The Appointment

The Appointment

© Matt Cairone 2014

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the USA

This story is fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or the author uses them fictitiously.

The Story

The waiting room was packed. Most looked at the television screens hanging from the ceiling. Others read magazines. No one talked. Peter sat off by himself, his hands folded on his lap. His mind wandered.

A plump nurse wearing a red bandana popped out from behind the cubicle and called out, “Mr. Maris.” Peter stood and waved his right hand. She held open the door and went in after him. “Third door on the right,” she said. Peter moved down the hallway and turned into the room.

“Just have a seat. Dr. Cho will be with you in a few minutes.” He nodded his head and sat down. He folded his hands on his lap.

The room was barren. Scopes and lights hung from hooks on the walls. The examination table looked like an electric chair. An out of date computer sat on a small table in the corner, with a screen saver darting back and forth. It said, “UPCC Medical Center: Authorized Access Only.” Peter watched it go back and forth, up and down, and across the screen on the diagonal. It helped to kill the time.

Peter could hear footsteps in the hallway and he could hear papers shuffled on clipboards. When the noises passed Peter relaxed, re-folded his hands on his lap, and fixed his eyes on the screen saver.

Then came a knock on the door and Dr. Cho stuck his head in “Hello, Peter.” The doctor walked in and sat down across from Peter, on the small stool with wheels. 

“Hi, Doctor Cho, how’re you?”

The doctor smiled, wheeled closer to Peter and said, “Just fine, Peter, just fine.” Peter smiled and waited.

“I have the pathology, Peter.” He did not pause for Peter to say anything. “Peter, the pathology shows some irregularities.” He leaned closer. “You have a rare type of B-cell lymphoma.” Peter did not show any emotion. “The full name is ALK-positive large B-cell lymphoma. I wrote it down on this piece of paper.” Dr. Cho folded the paper and handed it to Peter. Peter took it and put it in his shirt pocket.

“It looks like the mass has well defined margins, which is good. We don’t know how far it has moved out of the lymphatic system.”

Peter looked at the doctor, expressionless.

“We have a meeting scheduled for Tuesday morning with the pathology team.”

“I’ll expect to talk to you Tuesday afternoon then.”

“Okay, Peter.”

 Peter stood to leave. 

“What’s the survival rate?”

“Come on, Peter, don’t ask me that.”

“Just tell me,” and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Just tell me.”

“Eleven months, Peter. Just an average.”

With that, Dr. Cho stood up and offered Peter his hand. Peter shook the doctor’s hand. Then he stood and opened the door. 

Peter waved goodbye to the nurses sitting behind the desk in the cubicle. He walked to the elevator and pushed the down button. As he waited for the elevator car he looked back into the crowded waiting room, at the pale, thin patients waiting for their treatments. 

The elevator door opened and Peter stepped inside. The door closed. Peter watched it shut.

Peter left the cancer center and walked out onto Craig St. What a beautiful day, he thought. He put on a baseball cap to shield his eyes from the sun.

He was hungry. He walked down two blocks to the Chipotle. He ordered a chicken burrito. He took a cup for water. He took his burrito and his water and he sat in the booth in the corner of the room, away from the windows. He took his time to eat. Every few bites he took a small sip of the water. He chewed and swallowed.

His appetite was good and he finished the burrito with no trouble. He drank the last of the water. He looked around to see if anyone was close by before he belched. Peter wiped his chin and put the napkin and the small plastic basket onto his tray and threw out the trash and returned the tray. He went to the rest room to wash his hands.

Back on the street, Peter decided it was too loud to call his ex-wife. But he knew he needed to tell her right away; he would have to decide with her how to tell his son. 

He decided to make the call from the lobby in the hotel across the street from the hospital. It will be quiet there this time of day, he thought.

“Peter. What’s up? You haven’t called in forever.”

“I’m sick, Lynn.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Just found out.”

“What sick, Peter?”

“Sick like cancer.”

“Cancer?” Lynn sat down at her kitchen table. “What cancer?”

“Some kind of lymphoma.”

“Brian’s gonna be devastated.”

He took a hard swallow.

“How do ya wanna tell’im, Lynn?”

She fidgeted with the coffee cup. “I guess we should just tell’im. Together.”

He knew she would say that. And he knew she was right.