Page 58 of Don’t Tell Me How to Die

FIFTY-SIX

When I came to, I was in bed in a hospital gown.

Wrong hospital, I thought. I should be in Alex’s hospital, not this one. I should tell him where I am.

“Nurse,” I yelled out, not bothering to look for a call button.

“Can I help you?” a voice crackled back through the intercom.

“Can I have my phone please, and can I get out of here? I’m feeling better.”

“I’ll page your doctor,” she said.

My doctor? Just what I needed—another damn doctor.

“What I really need is my phone,” I said.

No response. The faceless helpful voice was apparently done helping.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, there was a man standing next to my bed. Dark hair, dark eyes, white coat, clipboard.

“Mrs. Dunn,” he said. “I’m Dr. Brubaker.”

He was in his late forties, too old to be a resident. At least my doctor was a real doctor.

“I feel better. Can I go?”

“Can we talk first?”

“There’s not much to talk about,” I said. “It’s hot as hell in the city. I must have passed out.”

“It’s a lot more than the heat, Mrs. Dunn. I have your blood work here.”

“Well, then I guess my little secret is out. Can I go home now?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.” Brubaker looked at the chart on his clipboard. “I have to tell you, I’ve never seen numbers like these before. If they get any worse, you will be dead within a few weeks.”

“I know that. I mean I didn’t know about the few weeks, but I know about the dying part.”

“You know ?” he said, as if he’d checked my IQ and found that number more horrifying than my blood count. “And are you doing anything about it?”

I shook my head.

“Who’s your doctor? I’d like to talk to him or her if I could.”

“Don’t call my doctor. He’ll only agree with you. He wasn’t happy about the fact that I turned down the opportunity to look for a medical miracle in a haystack, but it wasn’t his decision. It was mine. Just let me see the blood test results. I’m tougher than I look.”

He sat down on the bed so I could look at the chart.

It was a blur of codes, medical terms, acronyms, and numbers, and in my condition, I couldn’t make sense of it. For the next ten minutes Brubaker patiently took me through it line by line, number by number.

When he was done, I began to cry.

He put his arm around me, and we talked in fits and starts until I finally pulled it together.

“I guess I lied,” I said. “I’m not tougher than I look.”

“You’re doing fine,” he said.

“You just told me I’ll be dead in a few weeks. Make up your damn mind.”

We both laughed. Graveyard humor.

“Can I go home now?” I said.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay the night so I can evaluate you in the morning,” he said.

“That depends,” I said. “Does the hospital have an extensive wine cellar and a world-class sommelier?”

He laughed again. “I’m guessing that’s a no to staying the night.”

“Dr. Brubaker, I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I really want to go home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Heartstone. I took the train in.”

“Well, I’m definitely not letting you take the train back. Is there someone you can call to pick you up?”

“Yes.”

“In that case,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out my cell phone, “make the call.”

I went to my favorites list and hit the speed dial.

“Hey,” I said through the tears. “I need you.”

“Was that your husband?” Brubaker said when I hung up.

“Yes. He’s on his way. It’ll probably be about two hours with traffic.”

“Why don’t you stay here and get some rest while you’re waiting.”

“I will, but can I ask you a few questions before you go?”

“Under one condition,” Brubaker said. “I get to ask you a few questions in return.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

I picked his brain for about ten minutes, and then it was his turn. His questions to me were intelligent and insightful, and I answered every one of them with a lie.

When he left, I crawled into my hospital bed and waited for my ride home. But it wouldn’t be my husband.

I had called Johnny. He was the only one I trusted to help me make sense of whatever life I had left.