. She eyes me with wide, wet eyes like she’s tearing up. That’s something that’s entirely out of character for the cop. She’s been so hardened by the job after decades of witnessing murders and coming all too close to being stabbed or shot to death herself by some insane criminal. Is she aware of something I’m not? Are she and the doctor holding back on me?
I clear my throat, but really what I need is a drink and not water.
“What are my chances, Doc?” I say. “Tell me straight, no chaser.”
She refocuses on me, pulls off her reading glasses, and allows them to rest against her bosom by means of a thin leather lanyard. She leans back in her black leather swivel chair. She brings her hands together at the fingers and rests them on her flat belly.
“You get right to the heart of a story, don’t you, Mr. Jordan,” she says not without an exhale. Correction, a profound exhale. “It’s only natural to ask that question. How much time do I have?”
“Is there anything Martin can do now to remedy the situation, Doctor Ferguson?” Mary interjects.
The doctor releases her finger lock and sits back up in her chair.
“I’m a general practitioner,” she says. “Seems we’re getting rarer and rarer these days while medical students see more dollar signs in taking on a specialty.”
“What does that mean?” I say.
“It means I’ll set up an appointment for you to see an oncologist and a neurosurgeon as soon as possible,” she goes on. “I suspect both will want to put you through a series of further imaging tests and maybe even have you undergo surgery for a biopsy, that is if cutting around the hypothallus isn’t considered too risky.”
Now, all my organs feel like they're dropping out of the bottoms of my feet.
“But listen, Mr. Jordan and Lt. Clifton,” the doctor goes on. “There’s every chance in the world that the growth is benign and can be treated with non-evasive treatment. Again, I’m not the expert, but I know enough about these matters to offer an opinion.” She writes something down on a piece of white paper, rips it off the pad, and stands. She hands the paper to me. “Go home and get some rest and try not to think about it. On your way out, give that script to the receptionist and she will make your appointments with the oncologist and the neurosurgeon. Above all, don’t worry about stuff that’s not under your control at present. But also remember, no drinking. Your brain is fragile right now. Just rest up.”
For the first time, she offers a smile. She’s even prettier when she smiles. I inhale and exhale a breath and think about not thinking about a possible brain tumor. I can tell already it’s going to be an impossible task. Mary comes to my side. We both thank the doctor and head for the door.
“Remember, Mr. Jordan,” the doc calls out, “just rest. You need a healthy brain to write a whole bunch more books. You’re not through with this life yet. Not by a long shot. So hang onto those golf clubs.”
I grin and offer her a nod. The cop and I exit the office and close the door behind us.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, “before I tell the doc I don’t golf.”