Curse of the Afflicted

by David Chill

  "But these drugs won't last forever?" Leslie managed. "The effectiveness stops after a while?"

  "Yes. Unfortunately, few things last forever. The cancer cells outsmart the treatment by rearranging themselves. It's been an extraordinarily difficult disease to attack. Eventually I think we'll find a cure. We have to. There are millions of cancer patients out there. More than you can imagine. The saddest part is some have it and they don't even know. You're a little further along because at least you're aware. We can take steps. Again, the goal is to keep you around long enough for the next new drug to become available."

  "You mean like for a clinical trial you mentioned earlier?"

  "Possibly, yes."

  "How do I get into one of these clinical trials?"

  The doctor's mouth tightened. "It depends. Some trials have strict requirements. We'll look into all of these. But bear in mind, a clinical trial is an experiment. There's no guarantee it will work. Or work for everyone. We're making advances. But we're not there yet."

  My mood was descending from dark to darker. It wasn't the doctor's fault, he was just passing along his knowledge. He did not sugarcoat my situation, but neither did he provide me with sufficient encouragement. I had wanted to bounce out of his office, brimming with hope, but at this stage, I was more concerned I would slink out, reeling with dread, looking for the nearest roof from which to jump.

  "If I'm this bad off," I said, "why do I feel okay?"

  Dr. Ashland's grimaced. "Cancer often works silently. You don't know you have it, often until it's in the late stages. Especially with lung cancer. I wish we had caught it earlier. But the pain in your back was the only tell."

  "I see."

  "I'd like to schedule you for the pleurodesis as soon as possible," he said, closing down his iPad, signaling our meeting was drawing to a close. "Today's Thursday. We'll need to get insurance approval, but pending that, are you available next week?"

  I said yes, albeit with a hint of trepidation.

  "Don't worry, this is the easy part. I know an excellent thoracic surgeon. Once we do the biopsy we'll be better able to lay out the options. Let me get my assistant to check on scheduling this."

  The doctor departed and I looked at Leslie. No words were spoken, but I saw the anxieties that sat pleadingly on her face. I saw a trickle of a tear slink down her cheek. I did not tell her everything would be all right. I wanted to, but I couldn't even tell myself that. The heavy pall we were immersed in was preventing us from speaking. The only sound in the room was our breathing, erratic, uneven, cloistered.

  My own response to hearing the doctor was less anxiety, but more sadness, the maudlin feeling as I thought of Leslie, and especially Angelina. That my own mortality was staring me in the face bothered me less than the thought that my precious daughter could be entering adulthood without a father to guide her. That she was seventeen and needed little tending to was not the issue. She simply needed me to be there, even if it were in the shadows, close yet distant, available in the off chance she needed a father's touch, an encouraging word, a confident gesture. It is the same-sex parent who teaches a child the tangible things they need to become a functioning adult. It is the opposite-sex parent who validates, who provides the ethereal moments, the reassurance that can allow them to soar.

  Dr. Ashland returned a few minutes later. "We can get you in next week for the biopsy," he said, jotting a few more notes on his iPad. "Just go back to your daily routine. In my experience, maintaining your normal life is the best medicine for now. What were you planning to do today?"

  I took another deep breath. It felt good. No pain. "Helping Richard Sudeau become the next President of the United States."

  He stopped what he was doing. "Really?"

  "Yes. I'm planning to moderate focus groups among likely voters."

  The doctor looked at me and said nothing. I imagined this was not how most of his patients planned to spend the rest of their day after having reviewed options for treating a terminal illness. Three years. The thought of my dwindling longevity raced through my mind, but so did the more horrifying thought of sitting at home, wasting away, idling through my time, waiting for the grim reaper to appear.

  "Ned, is that a good idea?" Leslie asked. "With all of what you have going on?"

  "I don't know," I said. "And I'm not sure how well I can concentrate, to be honest. But it beats dwelling on it. Anything beats thinking about this right now. Work isn't supposed to be a diversion, but in this case it might be my salvation. Talking to voters about an upcoming election. Wouldn't you agree, doctor?"

  Leslie looked down at the floor. The nurse looked out the window. Dr. Gus Ashland closed down his iPad and smiled before answering. "If I were a Democrat, I suppose I might."

  Chapter 11

  Ignoring Leslie's protestations, I went straight back to the office and finished writing the discussion guide for the focus groups. I checked with Wanda about recruiting, fielded a phone call from a nervous Randy Greece, and endured a brief pep talk from Blair before finally deciding to get away from the office. I drove over to the focus group facility, which was tucked away in the twentieth floor of a high-rise building in Westwood, not far from UCLA. I had three hours before the groups began, which meant I would have two and a half hours of peace and quiet.

  A focus group is a roundtable discussion. A group of ten strangers sitting awkwardly together, talking about anything from how they shop for a new car to why eating healthy is important in their lives. Or, as I discovered watching Haley moderate groups last week, what their sexual habits were like. It is amazing how open and forthcoming people will be with the most intimate and precious details of their personal lives. All it takes is someone asking them the right questions in the right sequence, using the right demeanor. And in the right setting. Push the buttons correctly and they'll reveal things they haven't told their own families or their best friends. I've had people begin crying as they discussed a painful experience, a situation where I needed to jump in quickly to lighten the mood. I've had other cases where people passionately disagreed to the point where they were ready to step outside and settle the discussion mano a mano.

  Moderating focus groups is admittedly my stretch project. It forces me out of my bubble and makes me engage me with strangers. I have to interact with people, to be physically in the same room with them, yet also manage to hide in plain sight. I lead the discussion with pointed questions, but without having to provide any answers. I am the passive, impartial conduit in the middle of a fishbowl, keenly aware we are being watched by others. In the best of circumstances, the discussion takes on a life of its own, where I can sit back and listen and pretend to be part of the group, among them, yet apart. I probe and I prod, gauge feelings, and largely keep the conversation rolling. My job is to elicit as much information from these consumers as I can within a two-hour session. In return, the consumers receive about a hundred dollars for participating. In a good session, everyone leaves happy, content in the knowledge that their views might contribute to how a company shapes their strategy. Or perhaps they change their perceptions of the vice president of the United States.

  When participants enter a focus group room they see two things right away. One is a large table that can seat about a dozen people, and the other is an elongated mirror which often extends across an entire wall. The mirror is called a one-way mirror, because inside the focus group room people can only see their reflections. In the viewing room, however, the mirror, coated with a thin layer of aluminum, resembles a tinted pane of glass, a convenient partition separating the focus group participants from the business executives who gather and observe. And unlike the cheap sandwiches and cans of soda for those partaking in the discussion, the executives, hidden away, dine on catered meals, bottles of wine, and mountains of M&Ms.

  I've been fortunate to have been cast in all of the focus group roles, albeit at different times of my life. As a college student, I learned this was an easy way to land some extra spending
money. As a moderator, I've sat inside the room, guiding the discussion and eliciting thoughts and feelings. And as a boss, I've watched my employees moderate, changing my role to managing executives' perceptions of the conversation. This role is usually more delicate, often forcing me to caution excitable businesspeople from drawing too-quick conclusions that arise from one or two strongly voiced opinions.

  The satisfaction for me normally emanates later, distilling all of the opinions into a cohesive summary, culling remarks and thoughts into a perspective, trying to marry conflicting points-of-view that can summarize a two hour group discussion. For some moderators, the fun part is to interact with people. For me, it is interacting with data, and transforming that into insights.

  I sat alone in the viewing room, spending time studying my discussion guide, the list of pointed, sometimes provocative questions which would spur conversation and shine a light on certain topics. About thirty minutes before the first group started, Randy Greece called again from Washington to request I add a few questions about Richard Sudeau's family, his wife, his two kids, his four dogs, or anything else which might yield a few nuggets into how voters viewed his personal life.

  "We want to know how much appeal Amber has, how much do they really know about Rich's wife, are they aware she had a political career of her own once, that she was a congresswoman and held a cabinet position. Does it matter that Rich had two kids who served in the Marines? Does having four dogs humanize him? That sort of thing."

  "Got it," I said, jotting a few notes onto the discussion guide. "So, is anyone from the campaign attending tonight in person?"

  "I'm sending a couple of junior people, but no, the main campaign staff will watch it streaming. Good luck. We know you're going to do a great job."

  About fifteen minutes later, in walked Blair, Wanda, and a pair of clean-cut young men wearing oxford cloth shirts, tan khakis and cordovan topsiders. They were attractive, had an air of entitlement about them, and looked as if they had just stepped out of a Land's End catalogue. Both carried expensive-looking briefcases. Their names were Sam and Jason.

  "You guys been working for Rich Sudeau long?" I asked.

  "Well ... not exactly. We're interns. Summer job and all. We just finished our junior year at Yale."

  "These two fellas," crowed Blair, "are the future of the Democratic Party. They'll be running for office soon. Keep an eye on them, we'll be managing their campaigns one day. Terrific kids!"

  One of them smiled shyly, the other flat-out blushed. "I don't know about that," one of them managed as they took seats, genteelly spooning out portions of peanut M&Ms into small bowls before nibbling. Blair put his arm around my shoulder and walked me out of the viewing room.

  "Okay, this came straight from Greece," he said as we strolled down the hallway. "They're thinking of shifting the focus to Rich's personal qualities, and emphasize his background. See if his family man qualities shine through. Amber's a big part of that. By the way, her Secret Service code name is Pandora. Isn't that something? Sudeau's is Peacock. Boy, those Secret Service guys are something, aren't they?"

  "Uh-huh," I mumbled."Look, I already heard about this from Greece. It's already in the discussion guide."

  "Yeah I know, he just wants to make sure. Sounded a little uptight about things. Running a campaign will do that to a person. Makes you do all sorts of crazy stuff. Lot of pressure and all."

  "Right," I said, knowing it wasn't the first time we'd dealt with a high maintenance client, but it was never fun. "Whatever."

  "Whatever is good. Hey, you feeling okay? You're still worrying me."

  "I'm fine," I lied.

  "That back of yours still hurting?"

  "Actually, no. Got it cleared up."

  "Chiropractor?" he winked.

  "Something like that."

  "Great. Nothing worse than back problem. The pain is just killer. Glad you're ready. I don't mean to put pressure on you, but this is the most important thing you've ever done in your life, and probably ever will do. I spoke to Sudeau this morning, reassured him and all. I'm convinced that if the groups go well, we're in. This is what we've been waiting for. This is what we've been working toward. This is the Super Bowl we're headed into. If we get onto the Sudeau ship, we're sailing for life. Even if he loses, our names'll be in the national conversation for years. You gotta work your magic tonight."

  "Glad you're not putting extra pressure on me," I said, but managed to smile.

  "You know the score," he said. "I just gotta remind you."

  "So what do you think is going on with these interns?"

  "Beats me. I'll keep 'em in line. If they get too animated I'll sic Wanda on them."

  We returned to the viewing room and waited for the first focus group to arrive and be seated. I sipped on some black coffee and felt good. My back pain had indeed vanished. I appeared to be in perfect health, although I clearly was not. I was struggling to keep the demons of depression at bay, centering my thoughts on the work, not the illness. I envied those who could easily compartmentalize their issues, storing and retrieving them at will. That innate ability to patently choose and discard specific thoughts. My own thoughts required more effort to control, and the toxic ones oozed through all too often.

  The hostess opened the door and asked if I was ready. I told her she could bring in the first group. A minute later I watched them file into the room, unsteady at first, looking around, curious, a bit bewildered. They hesitatingly took seats around the table and set down their name tents, folded pieces of cardboard with their first names scrawled in bold marker. I had sat my name tent at the head of the table, the bright blue NED claiming my place as the leader. I found it interesting to watch this progression. The agreeable ones often positioned themselves directly to the moderator's right, as if it were their role to be the assistant. In biblical times, the aides seated to the leader's right were their trusted advisors. Eventually the term right hand man was coined as a result.

  The group was indeed representative of California, although on the surface, it might not have reflected America. Of the ten, only four were Caucasian, the rest being an eclectic mix of African-American, Latino, Asian plus one woman who appeared to be Middle Eastern. It was a diverse group, a hodgepodge of the great experiment that was Los Angeles. An argument could be made that this collection of people represented what America was evolving toward. On short notice though, this was the type of group that got recruited in L.A., ten random people whose main commonality was that they were registered Democrats and that they voted. And had a pulse. Such is the spurious world of political research.

  I left the darkened viewing room and walked briefly down the hallway. I tried to ignore Blair's words, his version of encouragement, something he thought would put me at the top of my game and not make me a nervous wreck. In all the years I'd known him, he still didn't understand what made me tick. Most likely because he thought everyone viewed the world through the same lens that he did.

  Opening the nearest door down the corridor, I entered the brightly lit focus group room. The change in lighting was stark. I felt as if I were now on an illuminated stage, the hot white glare of the spotlight bearing down harshly. All eyes in the room turned toward me.

  "Welcome," I boomed in my most authoritarian voice, taking care to paste a smile on my face. "Thank you all for coming tonight."

  A brief and dim murmur of hellos was audible. I sat down and quickly ran through what we'd be doing. That we were here as a group, but I was interested in them as individuals. That everyone's opinion mattered, and to be respectful of others' views. To not interrupt or talk over each other. I told them we'd be discussing politics, and a few sighs could be heard around the table. This was hardly a shock to me, having conducted an abundance of research. Americans have come to view politics as distasteful, and there is no consensus on how to fix this, aside from having those who disagreed with them be moved far, far away.

  "You all have one thing in common," I told them. "One
thing we know of, anyway. You're all registered Democrats. Anyone here who isn't?"

  I looked around the room. No one spoke. Finally, a man in his fifties with a graying goatee covering a pudgy reddened face gave the hint of a smug smile. The name Ed was scrawled on the name card in front of him.

  "Good," he said. "No enemies in the midst."

  There were chuckles, and the mood lightened. I started the discussion by asking everyone to write down the qualities they wanted in a president. By writing it on paper, they wouldn't be influenced by another person, and they would be asked to read aloud and commit to what they wrote. Groupthink in focus groups is a problem, and one or two dominators can be overpowering. The responses I heard when the group read their presidential requirements out loud was not surprising. Strength, fairness, intelligence and honesty were repeated over and over. But the last person, a Latino man named Rafael, said he wanted someone who could relate to the common man. Someone who understood how hard it is to get by. I asked if there were any politicians out there they thought had these qualities. A few were mentioned, but the name Rich Sudeau was not among them.

  I then passed around a sheet of paper with a description on it, about a presidential candidate who came from humble origins, whose parents were troubled and had illness and addiction issues. A candidate who earned a scholarship at a top university, worked his way through law school, and managed to become a United States senator without having much money. I did not include anything about his political views, just his personal life. There were visual nods and approving comments. When I asked them to write down a one-to-ten rating on how interested they would be in learning more about this candidate, nearly everyone gave the candidate a ten.