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Untangling the Black Web

Page 2

by T. F. Jacobs


  People sign the contracts all day long, either not reading them fully, or not really caring because they figure, like most people do, that they are invincible, and that cancer and other deadly diseases couldn’t ever touch them.

  The hardest part has been watching the most confident person I know become fearful. She knows the end is near, but neither of us is willing to admit it.

  A tap on my shoulder brings me back to the hospital room.

  Lexi is asleep under a blue hospital gown, and her thin arms are trembling. Is it from the cold?

  I look to my left to see a young Asian nurse, I think her name is Aly, gesturing for me to join her outside. I stand, pull the blanket over Lexi’s torso, then turn to the door.

  Outside, the nurse hands me a piece of paper.

  “Mr. Higgins, this is the estimate for the surgery that Dr. Constance plans to perform tonight. Did your wife tell you about it yet?”

  I look through the window in the door at my sleeping wife, surprised. “No, she didn’t. I thought we were done with surgeries for a while.”

  “After our scan today, we found that the cancer was crawling its way up the spine and into the skull. If the cancer continues up any farther, she will die within days. With this surgery, we think we can remove a large chunk of it. From there we hope to isolate the rest of the spine and continue treatment as normal.”

  I look at the piece of paper to find a statement about the intent of the surgery. At the bottom I notice a nice little disclaimer about payment required even in the event the surgery is unsuccessful, and even if complications lead to death. I also notice the nice little bit about any accidents not being the hospital’s fault.

  I flip the page over to find the estimate, and my eyes go wide.

  “Fifty-six thousand dollars?”

  The nurse is silent.

  “Does my insurance cover any of this?”

  She looks up at me and after a moment, replies, “They will cover twenty percent, and you will have to file it with them once you receive the final invoice.”

  The nurse looks into the room, then back to me. “Mr. Higgins, if you don’t do the surgery, she will only have days left.”

  “And what if we do it?”

  She lets out a deep exhalation.

  “As Dr. C has said, she has about a thirty percent chance of reversing the cancer. If it doesn’t start to show progress, probably a few more weeks at the most.”

  I look back down at the paper, not wanting to meet her eyes. This isn’t the conversation I wanted to have when I walked in the door. After a workday reviewing mind-numbing contracts with clause after clause about exceptions for this procedure and that disease, the last thing I wanted to do was discuss my wife’s death.

  “Are there risks with the surgery?”

  “Yes, of course. We would be removing a piece of her spine, which is extremely risky. The doctor has given the surgery a fifty-fifty chance of success.”

  “Goddammit!” I slam my fist into the wall. The nurse jumps back after letting out a startled scream.

  I look at her and know I have gone too far. “Sorry,” I say.

  She nods. Lays a gentle hand on my arm as though to tell me she understands and it’s okay.

  “Shall I let the doctor know that you consent?”

  Through the window, Lexi is still asleep inside the room. I look back to the nurse. “Lexi approved?”

  “She said yes as long as you did too. Mr. Higgins, this is the only way she has a chance.”

  My body feels numb. Finally, I reply. “Okay, you have my consent.”

  “I’ll let the doctor know.”

  She looks as though she’s torn—like she’s about to warn me of something—but then she turns and walks down the hall.

  Back inside the room, I take Lexi’s hand.

  The fear that’s always present in these types of operations has shown its ugly head. I’m scared for what might happen, but I can’t let her see it. Not now.

  Soon the nurses enter. Dr. Constance stands at the foot of the bed.

  “Hello, David,” he says. His overly tanned face looks redder today, more tense.

  “Doctor,” I say.

  “Lexi, we are going to take you in for surgery now,” one of the nurses says as she presses something into the IV.

  Lexi’s eyes gradually blink open.

  Her hand twitches in mine.

  She looks at me, and in that moment, I can see she is afraid.

  “Lexi, can you hear us?” another nurse asks.

  She nods her head.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. “You’re okay with it?” she finally rasps, looking at me.

  I nod this time.

  A tear streams down her face. “David, I’m scared.”

  My eyes well up. What can I say? What can I do to give her the comfort she needs? I’m scared too.

  “It’ll be okay, Love.”

  She squeezes my hand, then nods again. “I love you.”

  “I love you, sweet pea. I’ll be right here when you get out.”

  Her lip quivers, and more tears stream along her nose.

  “Okay then. Let’s head to the prep area,” Dr. Constance says.

  I stand, and the nurses pull the bed out of the room.

  All I can do is watch as my love is sent into the surgery room. And now I wait.

  On the table beside me sits the piece of paper with the description of the surgery and the estimate of costs. Ruthless, money-sucking-at-any-expense healthcare industry.

  . . .

  Two hours later I am surfing the web on my phone.

  I am caught off guard when the door swings open, and in walks Dr. Constance.

  His eyes are dreary, and his face is flushed. He peels back his mask, pulls one white rubber glove off his hand, then the other.

  Something feels askew.

  “David,” he finally announces.

  I wait.

  “I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news.”

  “What is it?” I demand, all sense of politeness is gone. I’m already past my limit. For $56,000 there better not be anything wrong whatsoever.

  “During the surgery, we began to cut away the tumor on a vertebra at the top of the spine. When we did this, Lexi’s heartbeat spiked. We tried to stabilize her, but before we could, her heart stopped. We attempted to resuscitate, but it was too late. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Lexi—well, she didn’t make it.”

  The words sound like pure gibberish. My gaze drifts from him back to my hands. My eyes are fuzzy, and a bright light is pulsing to my left.

  I use my index finger to scratch at my right hand. I know I’m in a dream, but I can’t find a way to wake myself up. The ceiling starts to close in on me.

  “Mr. Higgins?”

  To my right, his eyes are still there. A hand is on my knee. The room begins to take shape again, but Lexi still isn’t here.

  “Doctor, where is Lexi? Is she coming back soon?” I ask.

  He looks at me. “David, did you hear what I told you?”

  I laugh. My laughter seems contagious because I can’t stop. I start laughing louder. How do I get out of this dream, this nightmare?

  I keep poking at my skin, waiting to awake from the dream, but it doesn’t happen. “Ouch,” I say as blood seeps down my hand.

  I cock my head to the right and realize that I’m not dreaming. Reality starts to creep in, and I think back to the doctor’s words.

  “David?”

  “Yeah. Can you repeat what you said?”

  I’m growing impatient.

  He starts talking, but it still sounds like gibberish. Then I hear the words again: “Lexi didn’t make it.”

  I look up. “Where is she?”

  The doctor leads me through a series of hallways until he is standing outside a white door.

  I push it open.

  Inside, a loud, uneven beeping echoes through the room. The lighting is very dark, but on the other side of th
e room there’s a bed.

  I approach it, still waiting to wake up. It feels as though I’ve walked into a parallel universe where everything looks the same, but isn’t.

  Then I see her face. Her mouth is open, and her eyes are closed. Her lips are blue, and her thin brown hair is soaking wet. This isn’t the Lexi I know. But yet at the same time it is.

  She is still, and when I rush toward her she doesn’t move. My face is next to hers, and my lips are on hers, but they are cold and lifeless. It is at this moment that the realization slams into my gut like an 18-wheeler on a freeway.

  Lexi didn’t make it.

  Lexi didn’t make it.

  My heart pumps at what seems to be a million beats a minute. A tingling engulfs my body, and my muscles begin to pulsate and expand. My pupils dilate, then contract. The beeping noise is more magnified. Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I am ready to bring her back.

  Before I know what I am doing, my hands are pressing against her chest. The faster I move, the more I want to continue.

  In a blur I am pulled away. Multiple bodies are restraining me, but I break free and run back to her.

  “Lexi! No!” I shout at the top of my lungs.

  I wipe away fast-flowing, warm tears and look back at the woman on the bed. She lies completely lifeless and still. I want so badly for her eyes to open, for her to touch my hand, for her to say something sarcastic, and for us to just be. I want to rewind to the day I met her and to cherish her that day and every day, again and again.

  She is just as beautiful as that first day.

  She doesn’t move.

  Chapter 2

  I’ve never been one for a flask.

  I’ve never really been a drinker. Lexi and I popped open a bottle of wine once every blue moon, but that was it.

  My breath is hot, my head is warm. Everything feels to be numbing, and I welcome the sensation. I take another swig of the clear vodka from my half-full water bottle.

  I try to walk straight, hoping no one takes notice.

  I look down. Did I loosen my tie?

  I pull the knot up, then adjust my suit jacket.

  Voices are buzzing all around me.

  Someone ushers me to a white cushioned seat.

  The smell of fresh-cut grass fills my nostrils. Above me the marble clouds look ominous. Or maybe they don’t, and I just want them to.

  “David, I’m so sorry for your loss,” a woman says from behind me. I turn halfway around and give a nod without looking to see who it is.

  Soon a preacher asks everyone to take their seats. I take this as an invitation for another drink.

  My brother, Evan, is sitting beside me, and he notices the bottle. His surfer, sun-bleached blond hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing the same black suit as I am. The one from my wedding. He reaches out his hand for the bottle.

  I hand it to him. I’ve been caught.

  He opens it, and his head bobs back after smelling the contents. Then he takes a swig.

  “Can I have a sip?” my mother asks from beside him. Her face is tear stained and I wonder why she’s wearing such an ugly-looking black dress. I get that this is a funeral, but she looks like a witch from a horror movie.

  “Sorry, I think I’m getting sick, Mom,” Evan replies.

  He hands it back while giving me a dubious look. I want to laugh but can’t find the strength. I’ve heard about the steps in the grieving process, but since day one, I have been stuck on anger. I’m not angry with Lexi. That wouldn’t be fair. I’m not angry with God, because I lost faith in him quite some time ago. No, I am angry at the system that did this to her. The system that pays my salary. The system that has me in debt. The system that killed her. The entire medical industry needs to burn, and I want to be the one to light the match.

  They were the ones who told us we needed to come in for screenings, treatments, and surgeries. They were the ones that told us that, if we spent astronomical amounts of money, she could be saved. They were the ones drumming up false hope while cashing in every step of the way. They were the ones with one idea, then another, then another.

  Every idea failed. And what was this surgery they needed to do at the last minute on her neck? All I know is that they want $56,000 for it, even though it—they—killed her. Of course the insurance plan that I pay $1,400 a month for didn’t cover even a quarter of it. That same insurance plan covered almost none of the treatments or medications. It’s because of people like me that clauses, loopholes, and exclusions are added to plans that screw us over. The issue is bigger than that, though. It comes from the top. But where is the top? The insurance companies are in on it, the hospitals are in on it, the doctors are in on it, the pharmaceutical companies are in on it, the psychologists are in on it, the GMO food industry is in on it, and even the funeral industry seems to be in on it.

  The ultimate problem: the government.

  I’m sure I sound like a crazy person with an out-there conspiracy after a few too many drinks, but I’m not. I’ve seen it firsthand with the contracts I write and review. When customers are at risk of certain diseases, we have a computer program that automatically signals which treatments may be necessary, and what the costs may be. My job is to take the highest-costing treatments and write in exclusions into their coverages when renewal time comes up. I am the problem. And now I’ve seen what the problem actually does to people.

  I’m a lawyer, and I am going to fight it. I’m going to blow the whistle on American True Care and be the hero like one of those whistle-blowers from Enron or Wells Fargo. The problem isn’t just American True Care, but they are a damn big part of it. And they’re the best place to start. I will go to every news station, protest at every headquarters, and file every lawsuit I can until things start to change. It’s time to go public with what I know. And today is the day it all starts.

  My asshole of a boss, Stan—the overweight, balding, short man with a Napoleon complex—is in attendance somewhere behind me. Lexi’s former co-workers are here too. Dr. Constance even had the nerve to show up.

  The preacher goes on about the afterlife and the sweet person Lexi was, even though he hadn’t met her once. Lexi and I didn’t go to church. Like me, she didn’t see the point. She said that church was a control mechanism that governments promoted and subsidized to instill fear into humans, and that in every society in all of history it’s always been that way.

  Does that mean she is in heaven or hell? Who knows. What I do know is that she is gone. Life has been sucked out of her, and her thin, frail, balding body lies only feet away from me.

  A picture of Lexi sits atop the casket. In it, her hazel eyes are magnified by her deep-red lips and perfect dimples. Her wavy, brown hair is in ribbon curls, and her expression looks happy. I know that it isn’t happiness driving that smile, however. It’s mischief. Below what the camera has captured, Lexi is flipping me off.

  I’m the photographer, and I told her to smile like the first day we met.

  She made some sort of comment about the annoying guy who interrupted her sleep.

  I made a comment about how she was nicer when she was asleep.

  She flipped me off, and we both burst into laughter.

  Now the picture is nothing more than a memory of that day. In a couple years, maybe I’ll even forget it.

  I continue to stare at the picture as the preacher finishes his remarks. Then he invites me to come to the stand.

  My heart starts to pump. Nerves begin to flare. My body is still hot, and the numbness is stronger now.

  I’m confident.

  I’m ready.

  I’ve been dreaming of this moment all week. I wrote out a hundred different versions of what I wanted to say, but none of those matter. I know what I need to do.

  I take the microphone and turn to the crowd. The preacher offers me a polite smile as he takes his seat. To my right, Lexi’s body rests inside the polished-wood casket. Behind it is the hole she will be forever buried in.

  Tw
o aisles of patrons sit in front of me, and my vision is slightly blurred, but I count at least one hundred people. Many of the faces are unfamiliar. Probably people who will claim to have been Lexi’s best friend, when in actuality they probably only met her once at school or work or some other bullshit story.

  I take a long, deep breath, and notice the teary eyes staring at me. Stan is sitting in the back while typing on his phone. Lexi’s old roommates are whispering to one another. Evan is giving me an encouraging smile. And there, in the back, is Dr. Constance—talking on his phone.

  I can’t believe my eyes. I scoff under my breath. I cast one last look to the casket at my right. Lexi is in there, but it isn’t really her.

  Then I begin.

  “Thank you all for being here today,” I start. I need to warm them up to grab their attention.

  “I know it would mean a lot to Lexi.”

  I wonder if my voice is slurring, because in my head I feel like I sound more confident than I ever have.

  I feel like I sound completely coherent. I sound strong.

  “I had some remarks planned for today, but decided against them.”

  I clear my throat and look out at the crowd. Some people are crying; some people are staring. The collective mood is bleak. Standing at the back, a young African American woman is watching. Probably a procession worker. I look once more around the rows of people. And I know now that I have their undivided attention.

  It’s time.

  “I want to speak today about the truth of what happened to Lexi. I want to speak about the truth of the world we live in. I want to speak the truth about the doctors and nurses who fought to save her. We all probably think of Lexi as the most outspoken, unpredictable, and real person we knew. I, for one, want to be more like that, and that is why I am going to give it to you straight.”

  Evan is no longer smiling, and my mother looks concerned. In fact, most of the faces in the crowd do.

  “The truth is that it’s all a lie.”

 

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