All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,80
idea of bedside manner. If this is serious, doctor, I want to know and I want to talk about it right now.”
He paused again.
“What kind of car is it?” he asked.
“Holy shit,” I said. “I’m dying, aren’t I?”
“I have concerns, Katherine. No one is saying you are dying,” he said. “I’ll be outside the Madison Avenue entrance in ten minutes.”
A half-hour later, Dr. Armitage walked into my apartment with my driver behind him. My eyes went right to Maurice. I wanted to see his face, the way I always look at a flight attendant if there is trouble on an airplane. If the attendant looks calm, all must be well, right? But Maurice never looked at me, never lifted his eyes off the ground. He just shuffled to a chair and sat quietly, staring at his feet.
“I asked Maurice who your closest friend is,” the doctor said. “He said it was him.”
“He’s right,” I said, though the words caught in my chest. “Why does he need to be here?”
“We need to talk about what we found on the MRI, and some of it might get a little complicated,” he said. “Having another set of ears is always helpful.”
“Just tell me,” I said. “This drama has gone on too long. I can’t wait anymore.”
Dr. Armitage took off his glasses. “We see some things that concern me,” he said, “some abnormalities. It appears to be some kind of tumor on your spine.”
“I have cancer?”
“That is very likely, yes,” he said.
There was a lovely gentleness in the way he told me. Even though his expression was stoic and I was aware that he was making a speech he probably makes every day, there was still kindness in his voice.
“It is quite unusual for a tumor to arise in the spine,” he continued. “These things typically come from other places, most frequently breast cancer. Either way, I think you need to see an oncologist right away. I’ve spoken to my friend Dr. Richard Zimmerman, he’s the best in the city. He will be able to see you tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to give you something for the pain and something for your anxiety, and the best thing you can do is try to relax tonight as best you can. And call me if you have any questions at all.”
I didn’t have any questions.
Or maybe I had too many to think of one.
Either way, I didn’t say anything.
Maurice did. “Doctor, she has a prescription for Ambien. More than anything I think it would be best for her to sleep tonight. Would it be all right if I gave her one of those?”
“Absolutely,” I heard the doctor say, but I was already fading away. I would have slept without the pills. And I did, right there on my sofa, with all my clothes and jewelry and makeup on. Maurice didn’t move me, though when I woke up I found myself tucked beneath a soft blanket with a pillow from the bedroom beneath my head.
The next afternoon I met Dr. Z, the kindest man in the world. He explained to me, in his heavy Brooklyn accent, that he became a doctor because his beloved mother died of breast cancer and he decided, at her funeral, to dedicate his life to helping other women fight the disease. And I thought to myself that sometimes you meet the best people in the worst of circumstances. I wish I’d known that a long time ago. It doesn’t make any of it better, really, but in some ways it does.
After Dr. Z’s introductory speech, he brought out the MRI results and laid them on a table. Then he asked me to remove my shirt and bra and gave me a breast exam.
“Did you notice this lump?” he asked, as he kneaded an area just to the side of my right nipple.
“Not really,” I said.
I was too ashamed to tell the real answer, which was that I hadn’t noticed it at all. I know I’m supposed to give myself breast exams, but I do not, never have. I know that is stupid, but if you think about it it’s no more stupid than wasting twenty years of my life pining for a man. We do a lot of stupid things. That’s what I was thinking as he continued to manipulate my boob between his thumb and forefinger. For a really intelligent woman, I do a lot of stupid things.
Dr. Z leaned back when he was done and pulled off his