Left, right — right again, next to the hallway, you’ll see a two-way door leading to a t-section, open it — knock before you do though, therapy sessions aren’t really therapy sessions if interrupted, yeah? Cool.
That was what the petite, sinewy, woman at the door said to me.
Uh, excuse me, I am uh, I am looking for Doctor Jennifer? The cancer doctor? I am not here for any therapy session. I was here last week, remember? I phoned in advance and booked an appointment.
Oh, you’re umm, Joseph? Sorry. Why didn’t you just say? Doctor Jennifer is at the left wing. Ask any nurse you see. And it’s called an oncologist, not a cancer doctor.
Yeah, really informative. I’m sure my putrefying corpse will be happy you shared this information in the coming week — after I rest in Valhalla.
Valha — what? You listen to too many crap music, kid.
Music? Valhalla is a Norse mythology concept, it’s a — fork am I doing explaining? Can you please just let me go? I literally don’t have time for chitchatting now, thank you.
And they say nurses are the rude ones? Juveniles. Off you go then. Remember, left wing.
Phew.
I could really use some chicken wings.
Hospitals? Phew. You can’t get that formidable aura of death off your body, mind and soul. It’s just there — like a pungent. Like campfire smoke on your cashmere sweater, like the hair follicles on your skin, like water on ocean.
Water on ocean? That doesn’t make sense — not practical in any sense. But again, nothing makes sense. So it’s just there — hovering in the air like unwanted thoughts. Like the one I am having right now. I wish things were different. Hospital visits aren’t always filled with giddiness, confettis or AK-47s.
- Left, right — right again, next to the hallway.
Hospital visits are? How do I explain this? Hospital visits is like uh, it’s like your soul — lost in your body, and wondering the unknown. Does that make sense? A lot of things I have said today doesn’t make sense. Side effects of cancer? Err, probably. The only exciting thing about cancer is the treatment.
Chemotherapy.
Yaaaay.
I get to look like professor Xavier from X-Men. Tell me, isn’t that worth it? Halloween won’t come with any expenses. Mom, I got your broke ass covered. All you need to do is lend me grandpa’s old wheelchair, his suit, and we good.
- Left wing.
You’re not supposed to be here, kid.
I am sorry. Please, is this the left wing?
Yes. Are you lost?
No. I uh, I um, yes. I am actually lost. I just left the therapy section. I’m looking for a uh, unclelogist?
Sorry, excuse me?
Doctor Jennifer?
Jennifer Holland, Michigan, Lopez? Be specific, kid.
I am sorry, i —
Don’t apologize. You apologize too much. What do you want?
I am looking for Doctor Jennifer. She’s an unclelogist. She's a cancer doctor.
Laugher they say is the best medicine, correct? Then I guess my cancer is suffering from an irreversible depression. Because I hardly laugh these days, and when I do — phlegm clot my windpipe — I choke, my eyes get wetter than a navy seal veteran, and redder than Hades’ favorite peppers. So yes, I don’t laugh. Am I gonna die? Probably. I hope somebody cries for me though. Because while I spread flipping laughter anywhere I go, laughter doesn’t spread me. Does that make sense? Fork! It’s an impartial relationship.
I should have ended up a comedian or something.
Sorry. I had to laugh so much, kid. It’s called an oncologist, not unclelogist, got it?
Yeah, yeah, got it. Where is she, please?
The first door at your left. Can you see it? The light green one. Like grey’s anatomy scrubs.
Yes, thank you. That’s a weird comparison though.
Thank you, too.
Don’t blame them. I don’t blame them at all. I am terminally ill. I will die soon. These moments won’t matter anymore. I don’t want anybody’s empathy. I just — what do I want? I just want to be alone. Alone? Ha! I will be living that dream soon.
LITERALLY!
What if I die now? That would be horrible. I haven’t sent Dara her letters yet, Moses hasn’t seen me yet, Mom and Dad haven’t hugged me today, Elizabeth hasn’t had sex with me yet. So you see? A lot of things need to happen before I die.
- The first door at your left.
It’s quiet.
Knock, knock.
Hello?
Hello?
Anybody, here?
It’s Joseph, I fixed an appointment with you earlier today? I phoned in advance.
No response.
Sheesh.
Even at the brink of death, I can’t get quality, premium service? What? Do I limp in with crutches before they render quality service? Sheesh. Where’s this world heading to?
Heading to? I shouldn’t laugh, but heading? Really, you don’t get it? Hahahaha.
The door’s open though, maybe I can check for myself. Who’s gonna give a fuss about it? Nobody, that’s who. Or, you want to yell at an eighteen years old boy with cancer? Yeah, do that and let’s see how you feel afterwards.
Shit.
You’ll feel like poop.
Amber Heard’s poop.
Tuuuuurd.
- Inside the first door at your left.
The little office space reeked excessively of weed. Like — fumigated type of excessively. Again, that hardly makes any grammatical sense, but who gives two fork? Probably the chef — serving a couple. That’s who gives two forks.
The walls are lined with plaque depicting accolades, awards, and whimsical motivational write-ups.
Don’t give up — you matter.
There’s light at the end of tunnel.
The best days are yet to come.
Yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada.
White paint.
I love white paint. Reminds me duly of saliva. Yes, saliva — and you’re the weird one, not me. Saliva isn’t white, is it? It’s neutral. Like water. But the foam formed around is white.
Whitish.
I swear I am not racist, lol.
A table filed with a4 papers in folders.
Pens.
A multi-colored stethoscope 🩺. That isn’t very professional.
Pride color?
My doctor is a lesbian.
A flower vase.
What else is on the table?
Auditing books.
Nerd.
Sniffs.
Is somebody crying?
Hello?
The sniffing stopped.
Where did that come from?
Hello?
Yes?
Track the wavelength of that voice. Where is it emitting from?
A door.
A passage.
A backdoor.
Backdoor.
Hey, doc, are you okay?
She looked wasted. The air here was even staler than the air inside her office. The thick smell of weed is more concentrated here.
Osmosis? My biology teacher taught me something of that nature. Can’t remember vividly, but — fork eat.
Her hair looked like someone ruffled it roughly, then permed it, and ruffled it again.
Her white lab coat had smoldering ashes on it. But what’s more weird is the tears.
Hey, Doc, do you need help? I can call —
Sit down, kid. Uh, you’re Joseph, yeah?
Yes, I am. I am the cancer patient.
Her voice was parched from all the crying she must have cried. The sufferings. The depression. Just like my ennui cancer.
Don’t call yourself that, want me to cry again?
I don’t understand. Were you crying because of my arrival?
She laughed.
No. I am not. I crying because of the — wait, why do I have to tell you?
Why won’t you? I’m going to die soon, it doesn’t matter.
Her eyes were leaking again. I think I am making her cry again.
I am sorry. I didn’t mean to.
Well, you do have a point. Have a seat.
So — you want to like, check me out?
I already talked to your Mom, Jo. Can I call you that?
Yes, that’s okay I guess.
Okay. I already talked to your Mom. You’re here for drugs, Jo. I’ll recommend some, then you’ll leave. That’s it.
That’s it?
Yes. That’s it.
So, you want to tell me why you were busy crying? I’ll take three spontaneous guess.
You just discovered you have cancer?
Your girlfriend left you?
IRS is about to take your house?
Kid, you funny. Well, before any operation, I pray to God for a successful operation. Yeah? I mean, people take one look at doctors and think they don’t care. When someone dies, or a mother loses a child, pregnancy, people don’t expect nurses or doctors to cry. They stereotypically assume doctors have seen and been there before, so they’re used to it. Wanna know a secret?
Yes.
It’s a lie. You can never get used to it. You can never get used to death. You can never.
She sniffed, then continued shortly afterwards.
Death is like sex with a bengal tiger. Do you get used to that? No. Even when you have it the first, second and third time, you’ll never get used to it. It’s contranatural. It’s bizarre. It’s not suppose to happen. Understand? That’s what it’s like.
Today didn’t spare an exception. A woman died today from childbirth. I saw the flames magically left her eyes. Even after I prayed to God, she died, still. What say you, do you think that’s fair?
Uh, I just — I just want to get my medications? I feel you’re uh, I don’t know. I am sorry about her. I’m sorry. It must have felt really bad.
You wouldn’t understand, Jo. You’re still a kid.
She scribbled down something down on a piece of paper. So this stereotype wasn’t faux. Doctors write sheet you barely understand.
Take this to the pharmacy, tell them Jenn sent you.
Do I say Jenn, or Doctor Jenn?
Do whatever you want, kid.
The shit I am taking to the pharmacy.
Bendamustine
Bevacizumab
Bleomycin
Bexarotene
Bicalutamide
Thank you. Hey, maybe you should see a therapist? I don’t know. It’ll help you a great deal. It helped my Uncle Vincent.
Therapist? Ha! Do you think doctors need therapist?
Maybe you shouldn’t go as a doctor then — maybe you should go as yourself. Because all humans need therapist.
That’s deep, Jo.
Deeper than the cancer cells in my blood vessels, yo.
Ha. Look at us. Rhyming and sheet. You’re like Rakim, and I am Tupac.
She giggled, sniffed. Thanked me — and I left.
With my feet dragging slowly against linoleum flooring — I didn’t want to leave. I sorta loved her. Too soon? But I do. Someone told me I am always attracted to broken people — I used to doubt it, but now? Now I believe. Broken attract broken? Eh, that theory’s batshit borderline crazy! I just want to sit and spend the remaining weeks I have staring at Doctor Jennifer. Watching her smoke weed in the hospital premises — which is forking surgical and mental if you ask me. But you won’t ask — so read it instead.
I want to stare at her till I drift off into sweet nothingness. It would be a beautiful way to exit this world.
