being terrible, I know I’m making it worse, but this is ridiculous, unfathomable. How can someone have the flu one day, and less than a week later have inoperable cancer?
The doctor seems unfazed by my behavior. “I was just starting to tell your aunt and uncle about a new trial—”
“Experimental?” I say. “You want him to be a guinea pig?”
Benny clears his throat, and I finally look at him. “That’s all they got, honey,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed, his skin still sallow. His combover is now waving warily on top of his head and I want to smooth it back down. I want to lather his face and shave off the stubble he’d never wear in public in any other situation. I want to cover him with the blanket, tuck him in like a child, shut off the lights and shoo everyone from the room so he can get some rest, so his body can heal. Uncle Benny issteel; there’s no way something as obscure and formerly inconsequential as a pancreas can take him down. This doctor knows nothing.
“So, how long, Doc?” Benny’s asking, and the doctor’s sighing, shaking his head.
“I hate that question,” he says, and attempts a smile meant to look sympathetic. “We’ve had one patient on this protocol beat the one-year mark.”
Yolanda gasps, and Benny closes his eyes, and I turn and grab the stupid cake pan so no one will see how idiotic I was. I stride quickly down the hall past a gowned elderly woman walking an IV stand, past the ponytailed nurse, the waiting room, the nurses’ station, to the elevator. It is just opening and I force my way onto it, past a group of exiting doctors. At the lobby I run toward the front doors, push out into cool gray mist and birds chirping. In my car I throw the cake pan onto the passenger’s seat, squeal from the garage out onto the busy street choked with the remains of lunchtime traffic. I am hungry, so hungry, and I yank the cake pan closer to me on the seat, toss off the aluminum foil, dig a chunk out with my fingers. I stuff it into my mouth and lick frosting and crumbs from my fingers. I’ve barely swallowed it when I am digging again, maneuvering with one hand through the bunched-up traffic, looking for an opening to break free and race ahead. The drizzle turns to hard rain and I hit the wipers, then dig harder at the cake, feel the icing jam under my fingernails. I pull a larger piece free. I don’t look into the windows of the cars surrounding me. I know they are staring at me—thinking, What a pig. How can she do that to herself? Does she have no self-control? —but it doesn’t matter what they think. I’ve nearly cleared the contents of the 13 inch × 9 inch pan when suddenly I choke on a glob of frosting, the sugar burning like acid in my esophagus. My eyes water, my chest and throat contract. I cannot breathe. I’m making this horrifying sound—part gasp, part scream—and I can hardly see to drive, barely keep a grip on the wheel. I force myself to cough, hard, painfully, trying to expel the stupid frosting and draw enough air into my lungs so that I don’t black out and crash. So that I don’t die alone with an empty cake pan at my side, fingers sticky with the evidence.
At home, I strip off my clothes, scrub myself pink in the shower. Then I look into the mirror, although I have to force myself to. My eyes are raw and glassy, my hair hangs in long, wet strings around my face, but I don’t look any different. I don’t look like I just ate an entire cake. I don’t look like someone who would run out on someone dying of cancer.
A sob erupts from my gut and I sink to my knees on hard hexagonal tiles, feel their corners dig into my flesh at the bones, the grit of dirt on the floor under my hands. I crawl to the toilet, push up the seat, and steel myself. Then I open my mouth, put my index finger inside, tentatively at first. When nothing happens, I shove it farther back until I am gagging, choking for air, but not throwing up.
“Come on,” I sob,
The doctor seems unfazed by my behavior. “I was just starting to tell your aunt and uncle about a new trial—”
“Experimental?” I say. “You want him to be a guinea pig?”
Benny clears his throat, and I finally look at him. “That’s all they got, honey,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed, his skin still sallow. His combover is now waving warily on top of his head and I want to smooth it back down. I want to lather his face and shave off the stubble he’d never wear in public in any other situation. I want to cover him with the blanket, tuck him in like a child, shut off the lights and shoo everyone from the room so he can get some rest, so his body can heal. Uncle Benny issteel; there’s no way something as obscure and formerly inconsequential as a pancreas can take him down. This doctor knows nothing.
“So, how long, Doc?” Benny’s asking, and the doctor’s sighing, shaking his head.
“I hate that question,” he says, and attempts a smile meant to look sympathetic. “We’ve had one patient on this protocol beat the one-year mark.”
Yolanda gasps, and Benny closes his eyes, and I turn and grab the stupid cake pan so no one will see how idiotic I was. I stride quickly down the hall past a gowned elderly woman walking an IV stand, past the ponytailed nurse, the waiting room, the nurses’ station, to the elevator. It is just opening and I force my way onto it, past a group of exiting doctors. At the lobby I run toward the front doors, push out into cool gray mist and birds chirping. In my car I throw the cake pan onto the passenger’s seat, squeal from the garage out onto the busy street choked with the remains of lunchtime traffic. I am hungry, so hungry, and I yank the cake pan closer to me on the seat, toss off the aluminum foil, dig a chunk out with my fingers. I stuff it into my mouth and lick frosting and crumbs from my fingers. I’ve barely swallowed it when I am digging again, maneuvering with one hand through the bunched-up traffic, looking for an opening to break free and race ahead. The drizzle turns to hard rain and I hit the wipers, then dig harder at the cake, feel the icing jam under my fingernails. I pull a larger piece free. I don’t look into the windows of the cars surrounding me. I know they are staring at me—thinking, What a pig. How can she do that to herself? Does she have no self-control? —but it doesn’t matter what they think. I’ve nearly cleared the contents of the 13 inch × 9 inch pan when suddenly I choke on a glob of frosting, the sugar burning like acid in my esophagus. My eyes water, my chest and throat contract. I cannot breathe. I’m making this horrifying sound—part gasp, part scream—and I can hardly see to drive, barely keep a grip on the wheel. I force myself to cough, hard, painfully, trying to expel the stupid frosting and draw enough air into my lungs so that I don’t black out and crash. So that I don’t die alone with an empty cake pan at my side, fingers sticky with the evidence.
At home, I strip off my clothes, scrub myself pink in the shower. Then I look into the mirror, although I have to force myself to. My eyes are raw and glassy, my hair hangs in long, wet strings around my face, but I don’t look any different. I don’t look like I just ate an entire cake. I don’t look like someone who would run out on someone dying of cancer.
A sob erupts from my gut and I sink to my knees on hard hexagonal tiles, feel their corners dig into my flesh at the bones, the grit of dirt on the floor under my hands. I crawl to the toilet, push up the seat, and steel myself. Then I open my mouth, put my index finger inside, tentatively at first. When nothing happens, I shove it farther back until I am gagging, choking for air, but not throwing up.
“Come on,” I sob,
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