Doctor Zoot had that serious look on his face.
By “that serious look” I mean this isn’t a poker match. He clearly has no poker face to offer.
He might try to hide it a bit but he has to spit the news out one way or another. There were no circumstances where he was going to enter the examination room with a kazoo, doing a backbend and leading a marching band through the front door.
It’s beneath the status of a neuro-oncologist.
I got so carried away imagining Dr Zook leading a marching band into the examination room and shouting “Good news, Marcin! The giant brain tumor is operable and likely benign, Hip Hip Hooray!” and then the band does their playing, their roll stepping, the confetti falls from the ceiling and the champagne corks pop.
Nope, not at all.
We are back to that look on his face. The look that says you are fucked, pal. He won’t say that of course but that’s the gist. It’s written all over his face like a giant neon sign at the rear wall of an alleyway. You are fucked, pal.
"Thank you for coming in on such short notice, Mr Wattle.” he says, offering an outstretched hand while holding a small chart to his chest as if afraid that if it is not held close to his chest some Russian satellite is going to photograph the results from outer space and beat him to the delivery of the bad news.
I shake his hand which reminds me of the touch the priest used to use on my forehead (don’t go there!) during communion. Gentle and reassuring and meant to reduce stress.
“No problem, doc.” I say without adding anything because you know, I’m just waiting for the penny to drop, for the hammer to fall.
I feel like I’m a kid again, in the principal’s office as they are reaching for the phone to call my parents for whatever atrocity I committed which is going to result in my suspension from school.
Doctor Zoot sits down in front of me and takes another look at the chart. He looks up at me with that expression again. Serious stuff. Life and death.
“So, I’ve reviewed your MRI results, and we need to discuss what we found.”
“Ok”. Just get to the fucking point, I want to shout. Yes or no.
“So, the scan shows a large mass in your brain.”
And that’s it. Is that it? Large mass? That would explain the vertigo and headaches and all the other stuff. Some alien form taking up residence in my brain. What was that book I read as a kid about that alien growth on someone’s back which turned out to be a 400 year-old demonic Native American spirit? Manitou, that was it. See? My brain isn’t falling apart just yet. I can still remember things.
Without any tangible response on my part, Doctor Zoot continued.
“I’m afraid it’s serious and we need more information to understand exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Is he trying to force me to react by pushing the seriousness part of it? Does he think I’m too stupid to understand what he’s talking about? Am I supposed to burst into tears? Yank at his doctor's smock and beg him to tell me it’s not true, that it was just a joke? Should I ask to go outside for a smoke?
“Ok. So how do you go about that?”
What I want to know is if they are going to go in there with one of those hand saws they use to cut into the skull and poke my brain with electrodes or knives, slicing out a big chunk of my brain and leaving me sitting there drooling. I don’t have any particular visions of the future. I would prefer not to be just sitting there drooling. On the other hand, I’ve been that wasted plenty of times in my life, passed out in public, not lying in my own vomit fortunately but passed out nonetheless, so being prone and out of it would not exactly be a novelty, even if it’s been a few years.
“Well, the next step is to perform a biopsy to determine the nature of the tumor. Once we have the biopsy results, we can discuss the best course of action.”
So, what was it Morrison sang? Cancel my subscription to the resurrection? What does that even mean anyway? Whose resurrection? His? Christ’s? That dead Indian on the highway?
“So that means nothing is known for sure yet…”
“Well, like I said, we know it’s serious. We just have to find out how serious now. But you are right, nothing is known for sure yet. So we will schedule the biopsy as soon as possible, likely within the next few days. We will do everything we can to get you the answers and the care that you need.”
Ugh, the idea of care, skin falling away, losing hair, hooked up to a radioactive drip, feeling weak for the rest of my days until death, fuck that.
“Ok, well..that’s that then. I guess I’ll wait to hear from you?”
Doctor Zoot stood and looked like he wanted to put a hand on my shoulder to reassure me but thought better of it in mid-air so simply used the hand as an empty gesture before using it to double grip the clipboard like an overanxious camp leader.
“Yes, of course, Mr Wattle. That goes without saying but do you have any immediate questions or concerns right now?”
“Do you mean do I have any concerns that you’ve just told me I’ve got a giant clump of death growing on my brain and that I’m probably going to be dead soon?”
Doc’s eyes widen a bit and he looks at me with his head turned slightly sideways the way a dog might do trying to understand a command.
"I understand that this is incredibly overwhelming and frightening news, Mr Wattle. It’s natural to feel that way. Right now, we don't know exactly what kind of tumor it is or how aggressive it might be. That’s why the biopsy is so important—it will give us the information we need to understand the situation better."
I feel bad and feel like maybe I was being difficult. It wasn’t Dr Zoot’s fault. What a shitty thing to have to tell somebody. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Ok. I get it, Doc. So when will you do this biopsy?”
He looked relieved that I was coming around.
“We’ll schedule the biopsy hopefully within the next few days depending on the availability of the surgical team and of course, your readiness.”
“Ok, so someone will call me?”
“Yes of course, please remember, if you have any questions or need to talk more about your concerns at any point, don’t hesitate to reach out. You’re not alone in this, and we’ll do everything we can to help you through it."
Not alone in this? Is someone going to get brain cancer along with me to keep me company, fly down to the gates of hell with me?
It is true that I quit smoking some time ago but now I feel like what’s the point? A few extra hours of living? Fuck it, I’m going to go to the tobacco shop and get some cigarettes, even if there are few places left to smoke them.
I was ready to feel sorry for myself with a vengeance.
The first place I thought to go was McGoos, my old local. Armed with my pack of smokes, I sidled up to the bartop that I hadn’t sat at since I quit drinking a decade before. I didn’t recognise the day bartender and given that I hadn’t been there in such a long time I probably wouldn’t recognise the night bartender either. Lifespans tended to be shortened in these kinds of dark, damp hideaways where no sunlight ever got in.
I tossed the pack of filterless Chesterfields on the counter as the barman tossed a filthy rag over his shoulder and leaned in. This is how the mechanism moves. It might have been a long time, but I hadn’t forgotten.
“What’ll it be, pal?” He asked casually tossing a coaster down in front of me.
“Shot of Wild Turkey and a pint of Iron City.” I hummed with authority, my insides trembling with anticipation.
As the barman busied himself with my order I let the second thoughts run through my mind.
Really man? Over a decade dry and you are going to just throw it all away? Sure, why not? Look at this shit. Over a decade dry and this is the thanks I get? Brain cancer? You don’t know yet for sure that it’s brain cancer. No, not officially but don’t try to fuck with me, we both know I’m going to die sooner than later. Why should I deprive myself of fun in my last dying days? You call this fun? Sitting in an empty bar in the middle of the day drinking yourself into a sloppy stupor? Do you have any idea how your body is going to react to this kind of abuse? Maybe you could handle it ten years ago but your tolerance is gone. You’re gonna be fucked up. And you are throwing away more than ten years of sobriety, why? Because you got a little boo hoo bad news? What a pussy you are, Wattle. I thought you had more in you than to crack at the first bit of bad news…First bit of bad news? I’m going to die, didn’t you hear? He didn’t say you were going to die. He said that the scan showed a large mass in your brain. He didn’t say you had cancer or that you were going to die…Maybe not in those words but he said it was serious and when a doctor says that, he might as well take out a gun and shoot you in the head himself. Oh for fuck’s sake Wattle, do you hear yourself? He said it was too early to tell. You need a biopsy. Yeah, that’s just going through the motions. Just like they’ll offer some halfway cure like radiating my brain like a thousand suns so I can have another few months left of so-called living to see all my hair fall out, to puke my cancer guts out, to look at myself in the mirror and ask myself who is this ghost looking back at me. No thanks. I’m not even going to bother going back. What’s the point? Just to find out what we all know already? For the love of christ, Wattle. Stop acting like a baby. You have a tumor. Even if it’s cancerous, even if you only have a few weeks or a few months to live, do you really want those last few weeks or months to play out like you did in the old days? A drunk fuck, pissing yourself, acting like a fool, scaring strangers who just came out for a night of fun? Don’t you remember all that? You were a mess. You were a loser.
He, the voice in my head, whispered the word “loser” the way Eugene said his family whispered the word “cancer” in Brighton Beach Memoirs.
The whiskey and pint were in front of me.
Was the voice in my head right?
I made a deal with it. I’ll wait until I get the official results.
You have a talent. I need to read more of your work!
I hope this is a fictional story!
Good internal dialogue