He wasn’t sure, but he’d swear the doctor just said he wants to take his right arm off. The whole arm, from the shoulder down.
The doctor was still talking, but like the teachers in the Charlie Brown cartoons from his childhood, what he heard was “Wah wah wah wah.”
He looked over the doctor’s shoulder and out the window from his sweaty perch on the tacky vinyl exam table. A skinny tree outside the window, bare and twiggy, had some leaf buds forming. It was late January, early for trees to be leafing even in Southern California, but it had been a warm winter so far.
His hand was paused mid-air, reaching out for an expected prescription for pin medication or prescription strength ibuprofen. A list of exercises. Physical therapy. Something simple and painless. The MRI had been torturous enough. He’d never been claustrophobic, but that thing had been unbelievable. He’d felt like a hot dog in a bun. Even his eyelashes had brushed the ceiling of the suffocating tube. He’d almost panicked there toward the end, just moments away from screaming “Let me out!” as the tech announced over the speaker inside the machine that he was done. Holy crap.
“Do you understand?” the doctor asked him. Jim looked at him, his mind blank. “I can shuffle some things around and get you in on Wednesday next. Time is of the essence. It has already progressed quite a bit. I wish you had come in sooner.”
“I’m sorry?” He said. He dropped his arm.
“I can do the surgery a week from Wednesday. Time is burning. This is a very destructive form of cancer and you’ve waited a long time to come in. So Wednesday’s good?”
He was talking to me like we were making a coffee date. Take off the arm? His arm. Doc had said it like he was talking about a mole or a slice of pie. When he said “take off” he meant cut off. Cut. Off. His arm. And he was right-handed, too. “No,” He abruptly said, without thought.
“Wednesday isn’t good for you?”
“No…”
The doctor looked at the calendar on his Smartphone again. “How about Thursday? I could even do Tuesday but I would need to wah wah wah wah…”
“No. I meant that…”
“Jim. I’m not kidding. We’ve got to move quickly. You’re retired, you don’t need to request time off. Is there something you need to reschedule? If you had plans to go somewhere, you need to cancel them.”
“No. That’s not it. I need to think about this.”
The doctor looked at him in astonishment. Jim was surprised by his surprise. The doc couldn’t seriously think that his desire to cut his arm off at the shoulder would be met with anything but enthusiasm? Shouldn’t he get a second opinion? He’d been coming to Dr. Thomas for years. He thought he knew him, were friends even. But now, this?
“Jim. We’re talking about a life threatening…”
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long if I don’t treat it?”
“It’s hard to say, but based on your MRI scans and the level of metastases to the lower arm and your white blood count…well, less than six months, and the last month or so is going to be, well…you remember how it was with your dad? Like that.”
He hopped down off the table and extended his hand. The doctor reflexively took it and they shook; Dr. Thomas still had that confused look on his face. “I’ll be in touch,” Jim said.
“Whaaa—?”
He was out of the office before the doc could get the “T” out. He was three steps down the hall before he heard the door swish shut behind him. He was moving fast. He moved automatically; he didn’t notice a thing as he walked past the nurses’ station, the scheduler, out the door, through the minimalist-designed waiting room, a picture of tall, thin cranes done in watercolor gracing one wall, then out the door, down the tile hallway with the ugly wallpaper, to the double doors, pushing the button, going down three flights in an empty elevator, crossing the echoing marble-floored lobby, past security and out onto the sidewalk.
When he came back to the present, he found that he was standing under that tree. The one about to bud. The one he’d seen from the exam room window. He squinted up at it and let the afternoon sun warm his face as he looked up, eyes closed. He flexed both of his hands. People were starting to walk around him on the sidewalk. He was like a boulder in a salmon stream—an obstacle. Dr. Thomas’ office was in a busy medical center next to a hospital campus and people were always coming and going. He turned, excused himself, and started walking.
***
“Marie? Jim. Hi, howr‘ya?”
He walked while they talked. He’d been walking for the better part of an hour. His ex-wife’s voice came over the phone. It was soothing to hear. They had divorced five years earlier, but it had been amicable and they were still friends. He hadn’t told her about the appointment so she didn’t ask. They talked about the kids, their son had just graduated from college before Christmas, their daughter, Jamie, married and had blessed them with a grandson who had just turned one; they talked about the strange, warm weather, and a cruise Marie was taking this July coming up. To Alaska. He’d taken the same cruise two years ago and raved about it so Marie decided to go on one herself with her new guy. Can you call a sixty-something-year-old-man a boyfriend? Nah…guy was fine. He didn’t mention the appointment or the diagnosis.
He ended the call and paused to look around. He wasn’t sure where he was, but there was a Starbuck’s across the street, so he went inside to rest over a cup of coffee. Coffee-flavored coffee. No ‘-ccinos or ‘-attes’ or ‘pumps,’ just coffee, hot, with cream, one Splenda. He sat on a stool at the bar in front of the big picture window. He looked at the people walking by. People with all their arms and legs. He sat there for about forty minutes, savoring his coffee; he hadn’t seen one cripple yet. He should’ve had that coffee cake. Screw the sugar and calories, what did it matter now? He looked at his watch. He was surprised to see it was after 5 o’clock. That explained all the people on the sidewalk.
He had no idea where he was but he needed to get back to his car at the medical center. He ordered an Uber and waited for him out front. A silver Prius is what was coming for him. He waved him down, got in and told him where he needed to go. The driver made a U-turn and headed back the other way. When he reached his car he figured he had walked about five meandering miles.
He got in the car and turned the key in the ignition. The radio came on with the car and the two idiots, nattering talking heads on talk radio came on. He turned it off. He couldn’t tolerate those two guys on a good day. When he’d pulled in it had been a show about local restaurants. He got a lot of tips on new restaurants and foods from the show, “Knife and Fork”; he tried to listen as often as possible.
He drove around and down as he tried to exit the parking structure. Why didn’t they label the exits? He didn’t come here every day, he didn’t know how to get out. Dammit. By the time he hit the street, it felt like he’d made a hundred right turns. He merged into traffic, the early evening sun shining right in his face. Too bad it was such a beautiful day
He didn’t live far away, but definitely a world away. He still lived in the house that Marie and he had raised their kids in. He had bought Marie out during the divorce. He liked it there. He didn’t see a need to move or live anywhere else. It was a green, sedate, suburban area, an oasis in the middle of strip malls, gas stations, fast food, towering office buildings, and the medical center. Looking outside through the patio door, he could see the normally dormant lawn was actually green and had grown a bit. It would need mowing soon.
There were the Adirondack chairs that had been there as long as he’d lived in the house, left by the previous owners, now weathered and silvery. He remembered Saturday afternoons, summertime, sitting there, a cold microbew in one hand, the sun burning the back of his neck, the sweet smell of freshly mown grass, and the sounds of their kids, running around screaming and laughing with their friends. The sounds of children playing was only an echo of memory, now.
He took his dinner out of the microwave—leftovers—grabbed a can of Budweiser out of the fridge and sat down in front of the TV. Anderson Cooper was coming on. He liked that guy, he had gravitas. After he ate, he decided to have some ice cream. With hot fudge sauce. Hell with it, no one lives forever, right?
***
He checked his voicemail. Dr. Thomas…again. He’d called and texted, repeatedly every day for the last week since Jim had walked out of his appointment. The doctor had called himself, not a member of his staff. Jim had deleted all of them without listening and not returned any of the doctor’s calls. He still needed to think about this. As he dressed to meet friends for a round of golf, he pulled a polo shirt over his head and the ache, the yearlong ache that had started in his shoulder and had worked its way down his arm hitting the elbow and then creeping past it, that’s what had lead him to finally make that doctor appointment, was still there. It still hurt. He’d assumed it was some kind of muscle strain, or a bone spur, or even a chip working its way down his arm. It could’ve been the golf or tennis. He had put it off. He kept chugging Advil every night at bedtime, and in the morning there would be no pain. By bedtime it was back, and lately, with a blazing fury.
He was still going to play that round of golf today. The hell with his arm.
After a full eighteen holes, he was ready for a couple of drinks at the clubhouse. He’d had a great time with his golfing buddies. They’d been golfing together for decades. first on the weekend and then eventually, as they’d all retired within a few years of each other, now during the week when it was less crowded. He ordered a double-cheeseburger and fries to go with his bourbon. It was strange—he felt free now, freer than he had before he’d found out about the bone cancer. Life was short and getting shorter every minute, so he didn’t need to worry about his cholesterol, blood pressure, or blood sugar. He was free to do, well, anything he wanted. And it was his body.
He remembered back to times in elementary school when the kids would all dare each other crazy stuff like, “How would you rather die? Fire or ice?” He’d always chosen ice. You just go to sleep, right? Or “What if you found out you were going to die tomorrow? What would you do with your last day?” Then it usually involved candy and a toy store. He’d grown up during the Cold War, impending nuclear destruction around every corner, drop and cover drills (even then, in elementary school, he’d understood the ridiculous futility of the exercise), so all the kids he knew had a fascination with sudden death, including himself.
As he’d gotten older, the question hadn’t changed, only the time frame: “What would you do if you knew you only had six months to live?” Well, now he knew. He was aware that the last part of that “six months to live” was going to be painful, ugly, and would probably come quicker than expected, just not to everyone else. So now he was asking himself the question for real.
He looked across the table at his golfing buddies. They were all in their mid- to late-sixties, in reasonably good health (that he knew of—he was keeping a health secret, what other secrets were being kept around this table?), The “Depends” years were still ahead of them. They all had plenty of money in the bank, and either had good marriages or were happily single, children out of the house, mortgages paid off, they’d come through the recession mostly unscathed—what would they do in his position? He drank his bourbon, ate his cheeseburger, a double, with relish, laughed at his friends’ jokes, hell, even made a few of his own. He ordered cheesecake, with strawberries and whipped cream, thank you. He took some good natured ribbing for ordering dessert, but it was worth it. It was delicious. Maybe he’d just eat himself to death. No, that wasn’t it, either. Take too long, anyway. He still needed to think. They all shook hands and parted ways, congenial and friendly as always. He did not say a thing about his arm.
That night back home, getting ready for bed, his shoulder and arm were really hurting now. He should’ve brought the ice pack from the ‘fridge with him. He was too tired to go downstairs and retrieve it, so he just took an extra Advil. Clearly swinging a golf club for five hours might not have been the best idea, but he had enjoyed every second of it. In the morning he was going over to see his daughter, Jamie, and his little grandson, Patrick, and that later, a hike in the Santa Monica Mountains with Robert, his son. The next day, and all the days after, were still up in the air.
***
“Wiseman Travel, this is Mary.”
“Mary, Jim Adelman.” Jim had grown up with Mary’s husband, Bill. They’d known each other since sixth grade and when Bill had wooed and then married her, she’d become his friend, too. Same with Marie when they’d married. They had been a foursome of friends. He and Bill had even had daughters around the same time and had given them the same name, not intentionally, it had just happened, just another brick in the block wall that their friendship was. Mary had been a travel agent for thirty years and he booked all his trips through her.
“Jim! Great to hear your voice. Are you ready to take that Scandinavian cruise? There is still some availability and it goes to some great places! Bill and I are going in the fall. You should come with.”
Her enthusiasm for seeing this beautiful world of ours had never wavered, not in all the time he’d known her. Not during hard times or good. That’s probably why she became a travel agent—so she could travel herself.
“No, Mary, well, maybe, but what I’m calling about is that Antarctic cruise. I’m finally going to do it. When do the first boats go out this year?”
“Oh, Jim, those book so far out, and the season is almost over. Their fall is coming up in March. You can’t get down there during winter. I don’t know if I can get you on with such short notice, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“And if you can, give me a week or two in South America. I’d like to see Machu Pichu, but you put together something interesting for me, won’t you? Do your best.” He trusted her.
“Jim…is there something you haven’t been telling me?” Jim hesitated. She knew. How could she know? He’d told no one. It had been ten a week and he hadn’t mentioned it to another soul. He’d withdrawn permission for the doctor to speak to Marie after the divorce, and he hadn’t replaced her with anyone else. Had the doctor violated his confidentiality? He’d sue him if he had, he didn’t care how long he’d been his doctor. By god…. He paused. No sense jumping the gun. He continued his mental checklist. His parents were gone, he had no siblings, and he didn’t want to burden his kids or his friends, so there was no one. How could she know? Had he given it away? When was the last time he’d talked to Bill? A few weeks, before the doctor appointment for sure. He opened his mouth to speak but Mary interrupted him. “Have you met someone, Jim? Huh? Have you finally found a lady?” She laughed, teasing him but still wanting an answer. He exhaled with relief. Maybe he should say he did, throw her off the trail. No, no, the best lies are those told closest to the truth.
“No, Mary, I wish. No, just getting older and want to do it before I have to go out on an ice floe with a walker…” They both laughed heartily at the image. “I want to see penguins. A whole lot of penguins.” He was thinking about that documentary March of the Penguins; he’d really enjoyed that. Wait. Was it Antarctica or the North Pole for penguins? Crap. He shouldn’t improvise. Mary didn’t make a comment about it, though, whew.
“Well, I’ll see what I can find for you and I’ll give you a call back. You should come for dinner. What are you doing Saturday? I’ll get Bill to barbecue.”
“Actually, Mary, I would love that, thanks. You can tell me about Antarctica then. Ok?”
“You got it, buddy. See you Saturday. Two o’clock? Drinks first?”
“See you then.”
He hung up the phone and exhaled. Evidently he had made a decision.
***
Mary had come through like he knew she would. She’d found him a berth on a cancellation the third week of February. He spent a few first days boating down the Amazon, mostly praying he wouldn’t fall overboard and be eaten by piranha. He’d seen Machu Pichu, swirled in a ghostly mountain mist. In Buenos Aires he’d had the best steak of his life and learned to Tango. In Rio he had walked down Ipanema beach, just like in the song “The Girl From Ipanema.” From there, he’d flown to the southernmost point of Chile at the tip of South America. The whole trip had been spectacular. Marie had outdone herself. It was the best vacation he’d ever been on. Why hadn’t he gone to South America before? He should’ve listened to Bourdain. He would have loved to spend more time there. He’d spent a lot of time traveling, it was a passion of his, and Marie’s—Europe, the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, Hong Kong, China, Russia, Egypt—everywhere, it seemed, but there. Too bad. It was magnificent. Everything: the people, the music, the food and the booze…oh my god. Had he told Marie? He’d call her before he left on the cruise. She had to see, too.
He loved Antarctica. It was cold, even in late summer below the equator. He’d flown into Tierra del Fuego, Chile and boarded the cruise ship, a small ship that only took 100 people at a time, he’d gotten lucky with a really fun group of people, and then they’d cruised down through Ushuaia and across the Straits of Magellan to the Antarctic Peninsula. Gorgeous. Sparkly castelline icebergs; the bluest water he’d ever seen; the air so clean it made him cough; and the wildlife—he’d expected penguins, but there were also orcas and sea lions with big scary teeth—and no doubt about it, they were wonderful to see in the wild—but he hadn’t given much thought to the sea birds, and the albatross, so huge, giant, 10-foot wing spans…he hadn’t known! He remembered reading something in college with an Albatross in it. It had moved him even then. What was it? The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, that had been it. “He loved the bird that loved the man who shot him with his bow…” Yes, he remembered now.
The sunsets and sunrises, they came nearly together, just a dusky pause between. He took a sip of his bourbon. He had to admit, it was all he’d wanted and more. He couldn’t imagine a better place to be. The bourbon was good, Jim Beam, Single Barrel, here at the end of the world. He could feel a tingling in his hands, now, that would be the bourbon mingling with the Vicodin he’d gotten from Dr. Thomas. He’d finally gone in and promised him he could do the amputation—what a sterile word for such a gruesome thing—when he returned from his cruise to the Bottom of the Earth. He poured another bourbon. He was really feeling it now. He couldn’t remember; was this a sunrise or sunset? They looked the same. He must really be loaded. No matter. All was done. Lawyers handled, wills amended, friends and family visited, he’d seen all he wanted of the world, and he was not in any significant pain. No regrets. One more gulp of bourbon and he was ready. He carefully put the now empty glass on the rail, the half empty bourbon bottle sitting carelessly on the deck.
He threw one leg over the rail and heaved himself up. He paused a moment, sitting there, his legs dangling over the edge of the world, took in the view for moment, exhaled, and then slipped quietly as he could over the side. He bumped the glass with his elbow on his way down, and it slipped off the rail and smashed onto the deck in a tinkle of glass. He knew from his research that he had about three minutes—at most—he hoped it would go quickly. His breath caught in his chest. Nothing he’d read prepared him for that level of pain. There wasn’t a word for what he was feeling; cold was inadequate. He was gasping for air, seawater splashing his face and into his mouth. Salty. Ocean water didn’t freeze until it was below 28.8ᴼ Fahrenheit because of the salt content. It was liquid ice. Strangely he felt a burning sensation from hypothermia—he felt as if he were on fire. He wanted to rip his clothes off but his arm wouldn’t respond.
Numbness, then a grey stillness, a pleasant vibrating sensation, then a sound he would’ve called beautiful…
In the distance, a penguin standing on an icy shore spotted a sea lion bobbing in the water and hesitated.
Julie Ricks is a fool for books and unwavering in her belief of the power of the written word—she knows that the arts can change the world. And at this moment…they must. She recently celebrated the completion of her Master of Arts in English / Creative Writing at Chico State, and is currently an MFA student in Film at Mount Saint Mary’s University, Los Angeles. After storytelling, Ms. Ricks McClintic’s love is travel; Italy, Scotland, and Iceland are on her radar.
And she will never reconcile herself to a world without David Bowie or Anthony Bourdain.