Lana spent the evening in the hospital bed inking up development plans. When the nurses came to check on her, she smiled so she’d get better service, but she didn’t chitchat. They sampled and poked her while Lana worked. She didn’t tell any of her associates where she was. There was no reason for them to know.
The next day broke sour. Lana woke early, impatient, with a fog in her head and a rash on her neck from the cardboard hospital pillows. At 7:30 a.m., she rang the nurse and badgered her into getting someone more important. The doctor who showed up was tall and willowy and entirely unhelpful. The tests weren’t completed yet. No, Lana couldn’t leave and get the results later. No, they didn’t have laptops for patients’ use. Yes, she would just have to wait.
Lana counted the water stains on the ceiling and made lists of everything she’d have to do when she got to the office. She wanted a Diet Coke. She wanted her own bathroom. She wanted to get out of there.
After what felt like hours, a new doctor came in, a middle-aged man with unkempt hair and scuffed white sneakers. There was an angry squeak as he yanked a wobbly plastic cart clear of the hallway and into the room.
“Mrs. Rubicon?”
“Ms.” Lana was perched on a visitor’s chair in her blazer and pumps, tapping furiously on her phone. She didn’t look up.
“I have some images from the MRI and PET scans we conducted yesterday of your head and neck.”
“Can you just give me the highlights?” Lana gave him a brusque once-over, her fingers still moving across her phone. “I have somewhere I have to be. Had to be, three hours ago.”
“Ma’am, you’re going to want to see this.”
The doctor wheeled the portable computer terminal over to Lana’s chair. He clicked some windows into view. Then he angled the monitor and stepped aside.
It was strange to see her own head on someone else’s computer screen. The images were black and gray, with thin white lines delineating Lana’s skull and eye sockets and the top of her spinal cord. Lana rose to stand beside the doctor, getting as close to the screen as she could. He used the mouse to orient four different views into the four quadrants of the screen: from above, front, back, and in profile. Lana tried to follow his twisting motions, watching her gray blob of a brain rotate in the darkness, spinning in search of a solid foundation.
Once the doctor was satisfied, he hit a button. The gray blob went polychromatic. Clustered along the back of her skull were three bright smudges of orange with pink halos around them.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Those are the reason you’re here,” he said. “Have you been having headaches? Blurred vision? Any trouble finding words?”
A thin needle of fear pierced Lana’s confidence. But there was nothing wrong with her. Lana was the fittest, most active woman in her loose gaggle of friends. All single. All professional. All surviving dickwad ex-husbands with bank accounts and dignity intact. Lana was stiletto sharp. Lana was thriving.
At least, she had been until yesterday morning.
“Those bright blotches are tumors,” Dr. Scuffed Sneakers told her. “They’re causing swelling and inadequate blood flow to the part of your brain that controls your balance and large motor functions. That’s why you fell.”
“Tumors?”
He nodded. “They have to come out. As soon as possible.”
Lana lowered herself back into the stiff visitor’s chair. She lined up the points of her shoes and held herself taut, muscles vibrating.
“I have brain cancer?”
“Maybe. Hopefully.”
“Hopefully?” She fought to keep her voice from breaking.
“Sometimes, cancer originates elsewhere in your body and spreads to your brain. That would be worse, more advanced. We’ll biopsy the brain tumors once they’re removed to confirm the site of origin. And we’ll do a full body scan now to see if there are any more.”
She focused on his chapped lips, willing them to take back the words he’d just said. This couldn’t be happening. When Lana had breast cancer ten years ago, it wasn’t a big deal. Stage 0. Beth had come down for the initial surgery, but otherwise, she’d handled it on her own. After a few spins in the radiation chair and a reconstruction procedure she used to get a tad more lift, she was back to work.
Now this doctor was looking at her like she was an injured bird.
“Do you understand what I just said?”
“I’ve got to call my daughter,” she said.
Chapter Two