Suspicious Minds

"Can't it wait?" I asked. "We've got a lot of stuff going on in the office right now, and it would be better. . ."

"No," he interrupted. "I want you to call him as soon as you get back to work and make that appointment. There's no sense in procrastinating about things like this, you know."

I didn't know, but I didn't like the sound of that, so I promised Dr. Garfinkle that I would call for an appointment right away.

He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "It's probably nothing," he said heartily. "Men your age get enlarged prostates all the time. We just want to be sure that's all it is." With that, he turned and headed out the door, making more notes in my file.

I drove back to work in a daze. This was the last thing I had expected. When I got to my office, my secretary looked up as I walked past her desk. "Everything go OK?" she asked.

"Nothing to report," I said blandly, and walked into my office, pulling the door closed behind me. When I reached Dr. Bannerjee's office, the nurse told me I was lucky: they had an opening on Friday afternoon. I wasn't so sure that was lucky, but I wrote down the appointment and promised I'd be there.

The next few days were a bit surreal. Externally, the world proceeded in its normal course: I sent and received emails, participated in conference calls, and wrote up reports, all my ordinary activities. Internally, I was all over the place worrying about my check-up. One moment I'd remind myself that Dr. Garfinkle had said lots of men have enlarged prostates. But no sooner would I think that than I began to wonder why he felt it was so urgent that I see the urologist. "That can't be good," I told myself.

There was one thing I did not do: I did not go on the Internet and research prostate cancer. I knew I would only scare myself. My imagination was overheated as it was; I didn't need to add any fuel to the fire. "You're getting way ahead of yourself," I kept reminding myself. "The doctor could just as easily tell you you're fine and to quit worrying." Needless to say, I couldn't convince myself that was likely.

Finally, Friday arrived. The funny thing was I don't think anyone else was aware that I had the slightest concern on my mind. In fact, when I told my secretary I was going to leave early on Friday, she seemed pleased. "Oh, good," she said, "I'm glad you're going to take some time for yourself. I hope you do something fun."

When she said that, I almost broke down and told her what was going on, but I stopped myself. I knew that would just be a spineless attempt to gain a little sympathy. "Thanks, Karen," I said. "I hope you have a great weekend too."

Sometimes a doctor's appointment late in the day can be a disaster because earlier patients get backed up and everyone runs late. But I guess the fates were with me that day because the nurse called my name within minutes of my scheduled appointment time.

As I waited in the examining room, I used the time to look at the diplomas hanging on the wall. Dr. Raghuram Bannerjee had gotten his M.D. from Stanford and done his residency at Johns Hopkins. I was impressed: the guy must know his stuff.

I mentally pictured the good doctor as short, old and balding, so I was startled when a young-looking six-foot-plus Indian with a full head of hair opened the door and introduced himself. I couldn't help looking down at his hands: they were proportionate to the rest of his body. "Oh, crap!" I thought.

"Well, Mr. Harrison, let's have a look at you. Please release your trousers and bend over."

"No small talk from him," I thought wryly as I assumed the position.

"Oh, my lord!" I flinched as Dr. Bannerjee examined me. The examination went deeper and lasted longer than anything I'd ever had before. "I owe Dr. Garfinkle an apology," I thought. "Compared to this guy, Dr. Garfinkle is a pussycat!"

Finally, it was over, and the doctor turned to me as he pulled the glove off his right hand. "Your prostate is definitely enlarged," he said. "I didn't feel any lumps or other abnormalities, but that isn't definitive."

By then I had pulled my shorts and pants back up, and he motioned me to have a seat in the side chair. I sat gingerly. "The only way we can know what's really going on with you is to do a biopsy." When he said that, I slumped a little in the chair.

"What does that entail exactly?" I asked him fearfully.

"Very simply, we go into the prostate gland and take samples from several locations. A lab here in town will examine those samples carefully for any abnormal cells," he said matter-of-factly.

"And what if you find abnormal cells?" I managed to ask.

"Well, in a man your age, we'd want to remove the prostate surgically."

I must have turned pale because he leaned forward to reassure me. "Don't worry, it's not as bad as you've probably heard. We do the surgery with robots now, and it's neither complicated nor dangerous. Most patients go home the next day. Afterwards, most men recover normal function of their genitals in time. We're very good about avoiding damaging the nerves."

I realized I had begun to perspire, and I think he must have noticed.

"But let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We need to focus on the biopsy first; that will tell us whether or not we need to move to the next step."

"How long will I be in the hospital?" I asked.

"No, no," he laughed, "the biopsy is a simple out-patient procedure we do right in the office here. We'll put you to sleep briefly and in fifteen minutes you'll be on your way home. Of course, you won't be able to drive; you'll have to have someone with you."

"Oh, OK," I said. "So when are we going to do this?"

"I've already checked with the nurse: we have an opening next Friday morning. You'll need to come in an hour before hand so we can get you ready. Don't worry: before you leave the nurse will give you a sheet of instructions on what you'll need to do before the biopsy, as well as a prescription for an antibiotic. Just follow the instructions on the sheet precisely and get here on time next Friday."

With that he rose, shook my hand, and left. I went to the nurse's station and got my prescription, my appointment and my instruction sheet.

As I walked to my car, I could see that the afternoon rush hour was just starting. For some reason that made me think about what Karen had said to me as I left the office earlier. "Oh, yes," I thought, "I have something fun to do."

As I drove home, I felt strangely isolated from the world around me. I could see other drivers in their cars, people in shops and restaurants, and lights in the windows of the homes I passed. Everyone seemed to be living in a normal, routine world except me. I had been catapulted into a strange twilight status where I might cease to exist in the near future.

"Stop it!" I yelled to myself. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You don't know what the test will show. Even if it's cancer, lots of men have surgery and go on to live long, normal lives." I told myself I wasn't even going to think about it that weekend. I was going to follow my normal routine, and I was not going to let this development change that.

To all outward appearances, I did exactly that. On Saturday I went to the golf course as usual and met some pleasant fellows to make up a foursome. I didn't impress them with my game, but the weather and the scenery were pleasant. That evening I treated myself to a nice dinner out. It was good to be in the company of my fellow men and women and to hear the chatter of their voices. Besides, I had eaten all the leftovers in my house.

Going to church on Sunday seemed to hold an elevated significance to me. As I sat in the pew during the homily, I felt my thoughts begin to drift and immediately recognized the direction in which they were heading. "No," I told myself savagely, "I will not try to bargain with God for my life. I will not ask for special favors or miracle cures. How pathetic, how trite to become devout only when your life is threatened! I won't do that."

After lunch, I sat down in front of the tv and, out of habit, turned on the NFL game. To my amazement, the back-up quarterback who had haplessly led our team to defeat last week miraculously acquired some new skills that enabled him to eke out a win this week. That seemed like a good omen and raised my spirits for a while.

But as evening came on, I knew I had procrastinated long enough, so I pulled out the instruction sheet for my biopsy. Most of the directions seemed pretty straightforward, and I made myself a list of things to do on Monday. But then I came to a bullet item that had been underlined on the sheet: "You must have someone accompany you to the biopsy. Under no circumstances will you be allowed to drive yourself. If you come unaccompanied, you will be sent home."

I tried to make a joke out of it. "Sounds like an easy way to get out of having the procedure," I thought. But my smirking was hollow: if I did have cancer, I wanted to know about it sooner rather than later. I'd heard about men who refused to go to a doctor until the tumor was inoperable. I might be scared, but I wasn't going to be stupid.

But that left me with a problem: who could I get to accompany me during the procedure? I didn't have any family in the area. I could hardly ask my brother to fly in from Portland. He had a young daughter and his wife was expecting their second child soon.

A wave of resentment passed over me. If I had still been married to Marsha, there wouldn't even be a question.

I thought about asking one of my old golfing buddies, but the truth was I hadn't seen any of them in months. I'd feel pretty foolish calling one of them now. In reality, we hadn't been all that close to begin with; I never saw them outside of our Saturday outings.

There was someone else I could have called a year ago: Bill Matthews, my former best friend. Again the anger rose: he and Marsha had taken that option away as well.

Finally, I decided to ask Martin Sanderson, probably my best friend at work. We often had lunch together, and we had a lot in common. "Besides," I thought, "he won't blab it all over the office. That's something I could do without."

Once again I was the first one in on Monday. I was actually looking forward to working: I figured that if I could get caught up in my daily routine it would help keep me from obsessing about Friday.

When Karen arrived, she popped her head in my door. "Well, did you have a good weekend?"

"It was fine," I said, "nothing special."

She made a little pout of disappointment and then headed to her desk.

Later that morning, I dropped by my boss's office. "Joe, I wanted to let you know I need to take off this coming Friday."

"Sure," he said, "no problem. Hell, by the time Friday gets here, you'll probably have worked a full day's worth of overtime already," he said with a wink. "So, anything special in the works?"

He was a good guy, and I didn't want to mislead him. Besides, if things went south with this, he'd need to know.

"Actually, I'm going to have a little exploratory surgery. It's an outpatient thing -- no big deal -- but they told me I won't feel like working that day."

He leaned forward in his chair, concern creasing his face. "I hope it's nothing serious, Marshall."

"No, I don't think so. Just one of those things where it's better to be safe than sorry," I told him.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

I thought for a second about asking him about Friday, but immediately dismissed that notion. He had a function to run; he could hardly babysit one of his people all day. "No, I've got everything covered," I told him. "But thanks."

"Please keep me posted," he said as I left.

That afternoon, I went by Martin's office, but when I got there, he wasn't in. I asked his secretary when he'd be back; she told me he was traveling and wouldn't be in for the rest of the week.

Dammit, I was screwed. Who could I get now? For a moment I even thought about asking Karen, but I instantly realized what a bad idea that would be. She was my subordinate -- it would be unfair and inappropriate to impose on her like that. Besides, she had a family of her own to take care of.

I drove home that night in a quandary. I thought about Lydia, but just couldn't bring myself to call her. Only a week ago she'd made it very clear that we weren't going to have a relationship. If she didn't even want to go out to dinner with me, there was no way I was going to turn around and ask her for such a personal favor. Damn, damn, damn!

Finally, in desperation, I went to my address book to look up a phone number I hadn't called in a long time.

"Hi, Sis, it's Marshall Harrison. I know, it has been a long time. Listen, by any chance is Marsha there? Can I talk to her?"

There was a short wait, and then I heard that voice I knew so well. "Marshall, is it really you?"

I couldn't bring myself to make social pleasantries, so I forced out the words I so desperately did not want to say: "Marsha, I need your help."

She listened quietly as I explained what was going on and what I needed from her. She had several questions regarding what needed to happen when, and I thought she must be making notes to herself, but she didn't have much else to say. Finally, needing certainty, I asked, "So, do you think you could do that?"

"Of course, Marshall," she said quietly, "you can count on me."

Instantly, the thought shot through my mind that I had counted on her before only to be bitterly disappointed, but I kept that to myself. Instead, I merely said, "OK, then I guess I'll see you early Friday morning. Thank you, Marsha."

The "thank you" was especially hard for me. The last thing I wanted was to feel any sense of obligation or indebtedness to her. But at least I now had arrangements for Friday, and that was the important thing.

The next few days weren't pleasant. It was hard for me to concentrate on work, and every time someone made a reference to a deadline or event in the future, I found myself wondering whether I would still be involved.

On Thursday I had to let Karen know I wouldn't be in the next day. I told her I had a minor medical procedure scheduled, and I could tell that she was concerned. When I didn't volunteer any more information, she was considerate enough not to ask, but when she was ready to leave for the day, she made a special point of coming into my office to wish me well. I assured her that I'd see her bright and early on Monday, and shooed her out. I didn't want to talk about it; nevertheless, I appreciated her concern. "It's nice to think somebody might miss me," I thought morbidly.

I didn't want to leave a mess in the kitchen on Friday, so I picked up some food for dinner. "My last supper," I thought mockingly, but then I grew angry with myself. "Stop being a baby, stop feeling sorry for yourself!"

After I'd eaten, I had just settled down in front of the television, hoping to distract myself, when the doorbell rang. When I opened the front door, there to my astonishment was Marsha, carrying an overnight bag. "What are you doing here?" I asked dumbly.

"We've got to get going early tomorrow, Marshall. I'm not going to take a risk of getting caught in traffic or having car trouble. I can stay in the guest room tonight, and then I'll be here and ready to go first thing in the morning."

As she spoke, I realized that she was right, but I could never have asked her to do that. "This is an even bigger imposition," I thought, "now I owe her even more." But there was no help for it, so I invited her in and took the bag from her.

"Have you had dinner?"

"Yes, I ate before I drove over here."

We settled down in the den, and I couldn't help noticing that we'd both chosen the same chairs where we used to sit. The tv was still on, but there was nothing of interest and the noise became distracting so I turned it off. "Listen," I said, "I'm not supposed to eat or drink anything after 10:00 tonight, so I thought I'd have a glass of wine now. Would you like one?"

She accepted, and after I'd poured two glasses, we sat there sipping the wine. Before the silence could become threatening, she began to ask me about what the doctors had told me. It seemed clear to me that she must have read up on my condition because she asked knowledgeable questions and used the correct terminology. To my surprise, I found it somehow helpful to be able to talk about the situation. I didn't have anything I needed to hide from her, and I wasn't concerned about her opinion of me, so I found myself opening up.

From there, we went on to a more general conversation. She casually mentioned that she hadn't resumed dating either, which surprised me. Even though she was dressed in normal work attire, I could clearly see she'd have no trouble attracting male attention any time she wanted it. I decided not to mention my encounter with Lydia; that would have brought up the one subject neither of us wanted to broach. But there were other subjects we could safely discuss, and when we both paused for a moment, I was amazed to realize that it was already time for bed. That was a pleasant surprise: I'd gotten through the eve of my procedure without obsessing about it.

I took Marsha's bag up to the guest room for her, and then went to the master bedroom to get ready for bed. But once the lights were out and I was under the covers, all the doubts and fears came back with a vengeance. I desperately wanted to fall asleep, but instead I found myself tossing and turning.

As I lay there, I thought I heard a noise in the hallway. Sure enough, the door to the bedroom slowly swung open, and I saw Marsha backlit against the light. She was wearing her pajamas, and as she neared the bed, I could see tears running down her face. Hesitantly, she clambered up on the bed, threw her arm over my chest and buried her face in my shoulder. "I'm afraid, Marshall," she said tearfully.

I was touched at her reaction; I never would have expected that. But her confession caused me to let down my guard. "I'm scared too," I admitted.

When the alarm woke me the next morning, I was alone. I made my preparations and came down the stairs. Marsha was already up and dressed. "Sorry, no breakfast today," she said. I gave a mock groan.

We drove to the urologist's office in silence; neither one of us could think of anything to say. Once I'd checked in, we sat side by side in the waiting room until they called my name. She clasped my hand briefly and said, "I'll be here when you're finished."

Actually, the procedure wasn't so bad. I'd been dreading it for a week and now that it was finally happening, it was almost a relief. The anesthetist slipped a needle into my arm just like he was drawing blood, then injected a clear liquid into the attached tube. "Count backwards from 10," he instructed, and I made it to 6 before losing consciousness.

I couldn't have told you how long I was out, but the nurse assured me it had only been about 10 minutes. My head wasn't spinning when she had me sit up, but I felt groggy and somehow isolated from the rest of the world. After I got dressed, she led me out to the waiting room door where Marsha was standing. The nurse gave Marsha a sheet of instructions and then, after looking carefully in my eyes, turned me over to Marsha. She gripped my arm tightly and slowly walked me to her car.

It was a good thing Marsha was there: there was no way I could have driven home. First, I continued to feel dazed and detached; then I began to shiver uncontrollably. I don't know if that was an after-effect of the anesthesia or relief that the procedure was over, but either way I felt helpless.

When we got home, Marsha led me into the den, made me lie down on the couch and covered me with a blanket. In seconds I was asleep again.