picked up at Home Depot.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“What the heck! Why not?” Ruby asked.
“It’s just unknown,” Adams said, her voice tinged with frustration. “The manufacturer sent out an alert last month. They’re way behind on supply orders. To be honest, they’re not the only ones. Call any oncologist and they’ll tell you that we’re currently in the midst of the worst shortage of generic cancer medications that we’ve seen in decades. It’s a historic supply crisis with tremendous repercussions for both patients and their doctors.”
“What do we do?” Ruby asked. “My survival hinges on starting treatment right away!”
“Verbilifide isn’t in short supply, just the generic,” Dr. Adams said, sounding reassuring. “We’ll have to prescribe you the brand name, that’s all.”
“So that’s not a problem, then,” I said.
“The generic costs a fraction of what Verbilifide will cost for a full course of treatment.”
I asked, “Meaning?”
“Meaning it will cost around three hundred thousand dollars.”
Ruby and I both looked sticker shocked. It’s bad enough confronting a cancer diagnosis, but to think about the financial implications conjures up the old “insult to injury” adage.
“I guess we can’t just go to CVS to pick up the drugs,” I said.
Ruby laughed, which almost made me cry.
“No,” Adams said. “I’ll need a week to order Verbilifide from a specialty pharmacy. They’d have the drug delivered to my office, and you’ll need to pick it up here. Just so I’m clear, you’re not worried about the cost?”
I shrugged off the number.
“Why worry about that?” I said. “That’s what health insurance is for.”
CHAPTER 3
From the bedroom, which doubled as a cramped home office, I opened a Safari browser on my MacBook Pro and typed the URL for my bank’s Web site. Afternoon sunlight spilled into the room from two windows, which the building’s superintendent kept promising to clean, while a steady breeze fluttered the curtains, casting movable shadows on the scuffed hardwood floor. Ginger, the orange tabby cat Ruby had adopted from the ASPCA last winter, perched herself on my lap and purred her pleasure. Her head darted all about, on a mouse hunt perhaps, as we’d had quite a few recent sightings. Not that we lived in a total dive, but this wasn’t the Ritz, either.
Seeing nothing of interest, Ginger opted instead to stick her head inside my water glass. Reflexively, I tilted the glass, allowing Ginger a drink, because that was what I’d done a thousand times before. Ginger had grown accustomed to drinking water out of a glass, and we hadn’t the time or inclination to break her of this curious habit. Meanwhile, my left hand deftly keyed in the username and password combination for my bank account. Ruby hovered close behind, scratching Ginger’s orange head while her kitty drank.
“How much is in the checking account?” Ruby asked.
I clicked. Then I clicked again.
“Two thousand,” I said. “Give or take a thousand.”
Ruby grimaced. “What? Why are we so low?”
“Um, let’s see. We’re down to one income, which after business expenses, food, taxes, car payment, my school loan, your tuition, and utilities . . . leaves us with just about zero every month.”
“Oh, goodness.”
Ruby didn’t ask me about our savings account. She knew I had drained it long ago to climb the Kang. “Live the life you want to live today,” is what Ruby always preached. It’s one of the reasons I loved her so much. She didn’t just support my passions—she actually got me.
Today I just wanted Ruby to live. It’s funny how life gets really centered, and really quickly, too, when you’re forced to confront what’s truly important. Each day, each moment Ruby and I had together, her health, her comfort, that’s what I cared about now. That’s all I cared about. I reached over my shoulder and grabbed hold of her delicate wrist. Ginger, surprised by the sudden movement, leapt from my lap and onto the floor with a soft meow.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Do you know how much our insurance is going to cover?”
“No. But I have a call in to Atrium. They should be calling back soon. We’ll figure it all out, I promise.”
Ruby sighed and flopped down on the bed—technically, just a mattress and box spring on the floor. Bed frames were for grownups, she once said. I admired her from my desk chair, taking in every detail like a slow, calming breath. Ruby, beautiful and lithe, fit her surroundings the way a tiger blends into the jungle. I had ceded all apartment-decorating decisions to my wife.