Rules Get Broken (6 page)

“Okay,” Peg murmured weakly.

“Have you got Dr. Goldstein’s address and telephone number?” I asked, trying desperately to focus on something other than the word “leukemia,” which was by now streaming non-stop through my brain.

“He’s on East Main Street. 220 East Main. And his telephone number is 271-5349.”

“I got it. How are you getting to the hospital?” I asked, focusing on the details, the logistics for the next few hours.
The details I can handle
, I thought.
It’s leukemia I’m having a problem with. Gotta stick to the details for now.

“I’ll ask Amy Bennett to take me. I know she’s home.”

“Good. I’ll come to the hospital right after I meet with Dr. Goldstein. You’ll be admitted and in a room by then?”

“I guess.”

Her voice was flat, mechanical, totally devoid of emotion, and her demeanor now was completely different from what it had been just minutes ago. I wondered if she had truly calmed down or gone into shock. I had no way to know. I was in my office; she was in our bedroom at home. I considered asking her to put Linda on the phone, but decided I would be overreacting. So instead I reverted back to the details, to that which I could control.

“How long can Linda stay?”

“She’s going to call the Claytons as soon as I get off the phone with you and ask them to stay here until you get home from the hospital.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I ask my folks to come over and take the kids back to their house tonight? I mean, we have no idea what time I’ll be getting out of the hospital, and this way the Claytons can go home as soon as my folks arrive. What do you say?”

“That probably makes more sense.”

“Are you okay, Peg?” I asked, hoping for some sort of response that would reduce the fear inside me, which was increasing with every passing second.

She didn’t answer.

I could feel my throat start to close and became conscious of my heart pumping in my chest and my pulse pounding in my ears as I waited.

Finally she spoke. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Can you pick up Jennie after you’ve seen Dr. Goldstein and bring her to the hospital with you? I’d really like to see her tonight. I’d ask you to bring John too, but it’ll be too late for him, and they probably wouldn’t let him in anyway.”

“No, I’m sure they wouldn’t, but I can bring Jennie if you’d like me to,” I assured her.

Again, silence.

Our conversation was over. The news had been delivered, the plans for the next three hours made. We had nothing else to say.

“I love you, Peg,” I said, blinking back tears and trying not to let the lump in my throat show in my voice.

“I love you too,” she said softly, and then she hung up.

Tell me I’m too late
, I thought, as I opened the door to Dr. Goldstein’s office suite and stepped into an empty waiting room. I looked at my watch.
Seven-twenty. Peg said he’d wait for me, but this sure doesn’t look good.

I walked up to the reception window and saw that the inner office, although still illuminated, was also empty and closed down for the night. I looked around the waiting room to see if there was another door or another reception window. There wasn’t. I glanced at my watch a second time to make certain I had read the time correctly and then slid open one of the window’s sliding glass panels. I leaned through it far enough to make certain my voice would be heard in the farthest corners of the office suite.

“Hello?” I called, feeling simultaneously anxious and foolish. “Is anybody here?”

A voice came from somewhere inside the suite. “Mr. Herbert? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied.

A disheveled young man appeared at the end of the hall. “Come right in, Mr. Herbert,” he called. “The door’s open.”

I withdrew my head and opened the door. He beckoned me towards him with a wave. “Join me down here in my office, will you?” he asked.

When I reached him, he extended his hand, introduced himself and immediately turned to go back into his office. “Nice to meet you,” I muttered to his back.

He asked me to have a seat in one of the wing chairs facing his desk. I did as he asked and watched him sit down and pull a file that was presumably Peg’s from the pile of folders covering his desk.

He’s young
, I thought as I looked at him.
Damn young. Probably a year or two younger than me.
A frightening thought, and yet I realized as I sat watching him that, young as he was, he was the man in charge. He was the boss. Not Peg. Not me.

He flipped open the file, looked at it briefly, and then without wasting time on any additional exchange of pleasantries, went right to the point of my being there. “I assume your wife has told you about our conversation this afternoon?”

“She has.”

“There’s no easy way to do this, Mr. Herbert,” he continued, “so I’m going to be direct and very much to the point. First, your wife is a very sick lady. As she’s already told you, she has leukemia, which is a form of blood cancer. Basically what happens is the white cells in the blood multiply out of control…so fast they never reach maturity, and in such great numbers they literally crowd out the red blood cells. That’s why the first symptom your wife experienced was fatigue. Her blood doesn’t have enough red cells anymore to carry the oxygen she needs to function normally.

“There are several types of leukemia. Some take years to develop and run their course. Others are far more aggressive. Unfortunately, your wife has what is called acute myelogenous leukemia, which is 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.

At seven forty-two I was walking back to my car from Dr. Goldstein’s office.
The whole thing took less than twenty minutes
, I said to myself as I backed out of my parking spot and headed for the exit.
It took less than twenty minutes for him to tell me my wife has a 40% chance of dyin
g.

I waited for a break in the westbound traffic and turned west on Main Street, blinking back tears, heading for home to pick up Jennie before going to the hospital. I tried to think logically, but I couldn’t. Instead, my mind was overwhelmed by disjointed questions and thoughts. More questions than thoughts, and mostly questions without answers. Some of the thoughts were practical thoughts, some terrible, some simply inane—one tumbling over another chaotically like waves on a beach in a powerful storm, each one demanding immediate recognition over the prior one.

I wonder how long Peg’ll be in the hospital?

Have to remember to call the bank tomorrow morning and let them know what’s happening.
They’re not gonna be happy campers. She was supposed to come off maternity leave in what? Two weeks? And now this. Gotta call ‘em first thing in the morning.

The hell with the bank. Have to remember to call Peg’s mom tonight when I get home and let her know what’s happening. Maybe Peg’s already called her. No. She couldn’t have. No time. That’ll be a tough call.

Wonder if Goldstein is the right guy? If he knows what he’s doing?

God, who’s gonna take care of the kids while Peg’s in the hospital?

What if she dies?

She’s not going to die.

But what if she does? Who’ll take care of the kids then? How can I take care of a three-year-old and an eight-month-old and go to work?

What would life be like without Peg? Impossible to imagine.

Stop it, John. Stop thinking like that. Can’t think like that. Peg’s not going to die. Can’t happen.

But the rest of this is happening.

What’s Peg done to deserve this? Why her? Of all people, why her?

Leukemia! Shit!

Maybe Goldstein is wrong. He could be, you know.

Yeah, right. Who are you kidding? He isn’t wrong, and you know it.

This is too terrible to be real. Can’t be happening. Not to her. Not to us...

I pulled into my driveway a few minutes before eight and found Dave and Beth Clayton, the couple we were supposed to go sailing with Saturday night, sitting at the picnic table with my kids. Dave was on the far side watching Jennie color; Beth was on the side closest to me with John on her lap, entertaining him with a stuffed animal she was moving with her free hand.

Beth worked at the same bank as Peg in the personnel department and had become Peg’s best friend during the seven years they had worked together. She was a little waspish in terms of dress and mannerisms, very refined and very precise, but she was also quick to laugh, not afraid to be the butt of a joke and a lot of fun to be with. Thirty-three years old, five-seven, with light brown hair that came just below her ears and framed her face with a single wave on each side, she was quite attractive, even though she rarely wore makeup.

Dave, on the other hand, was anything but refined and precise. Not that he was coarse, because he wasn’t. He was just down-to-earth and direct, totally without pretense, equally quick to laugh and quicker to see the funny side in anything. Very much a “what you see is what you get” kind of guy. He too was thirty-three and about the same height as Beth, but had a physique that always reminded me of a fireplug. Short, solid and really tough to move. He was an ex-Marine and moved with the powerful grace of a man who knew how to take care of himself.

I’d first met Beth and Dave when they invited Peg and me to their apartment in Hastings-on-Hudson for a Christmas party in 1975. I liked them both instantly. A month or two later, Peg and I invited them for dinner at our house in Huntington. We had a delightful evening, but over dessert Beth admitted that seeing our house and the lifestyle it afforded convinced her they really needed to get out of their apartment and buy a home. Half in jest, I mentioned that the house diagonally across the street from us had just been put on the market. They returned to Huntington the next day, visited the house with a local realtor, and put down a deposit that afternoon. Six weeks later they moved in, and as they say, the rest is history. The four of us became best friends.

“Hi guys,” I called as I got out of the car.

I walked over to the picnic table, gave Beth a quick kiss on the cheek and bent down to give John a kiss on the top of his head. I rumpled his hair and then walked around to the other side of the table to give Jennie a hug and a kiss.