one of the most aggressive forms. Simply put, it’s life threatening. However, with aggressive treatment…I’m talking about chemotherapy here…we’re seeing more and more impressive remission rates every year.”
He stopped for a moment to let what he had said sink in.
“Is my wife going to die?” I asked, deciding at that instant to jump to the end of this unfolding horror story.
“She might,” he replied without hesitation, “but I don’t think she will. Not if we start treatment right away. She’s young, and she’s strong.”
“What are her chances?” I asked, searching his face for signs of doubt or lack of confidence.
This time he waited a moment before answering. “I would say she has a good chance of survival. Probably as high as 60%.”
“ ‘As high as 60%’?” I shot back without thinking. “My God! You call that a ‘good chance’?” Without realizing it, I had raised my voice considerably and was now leaning forward in my chair with one arm on the edge of Dr. Goldstein’s desk. “I see that as a 40% chance of dying,” I continued, shaking my head in disbelief.
Dr. Goldstein was unaffected by my outburst. He sat perfectly still, his hands clasped on top of Peg’s file, and looked impassively across the desk at me. “As I said, Mr. Herbert, your wife is very sick, and her form of leukemia is very aggressive. But in answer to your question, yes, I think a 60% chance of survival is a good chance of survival. I would even say it’s something to be thankful for.”
I looked at him, hard, hating him at that moment for what he had said and for how he had said it.
A 60% chance of survival might sound good to you, pal , I thought as I stared at his expressionless face, but we’re not talking about your wife here, are we? We’re talking about mine.
But as quickly as my anger had flared, it began to disappear as I realized Dr. Goldstein wasn’t the enemy. He was only the messenger, and maybe, just maybe, the rescuer.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the framed diplomas and certificates on the wall next to me, and started to pick at a fingernail. Neither of us spoke for almost a minute.
“For what it’s worth,” I said finally, “I understand what you’re saying, and I guess I agree with you. A 60% chance of survival is better than nothing. So what do we do now?”
“Well, your wife’s probably being admitted to Huntington Hospital as we speak. My plan is to see her tonight and put in the orders for tests that need to be done before we can begin her chemotherapy. And then tomorrow, probably in the afternoon, I’ll install what we call a central line. It’s similar to an intravenous fitting, but larger and inserted into the subclavian vein just above the clavicle. Here at the base of the neck.” He placed his middle finger and index finger in a hollow at the base of his neck to show me where this central line would be positioned. “This lets us deliver large doses of medication without having to worry about blood vessel collapse. Then Saturday morning, probably,” he continued, “Monday morning at the absolute latest, we’ll begin her chemotherapy.”
He waited for me to say something.
“I told your wife we can beat this, Mr. Herbert, and I think we will.”
I looked at him for as long as I dared, reflecting again on how young he was, before answering. “I hope so, doctor…because this is my wife we’re talking about here…and I love her…very, very much.”
I looked down at my hands, now clasped between my knees, and then up at him again. “She’s my life. And I have to tell you…the thought of anything happening to her…is…impossible to even think about…” My voice trailed off involuntarily.
“I understand,” Dr. Goldstein replied as he rose from his seat. “Believe me, I do. And be assured, Mr. Herbert, we’ll do everything possible for your wife.”
He extended his hand. Our meeting was over.
Fifteen
At seven forty-two I was walking
He stopped for a moment to let what he had said sink in.
“Is my wife going to die?” I asked, deciding at that instant to jump to the end of this unfolding horror story.
“She might,” he replied without hesitation, “but I don’t think she will. Not if we start treatment right away. She’s young, and she’s strong.”
“What are her chances?” I asked, searching his face for signs of doubt or lack of confidence.
This time he waited a moment before answering. “I would say she has a good chance of survival. Probably as high as 60%.”
“ ‘As high as 60%’?” I shot back without thinking. “My God! You call that a ‘good chance’?” Without realizing it, I had raised my voice considerably and was now leaning forward in my chair with one arm on the edge of Dr. Goldstein’s desk. “I see that as a 40% chance of dying,” I continued, shaking my head in disbelief.
Dr. Goldstein was unaffected by my outburst. He sat perfectly still, his hands clasped on top of Peg’s file, and looked impassively across the desk at me. “As I said, Mr. Herbert, your wife is very sick, and her form of leukemia is very aggressive. But in answer to your question, yes, I think a 60% chance of survival is a good chance of survival. I would even say it’s something to be thankful for.”
I looked at him, hard, hating him at that moment for what he had said and for how he had said it.
A 60% chance of survival might sound good to you, pal , I thought as I stared at his expressionless face, but we’re not talking about your wife here, are we? We’re talking about mine.
But as quickly as my anger had flared, it began to disappear as I realized Dr. Goldstein wasn’t the enemy. He was only the messenger, and maybe, just maybe, the rescuer.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the framed diplomas and certificates on the wall next to me, and started to pick at a fingernail. Neither of us spoke for almost a minute.
“For what it’s worth,” I said finally, “I understand what you’re saying, and I guess I agree with you. A 60% chance of survival is better than nothing. So what do we do now?”
“Well, your wife’s probably being admitted to Huntington Hospital as we speak. My plan is to see her tonight and put in the orders for tests that need to be done before we can begin her chemotherapy. And then tomorrow, probably in the afternoon, I’ll install what we call a central line. It’s similar to an intravenous fitting, but larger and inserted into the subclavian vein just above the clavicle. Here at the base of the neck.” He placed his middle finger and index finger in a hollow at the base of his neck to show me where this central line would be positioned. “This lets us deliver large doses of medication without having to worry about blood vessel collapse. Then Saturday morning, probably,” he continued, “Monday morning at the absolute latest, we’ll begin her chemotherapy.”
He waited for me to say something.
“I told your wife we can beat this, Mr. Herbert, and I think we will.”
I looked at him for as long as I dared, reflecting again on how young he was, before answering. “I hope so, doctor…because this is my wife we’re talking about here…and I love her…very, very much.”
I looked down at my hands, now clasped between my knees, and then up at him again. “She’s my life. And I have to tell you…the thought of anything happening to her…is…impossible to even think about…” My voice trailed off involuntarily.
“I understand,” Dr. Goldstein replied as he rose from his seat. “Believe me, I do. And be assured, Mr. Herbert, we’ll do everything possible for your wife.”
He extended his hand. Our meeting was over.
Fifteen
At seven forty-two I was walking
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