Near the reception is a table spread with hats. A framed placard announces that every patient is entitled to a free hat, handmade by volunteers and available in two equally ugly styles: stocking caps knit in rainbow variegated acrylic, or the cotton calico （cats and florals and Lobos are popular prints）， reminiscent of the floppy bonnets Yolanda’s grandmothers and great-grandmothers used to wear when working in the gardens so that their skin wouldn’t darken. It seems that dying people are expected to relinquish any sense of style along with their plans for the future.
Yolanda’s new oncologist is Dr. Konecky, a tall woman in her thirties with very fine hair held back with a too-large purple velvet scrunchie, a girlish, outmoded choice of accessory that irritates Yolanda. Dr. Konecky confirms the diagnosis of the shellacked Dr. Mitchell.
Many of the neurological tests are the same that Amadeo endured in the drunk tank and later railed against: walking a line, touching finger to nose. “They think I’m a fucking idiot?” he demanded.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Dr. Konecky asks, and Yolanda says with relief, “Four.”
“Good,” says Dr. Konecky.
As a rule, tall people make Yolanda nervous, looming above her, but it isn’t just the lanky, stooped height or the scrunchie that seems off about this oncologist. After she takes her seat behind the desk, Dr. Konecky gazes at Yolanda with pale lashless eyes. Yolanda keeps looking at those eyes and then having to look away as Dr. Konecky reviews with her the results of the scans and the blood tests. That blue—clear and nearly dead. Yolanda’s own eyes water, and she grips the strap of her purse.
This new MRI—performed a mere seven weeks after her first—shows not one but two tumors. The almond, now a Brazil nut, has been joined by a marble. The marble presses on the occipital lobe, which explains the results of the vision exam, results that Yolanda, strangely, hasn’t noticed: the entire right field of her vision has vanished. This may be playing a role in her loss of coordination. She has begun to list, and she steps heavily with her right foot, like a green sailor on a rough sea.
“As you can see,” Dr. Konecky says, sliding over both the new image and the Las Vegas image, which Dr. Mitchell had sent, “the first mass has grown significantly, and another has established itself. I wish you’d come right in. We need to get you started on radiation to try to arrest the growth.” Arrest: Yolanda pictures the biggest tumor being handcuffed and read its Miranda rights. The lump takes on the image of her son. “Radiation won’t eradicate the tumors, but if we’re lucky it will slow the growth. Surgery is the best option. Either way, we’re looking at a matter of months, not years.” The doctor clears her throat and seems to labor to make her voice soothing. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” says Yolanda, then wonders where this sangfroid came from. “It’s what I expected. I mean, it’s what I knew.” She realizes that she was hoping for a do-over, that maybe this second death sentence would be accompanied by plaintive strains of music that could, if not make the situation okay, at least make it lovely.
Dr. Konecky looks relieved: evidently not everyone takes the news so well. She puts her fist to her mouth and burps quietly into it. “Excuse me.” She taps her narrow breastbone, and Yolanda imagines her eating her lunch at this desk an hour ago—something vegetarian, surely—flipping through Yolanda’s file, thinking what a drag it is that once again she’ll have to spend her Friday afternoon in the role of the Grim Reaper.
“I don’t want surgery. Not if there’s no chance. Not if I’m going to die anyway.”
Dr. Konecky shakes her head, back and forth, back and forth, and keeps shaking as she speaks. “I do not recommend forgoing surgery. It will buy you time.”
“No,” says Yolanda with a certainty she didn’t know she felt. Surgery would mean telling her family, would mean the whole business of dying had begun.
Dr. Konecky asks if she’d like to speak with a counselor. “Some people find it useful to process the information with someone trained in these things. I’ll page someone.”