June 3, 2015-- X-Ray

On our last day in New York, before heading to Maine, Rona needed a routine medical test. A scan.

The AC at the imaging center was not working and the waiting area was sweltering. While filling out the forms, Rona wondered if without air conditioning they would be able to run the equipment. "I think they generate a lot of heat so to use them they have to be in a cool environment. Since there's no emergency we can always get the scans done up in Maine."

"Let me ask," I said. "We're here and if possible let's get it over with. Let me find out what's going on."

I checked with a staff member and she indicated they were working on the problem and at most Rona would have to wait no more than 45 minutes.

"Drink lots of water," I said. "You need to keep hydrated."

"What's that ruckus," Rona said. "It sounds as if someone's having a fight."

From the reception area I heard a woman, clearly agitated, say loud enough for all to hear, "I don't know where he is. The traffic was abysmal. Three hours it took to get here from Atlantic City. An hour through the tunnel alone. I don't know why his doctor made us make the trip. We could have gotten his X-rays done in New Jersey. At the worst, in New Brunswick. Maybe an hour's drive. At Robert Wood Johnson. What's so unusual that they have to do? X-ray his thyroid, that's all. No big deal. And now I don't know where he is." She sounded desperate.

"OK, so he probably has cancer. It's still early they say. He's not dying. At least not yet. Though when I get my hands on him . . . " She trailed off.

"Should I see if I can help?" I asked.

"I'd stay out of it," Rona said, "Try to stay cool and see if anything more happens. They just sound stressed. That drive alone . . ."

"But didn't she say she doesn't know what happened to him? That she doesn't know where he is? I could maybe go look for him. My guess is he doesn't want to get the tests done and ran off. I know from not wanting to deal with medical issues. I almost died 15 years ago when I ignored all sorts of symptoms."

"Tell me about it," Rona said under her breath.

"I mean maybe I could talk with him about what I did and didn't do and how when I finally dealt with the problems I eventually got better."

"My advice. Sit here and drink your water. We have  a lot to do today and the next two days to get ready to head north."

"I'm losing my mind," the woman up front resumed, "I'm at the end of my rope. For all I know he's heading back to Jersey. He's that crazy. And," she added, "scared."

"I need to talk with her," I said, "I know it's not my business but it's reminding me of what I did and how I made you crazy. Maybe I can help."

"Whatever," Rona said.

The Jersey woman was soaking wet from the heat and anxiety. As I moved toward her she backed away, as if knowing my intentions and not wanting to have to handle another crazy person.

Softly I said, "Is there anything I can do to help?" She backed further away, almost to the entrance door. "I mean, I couldn't help but hear what you were saying. About your husband."

"Him," she spat.

"I don't know . . . but I . . . 15 years ago did . . . so I thought I might . . ."

"What are you talking about?" she exploded as if to transfer her frustration and anger to me.

"I just thought . . ."

"Thanks for your thoughts but, frankly, it's none of your business."

I backed up a step and was about to turn around when a man, it couldn't have been anyone but her husband, burst through the door. He was wearing shorts, flip flops, and a sleeveless tank top and was so soaking wet that sweat dripped on the carpet from all parts of his body. Almost immediately a puddle formed at his feet.

"So there you are, big shot," his wife said. "Did you have a nice walk? Did you get a cup of coffee? Maybe a hot dog? You haven't eaten in half an hour and I know you must be starving."

"Let's get out of here," he growled. "I've had it up to here." He lifted a hand six inches above his head. I could see his swollen thyroid. "Let's get the car out of the garage. I mean let's pay them the ransom they charge to park here in Manhattan. I don't know how anyone can afford to live in this place much less park their car. Sheet."

"You're either getting that X-ray or you're going home to Jersey yourself. I'm the one who's had it up to here." She too gestured to indicate how high up-to-here was for her.

"Do we need to talk about this in public?" He shot me a glance. "What I do, what you do, it's between us. Right? Private."

"Private," she sputtered. "The way you walk around, on the Upper Eastside looking like a clown. You call that private? You make such a spectacle of yourself that half the city's looking at you."

"Let's get the car, Marcy. By now they'll charge me 50 bucks to get it out of hock."

"I told you if you don't get the test you're on your own."

"I told you while we were lined up for an hour trying to get in the tunnel that I am not going to do that. I know I have a problem, but I want to handle it my way."

"Which is to ignore it and get into real trouble. Like dying trouble."

"If that's to be, that's to be. I want to live and, yes, die if it comes to that, my way."

"You've been listening to too much Frank Sinatra you guinea, you."

"Leave my heritage out of this," he said, straightening himself. I sensed a change in tenor.

"It's my heritage too so I can call you whatever the eff I want. But what I really want is for you to stop acting like a baby and let them do the friggen test."

"I know about that test and how the next thing they'll be doin' to me is cuttin' me open and then there'll be chemo and radiation and other shit and then before you know it I'll be bald as that guy over there," he nodded in my direction, "And after that it will be time to take me on a one-way ride to the cemetery."

"You know . . ." I tried to interject myself, "Like you . . . 15 years ago I . . ."

"Who is this creep?" he asked his wife, again meaning me. "You invited him to talk? Look old man, stay out of my business. Get my drift?"

"I only . . ."

"Whatever you're here for," he cut me off before I could say another word, "be a good boy and take your medicine or have your MRI. Or whatever. But in the meantime, as they say where I come from, take a powder."

I shuffled back to where Rona was waiting. She continued to sip her water. I shrugged. She had heard the entire encounter. "What did I tell you? That's none of your business and if anything you made matters worse."

"Actually, I thought I was being helpful."

"Really? Helpful? You almost got yourself killed."

"I think I got them to deflect some of their frustration and anger for each other onto me."

"Another crazy person."

Thankfully, the AC by then was working sufficiently to allow testing to begin. Rona was first and kissed me, breaking the tension, and said, "Wish me luck." I smiled, knowing she didn't need it for this.

Later that day, at dinner, after a couple of glasses of wine, I ventured, "You know that guy from this morning?"

"The one who threatened to kill you?"

"He was just scared. Which I can relate to. But I have a question that he brought to mind."

"It is?"

"Maybe he is onto something with his my-way approach to the business of getting older and developing serious medical conditions. Maybe backing off is not such a bad idea."

"Backing off? I'm not following you."

"Maybe just let things happen? I mean, for the simple stuff do what you can to deal with it; but for more serious things that sweep you into the medical world, which take over your life--I mean for those things that do that, that take you over and turn you into a perpetual patient--we know people like that who do nothing but go to doctors and have tests and then procedures and operations--to squeeze out a few more months or even a year or two, but a year or two in medical purgatory. Again, for the most serious conditions. Does that make sense?"

"You've had too much wine," Rona said, "and like you Atlantic City friend have been listening to too much Frank Sinatra."