Devil's Claw
Page 12
Saturday, July 4
Gary tossed his briefcase onto the front passenger seat as he got into his two-year-old Lincoln. Black. Leather interior. Like clockwork, he traded them in every two years. Always a year old, never a new one. He let someone else take that initial depreciation hit. The Lincoln accommodated his six-foot-five frame.
Preparing to back out, he checked the rearview mirror. Mournful eyes looked back at him. The dark circles he’d developed in law school had grown into droopy bags. There was surgery, he knew, but it wasn’t top on his to-do list. Besides, in his business, looking tired was an asset. Clients thought you worked harder for them.
He reached up and straightened the mirror, thinking about the meeting. Scott wasn’t happy but hadn’t taken the news too badly. Felix was playing it cool. Felix held all the cards. At least he thought he did.
Gary smirked.
Putting on some sunglasses, he exited the parking lot and got on the freeway. Another parking lot, but he didn’t mind. It gave him time to reflect and savor the details of last week’s trip. The visit to Marshall, Arkansas, had been quite successful.
It being a warm, humid night when he arrived, the couple he’d come to see walked him back to a screened-in porch, which overlooked their small farm. They were short and doughy—like little dumplings.
The wife prepared a coffee tray and cookies.
“Did you know there’s a town named Jasper just up the road? Newton County, right honey, or is it Pope?” the woman asked her husband.
She turned back to Gary.
“We’re in Pope,” she informed him.
As if he cared.
The woman’s drawn-out drawl made Gary want to slap her, or better yet, choke the life out of her. Still, he made small talk with the two dumplings as best he could for a while, before getting to the point. No need to rush.
At first, the morons didn’t understand.
“You mean, we own some land that is about to fall into the ocean, and you want to buy it from us?” the woman said. Apparently, Mrs. Dumpling did all the talking for the pair. Mr. Dumpling limited his input to grunts and wondering if it was going to rain.
Gary kept it simple and lied. He did not bother to clarify the difference between mineral rights and surface land, so he said yes, she’d inherited some land when her father, Martin, died. They didn’t know about it because it had never been recorded.
“Your father may not even have known he owned it, as it may have been left to him by his father or grandfather,” Gary explained.
They looked at him blankly. He’d have to wrap this up fast.
He continued. “It’s on a very narrow lot, recently condemned, deemed unstable due to landslides.”
Again, he didn’t bother to explain the difference between landownership and mineral rights. He was hoping they wouldn’t ask.
Which brought Gary to the reason he was here, sitting with them on their back porch.
He only wanted to buy their land, he said, because he had property just behind it, safe for now on a granite slab, and hoped some sliver of the lot in front would remain after the largest chunk slid into the ocean, which could happen at any time. Simply put, he wanted a buffer between him and the Pacific Ocean. It was an El Niño year, and heavy rain was expected.
The couple had never been to California but knew all about the unstable San Andreas Fault, they’d seen the movie. They also knew about the even more unstable people who chose to live there.
Gary raised his cup to his lips and pretended to take another drink of his now tepid coffee. Maybe a little nudge was needed.
Oh, and by the way, his grandmother had been from Arkansas, he told them. No, he didn’t know the name of her town. Miller was her name. Fine people. She was from somewhere vaguely east in the state—the opposite corner of this little farm.
When he got to the part about his being willing to buy the land from them for a couple hundred thousand dollars, the woman’s eyes widened, and her penciled eyebrows lifted.
Mrs. Dumpling kept her cool and kicked her husband under the table to keep him from ruining everything. She hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck. Wouldn’t pay to show too much excitement. Something didn’t smell right with this guy, but what did she care? As long as his check was good, she didn’t care why he really wanted to buy her land. Two hundred thousand dollars would go a long way in Arkansas.
Buying a few minutes to think while her mind buzzed with enthusiasm, she said, “More coffee, Mr. Schofield?”
Imagine being willing to pay two hundred thousand dollars for a worthless piece of property that was going to fall into the ocean any day. But she knew it was probably nothing to him. Her cousin Franny moved to Sacramento, California, married a California man. They paid over $450,000 for a tiny box of a house that wouldn’t sell for $150,000 here. They just didn’t seem to understand the value of a hard-earned dollar out there. But she did.
As the man droned on about his relatives up north, she allowed herself a sliver of excitement. They could pay off the farm. Maybe even go see her sister in Atlanta. They could go to Hawaii!
They kept the conversation going until they’d run out of relatives to talk about.
Patience up, Gary produced the papers for them to sign.
He watched as their dimpled fingers moved the pen across the pages, signing and initialing in all the designated places.
Both parties satisfied, he handed them the cashier’s check and placed the documents in his briefcase.
It was late, but he had no intention of spending the night anywhere in the state.
I’ve probably lost twenty IQ points already.
By the time he got to the airport, he’d already decided which of the interested parties—Solange, Felix, or Bill—he was going to approach first, now that he had the mineral rights free and clear.
By the time he landed at John Wayne, he had the features and accessories picked out for his next Lincoln. He even entertained the luxury of buying a new one.
26
Monday, July 13, 2015
An efficient young woman sporting a boxy blue medical smock and supportive shoes pushed open the door next to the reception desk. Clipboard in hand, holding the door open with her hip, she scanned the waiting room.
“Mr. Schofield?”
Gary rose from his chair. Ducking through, he followed her into a warren of passageways and regularly spaced, closed doors.
Manila file tucked under her arm, she walked him all the way back, keeping up a stream of chatter along the way.
Yes, he was fine. No, he wasn’t here to see the doctor about anything. He was just here to get the results of his tests.
They stopped briefly at the scale near the nurse’s station to weigh in. She noted the specifics on his chart—he’d lost a few pounds—then took her charge the rest of the way down the hall. Placing his folder in the clear plastic holder outside room 8, she instructed him to go in and take a seat, the doctor would be right with him.
Right.
Doctors, as Gary was beginning to find out, were never “right with you.” At least he was done with all the tests. Why the doctor ordered so many, he didn’t know, but probably it was to protect themselves from litigation—from lawyers like him. The irony was not lost on Gary.
Hopefully, today’s visit was just to get whatever medicine he needed or schedule whatever procedure would fix this problem.
He knew he’d overworked his eyes, and the left one was giving him fits. It started with a splitting headache that just wouldn’t let up. Next, he started seeing spots, and it just refused to focus. He’d been wearing a patch on the thing for a week now. Hopefully it was rested, and they’d give him some drops or something and send him on his way.
He had work to do.
That’s the only reason he was here. Get this thing fixed. Get back to work.
About damn time . . . Why do they knock? What do they think we’re doing in here? Playing with ourselves?
“Hello, Gary,” the doctor said. “How’s the eye doing today?”
“You tell me. I’ve kept the patch on,” Gary said. “What do I need to do now?”
Just give me the damn medicine and let me get out of here.
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk with you about. Before I give you all of the test results, I want you to understand you have options. I’ve gone over everything several times, and I’m afraid the news is not good . . .”
As Gary waited, confused, Dr. Te continued.
“. . . glioblastoma . . . stage four . . . inoperative brain cancer . . .”
“What?” Gary cleared his throat, which was suddenly very dry. He hadn’t heard much after the “C word.”
Dr. Te, having seen this before, was prepared. He handed his newly diagnosed cancer patient a bottle of water and repeated what he’d just said.
After a longer explanation of his findings, Gary seemed to accept, if not fully absorb, the news that he had inoperable cancer. Brain cancer.
“What does this mean, exactly? How long can I expect to live . . . normally? Independently?” he asked.
Dr. Te cleared his throat. “Of course, there are always exceptions, some patients live up to five more years, but on average, with aggressive treatment, about fourteen months. Although at this stage, the best you can do is try to shrink the tumor, slow the progress, and manage your symptoms.”
Having delivered this news many times before, Dr. Te gave his patient some more time for this information to sink in. Everyone reacted differently. Dr. Te wondered how he would react if someone delivered the news to him.
“Do you have someone? Is there anyone you’d like me to call?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.
“No.”
Gary’s one good eye stared at the art on the wall. A lovely beach scene.
Dr. Te took a more professional, wrap-this-conversation-up tone. “You can probably expect to continue as you have been for a few more months, but you could experience more severe symptoms at any time—as early as the next few weeks. They will be intermittent. Not a smooth progression—more of a zigzag. Due to the particular area of the brain your tumor is in, these symptoms may be visual, emotional, or behavioral and gaps in memory.” He placed a brochure in Gary’s hands. “These can be frightening when they occur. This is not something you want to deal with alone. I strongly recommend that you educate yourself as best you can and contact one of these support groups.”
Dr. Te was already rising from his stool, shedding his avuncular role.
Gary, who was eye to eye with his doctor, even sitting down, only half listened to Dr. Te’s instructions to stop at the receptionist’s station on the way out to schedule another appointment for the end of the week, to begin chemo and radiation treatments. He absently took the brochure and endured the doctor’s firm handshake.
Somehow he managed to find the exit and make it out to his car.
He did not stop to make another appointment for Friday.
27
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Gary wasn’t giving up. Dr. Te offered nothing but an arsenal of prescriptions, radiation, and chemotherapy, ending with a one-way trip to the hospital. Not much hope there. But there were doctors, even in the States, who said they had options. Just not options approved by the FDA or the AMA.
He found one. A woman doctor out in Oakland. Only accepted cash. Made him sign some kind of “I’m doing this of my own free will” pledge and a bunch of papers swearing not to divulge the secrets of “the Treatment.” All legal CYA, nothing that phased Gary.
He told no one about his diagnosis but took a few days off until the medications his regular doctor gave him minimized his symptoms. Western medicine was good for something. Begged off any meetings he didn’t need to attend. Claimed the flu. Gave his eyes a rest whenever he could.
His first appointment with Dr. Conklin at the New Hope Cancer Center was in five minutes.
Her office told him to block out three hours. He hoped he didn’t have to do any chanting and that candles and a lot of touching were not involved.
Things did not go well.
The Treatment? The one he’d paid three thousand dollars for (and that was just phase one)? Phase one of the Treatment consisted of spending the first hour filling out page after page of medical history, which he’d expected, and a very personal questionnaire, which he had not, including his sexual habits. He left those blank.
The next phase was detox, which consisted of sticking your feet in a tub of water for half an hour. Rusty-orange, scummy foam gathered on the surface, dutifully exclaimed over and scraped off when the timer went off by an overly enthusiastic medical assistant of some type. At the same time, another medical assistant, or maybe she was a nurse, conducted something called chelation therapy. She stuck a needle in his arm, hooked him up to an IV bag, and set another timer. Something going in, something coming out. Looked like blood. Gary looked away. Chelation was supposed to get rid of any heavy metals he might have hanging around in his system, feeding the cancer.
“Heavy metals have been shown to contribute to many negative health issues, including less-obvious ones, like anger,” she added, pointedly. “Chelation therapy dissipates all kinds of emotional baggage we carry around unnecessarily.”
This mega fun was followed by an infrared sauna and massage, which he firmly declined, much to the disapproval of the massage therapist.
“But, Mr. Schofield, this is the best part! We just stirred everything up—we need to flush out your lymph nodes,” she informed him. “We need to get the whole team in there fighting that cancer!”
He assumed she was pushing because she would not be paid if he turned down the massage. He certainly wasn’t going to pay her. Or tip her—if that’s what one did in these places.
The pièce de résistance was a meeting with his personal life and nutrition coach. At least she had a diploma on the wall declaring her to be an actual nutritionist. After prescribing a cleansing diet of sprouts, raw cruciferous vegetables, and wheatgrass shots, she got to the life-coaching part.
This is where she lost him. When she suggested he avail himself of the $250-an-hour anger elimination course at the center, not included in the initial $3,000 fee he’d already paid, he flipped her clipboard into the trash and walked out.
Apparently the chelation hadn’t dissipated enough of his negative emotions.
Thursday, July 23
Dr. Te called.
Gary listened.
Since he was refusing anything but pain medication, no treatment at all—no radiation, no chemotherapy—and had refused to schedule further appointments, the doctor had no choice, his words, but to deliver the news that Gary was looking at months versus years.
He could not emphasize enough how dangerous it was for Gary, and others, if he continued to drive, continued to refuse treatment . . . blah, blah, blah.
And just to make sure Gary had a very clear picture, he plainly laid out the stark future without treatment. There would be blackouts, sudden mood swings, extreme pain, mental confusion, and, eventually, death, uncushioned by medical palliatives.
Is this what Gary wanted?
Well, no.
But Gary hadn’t yet exhausted all possibilities.
He had one more option.
Between dodging meetings with Felix, Gary had been busy. What was it someone had said? The absence of alternatives clears the mind marvelously.
Einstein? Emerson? Didn’t matter.
Now that he might not have the luxury, Gary discovered he deeply wanted to live. Preferably someplace warm, sitting under a palm tree with a beautiful woman bringing him Glenliv
et 18 on the rocks. Whatever life he had left, he decided it would not be spent sitting in beige rooms or staring at a computer screen, sifting through the detritus of other people’s lives. He pictured all the legal documents he’d generated over his career, placed end to end in an infinite loop—a kind of equatorial paper belt.
What a waste.
Mexico had beautiful women. And palm trees. And, he discovered, cancer clinics.
He’d done his homework. Researched. Sure, it was pie in the sky, but these places, even if they didn’t deliver on saving his life, had strong drugs not allowed in the US and were located on long, sandy beaches in luxury accommodations, where he could live—really live—for whatever time he had left.
In general, living in Mexico was cheap, but the clinics weren’t. Not the luxury residential ones he was looking at. And why settle for less?
All he needed was a little more cash . . . And he knew just where to get it.
The next twenty-four hours were busy ones. Operating on autopilot, Gary got to work. Picked a clinic. Travelers checks. Cash. Reservations out of John Wayne. Two days from now, he’d be in Mexico—that would give him plenty of time to do what he needed to do.
He’d have to leave the Lincoln in the States. Regretful, but necessary. He couldn’t picture a Lincoln in Mexico anyway.
Guadalajara. The clinic he chose specialized in brain cancers like his. Oasis de Milagro Clinic was a pricey, one-shot deal. They either cured you in a month or two, or you died. He appreciated the honesty. And the fact that no one there asked about his anger issues.
28
Saturday, July 25, 2015
He sat at the kitchen bar for another minute, mentally reviewing his to-do list, looking out the plain, square window of his minuscule kitchen to the off-white stucco wall opposite. Beige trim. Like every other townhouse within a thousand miles of here.
Beige. Like the rest of his life.
What was he forgetting? He didn’t used to need to write anything down. He couldn’t trust his brain anymore. Lately, he sometimes had to strain to remember even simple things, like whether he’d brushed his teeth or put gas in the car.