Prognosis

This story is about a cancer patient who is planning his funeral.

Prognosis 

       by Jonathan Shiller

Dr. Ruben took one look at my sunken face and said, “You need a break. Take a week off and get your strength back.” Months of chemo had worn me down, so I took his advice and slept in until 11 before heading to my appointment. I arrived early and sat in the plush reception area waiting for my name to be called. It looked and felt like any upscale Manhattan dentist or dermatologist’s office, beige leather seating and subdued, abstract paintings hanging on the walls, the clicking sound of a laptop and the muffled ringing of a phone creating a serene, hushed atmosphere. A few women, heads covered in handkerchiefs or tilted wigs, sat next to a partner or family member, each sinking into a leather chair, silently scrolling through their phones. I got a bit of a chill and slid my cheap puffer jacket over my shoulders, not sure if I was actually cold from yesterday’s treatment or if I simply had an eerie feeling about today’s appointment at the West Village Funeral Home.

 I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was transported back in time 20 years to 2003. I’m sprawled out on my second-hand Crate and Barrel couch watching an episode of Six Feet Under, my favorite show of the moment. It often began with a despondent widow or mother seated across from the sons of the late funeral director. They showed concern and unwavering patience as she arranged her husband’s or child’s funeral. I hung onto every word of one of the sons, David, the tormented gay character whose turmoil was so relevant to my life in those days. One episode in particular stood out for me. I remember the character Amanda Previn who died after choking on a piece of Lean Cuisine chicken and, with no family or friends to miss her, was undiscovered for a week until her gray corpse began to emit a horrific odor. She didn’t get to leave this life on her own terms.

I, on the other hand, had been given the gift of borrowed time. Here I was, snuggled under my thick coat, waiting for my arrangement conference, ready to plan how I would be laid to rest. It seemed like an eternity since that day when I sat in a gorgeous burgundy leather chair across from Dr. Ruben who looked at me solemnly, hunched over his large wood desk with tanned, creased hands folded on his desk blotter. He gave me the news that would make my life screech to a halt. It felt so unreal. From a routine blood test to being given a specific number of months left to live. More tests to confirm this, but unlikely that I would survive much longer.

The sound of a throat clearing shook me from my dreamy state. I slipped my phone from my pocket and read through unanswered texts. My sister, my mom, my ex, Martin, a request to select “C” to confirm my appointment with the pain specialist. For months, even when I felt like I had already been buried and then exhumed or when I felt good enough to push through that groggy, hangover feeling, I kept everyone in my life updated on my situation. I called them back, responded to texts, even sent memes to let others know I had not lost my sense of humor. But no one knew where I was on this chilly March afternoon so hopefully they wouldn’t worry about my delayed responses. Some things you just need to handle on your own.

  “Bryce Larson? Greg is ready for you.” 

I stood slowly and tried my best to casually approach the very polished woman seated at the front desk, her hair tied back in a tight bun. She told me to head through the door to the left and Greg’s office was the second on the right. I felt like I was going to see a financial advisor, not pick out a box for my remains. 

His name was Greg Torino and his office was large with a sofa on one end, fluffed up with a series of multi-colored throw pillows, and a large desk with neat but tall piles of manilla folders filled with personalized requests for how funerals would be handled as if people were simply planning one of many vacations. 

He asked me to sit on the couch, and he sat on the other end, legs crossed, keeping his distance. 

“So Bryce, tell me a bit about yourself and your situation.”

At first, I struggled to get the words out. I just stared at Greg’s crisp charcoal gray suit and hair combed into a perfect side part. I crossed my arms and rubbed my hands up and down the upper arms of  my too casual wool sweater. Here I was, a 45-year-old man, wearing a Gap sweater and baggy jeans. I knew I might die soon, but should I have dressed for the occasion?

“Well, Bryce. You are very brave for going through this.”

“Do I have a choice?” I sniffed, remembering how congested I had been recently. 

“Ok well you’re here and you’re facing this. Let’s go through a series of questions and I will take some notes. First, how are you feeling?”

That’s when it all poured out of me. The 18 months of treatments. The pain. The smell. That smell inside my nose, the taste in the back of my throat, an incessant reminder of the chemo even when I am feeling more like my energized self. The numbness in my fingers, the chemo brain when I couldn’t remember if I paid the rent on my small studio apartment. The soreness where the port sits inside my chest, like a little hourglass holding my remaining time inside. 

I was wailing, sucking in air, saliva dripping down onto my jeans and the microfiber sofa cushion, Greg jumped up to grab a box of tissues and handed me a huge stack. I tried to dab at all the stickiness and then ended up simply rubbing the remnants into my sweatshirt and pants like a child whose parents would throw the clothes in the wash later. Then I put a wad of tissues between my legs to sop up the moist spot that had formed on this lovely couch. 

We talked. For what seemed like hours. It never felt like this was simply another one of Greg’s appointments. He put me at ease, and as I spoke and answered his questions, he intermittently tipped his head in one direction, pursing his lips and nodding in what felt like genuine concern. I decided to be buried in a traditional way, following my Jewish heritage, so no cremation. Greg laughed when I said,”It’s just a rental, you know?” And it would be a simple service led by an available cantor or rabbi from the LGBTQ Synagogue, preferably someone who knew me from high-holiday services. 

We sat quietly for a few moments, just looking at each other. This conversation made me feel like I had let all the air out of the balloon of tension that up until now had filled my entire body. My shoulders relaxed, and I squished myself into the comfiness of the couch. 

Then Greg asked, “Do you ever ask yourself, am I too good looking to die?”

We both busted out laughing. From hysterical weeping to light-hearted belly laughing in the span of 90 minutes. And that smile. Greg was growing on me. But of course. Nothing could come of it. I was like a box of cereal left in the cabinet too long. Stale, dry, and approaching my expiration date.

“Listen, my next appointment isn’t for another hour, so why don’t we run out and grab a coffee and we can come back and chat some more?”

“Well, run is kind of presumptuous, Greg,” I said.

“I see, Bryce. Yes, I should have said stroll. We will stroll,” Greg said, rolling his eyes.

I laughed and walked slowly out of the office with Greg right behind me.

The Think Coffee was only a few blocks away. It wasn’t until we were moving down the sidewalk that I realized just how tall Greg was. Definitely over six feet. Definitely at least five inches taller than me. I felt like his awkward little brother standing next to him. He could easily pat me on the head if I made another sarcastic comment.

I looked up at Greg.”So how is the air up there?

“Is that the best you can do? I thought you were wittier.”

“Well Greg it comes and goes, like my energy levels. I have been feeling a little run down lately, and now I am on a break between treatments, so hopefully I will regain some of the pep in my step.”

“Understood,” Greg replied, a little sideways smirk as he looked over at me with his twinkling blues. 

We stood across from the barista. There was a pause and silence between the three of us. The momentary surprise and recognition when you see someone you haven’t seen in ages.

“Bryce, oh my god. You look..,” said Martin, a look of pity in his eyes. 

I grimaced and shook my head. “I know. I know. Cancer is not good for an already pasty boy with the inability to grow facial hair.”

“You haven’t responded to my messages. I was going to come by….” 

“Thank you…at least I know my cat won’t eat my face if I trip and fall and die in my apartment.”

Martin chuckled nervously, but Greg just stared at me, his eyes almost doubling in size. 

“Is this your new…,” Martin started to say before Greg interrupted him.

Greg lifted his right palm, in an unmoving wave hello. “Hi, I am Greg. We are just having a casual coffee as we work on Bryce’s final wishes.”

Martin just stared back at us, unable to speak, sweat appearing on his forehead. He then simply said,”OK, what can I get you guys?”

As he handed us our drinks one of them slipped from Martin’s grip, spilling all over the counter, dripping to the floor. Martin just stood there in disbelief and then burst into tears. “I’m so sorry Bryce. For everything.”

Greg, a man who was particularly skilled at cleaning up messes, quickly grabbed a massive stack of napkins and began wiping the counter and the short half wall below the register. My hero in this moment. 

 When all was clean and Martin composed himself, we said our goodbyes, and I walked happily next to Greg as we made our way back to the funeral home. Greg looked down at me and asked,”So, is that Mr. Right?”

“Yes, Greg, the man of my dreams. But we broke up when he found out I was marrying him for his money.”

“Wow, Bryce, now I can see how you survived this ordeal. Sense of humor is everything.” Greg 

grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. For the first time in almost a year, I felt that electric charge that I thought I could never summon again. 

 We walked through the reception area and Greg, both coffees still in his hand, offered to go grab 

some sugar packets.

I agreed and Greg left me to wait in his office. I just stared around the room and let my thoughts drift, resisting the temptation to pore through all those manilla folders. 

Greg returned quickly and handed me my cappuccino. I took the cup, and we resumed our positions on the sofa.  

“Tell me more about Martin. The real story,” said Greg with a genuine curiosity in his voice. 

“Before I tell you about Martin, I want to just be really honest with you right now. I don’t know where you came from or how you ended up handling my consultation today, but there is a real spark here. And I am feeling good today, but who knows how long this will last. Are you sure you want to keep flirting with me?

“Listen Bryce, in my line of work, you learn to appreciate every day as if it was your last. I am healthy and 51, but who knows how much longer I have myself? I am enjoying your company. Can’t we just stay in the moment?”

“I mean I am not really an in the moment kinda guy. But I can try to be more spontaneous if that’s what you’re saying. Even though it makes me nervous like a closeted teenager.”

I paused and leaned back against one of the stiff pillows, and I tipped the cup to my mouth, taking that first glorious sip of the cappuccino. I noticed something written in black Sharpie on the cardboard sleeve:

646-567-4901

Greg smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Just in case of emergency.”