“I’ve been fine,” I tell her. “Now, have you noticed any side effects from the chemo?”
“A bit of nausea,” she says, “I haven’t thrown up or anything, but I think that’s mostly to do with the weed.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “What about any other symptoms?”
“I have been getting headaches,” she says. “They’ve been pretty minor, I guess, but they feel different than they normally do.”
“How so?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Usually, I get headaches at the base of my skull in the back, but this, it feels like it’s more internal, if that makes any sense.”
“All right,” I tell her. “It’s probably nothing to worry about, but I’d like to get you in for an MRI today just to be sure.”
“Yeah,” she says, “about that. I was thinking that maybe you and I shouldn’t do this whole doctor/patient thing anymore.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
I was actually considering saying something along the same lines, but hearing it from her still catches me off guard.
“Well,” she says, “I know you must think I’m crazy or that the brain tumor’s got me acting all weird or whatever, but I think, if I had to choose, that I’d prefer us to be able to talk like real people, normal people. I don’t know that I want you to be my doctor anymore.”
“That’s certainly your choice,” I answer hesitantly, “but there’s not a problem on my end.”
“Yeah, there is,” she says, and even without continuing, I know she’s got a point.
“What do you suggest, then?” I ask.
“I like talking to you,” she says. “I don’t know why, you’re a bit timid for my taste, but I think you and I have a good rapport, you know, when we’re not discussing stuff growing in my head.”
“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” I tell her.
“Why not? You said yourself that as my doctor, it’s inappropriate for you to see me socially. If you’re not my doctor, then what’s the problem?”
“It’s a problem,” I tell her.
“Well, then,” she says, getting up from her chair. “If you’ll give me this month’s dose of chemical warfare and maybe the name of a competent oncologist, I’ll be on my way.”
“I really would like to get you in for an MRI,” I tell her. “There are good changes and bad changes. Sometimes the good changes don’t feel good, sometimes the bad ones do. Regardless, anything out of the ordinary, especially when it comes to something like headaches, can be a sign that something’s not right.”
She sits back down. “You really do know how to kill the mood,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer. “So, let me call down and I’ll see if I can get you right in. We should be able to fit you in sometime in the next few hours or so.”
“In that case,” she says, “why don’t you give me my prescription and I’ll just head downstairs and pop my first death pill of the month? That way I can be nice and miserable for the brain scan?”
“I want to be your doctor, Grace,” I tell her, and even I’m surprised at my candor as I continue. “You’re a pain in the ass, and I’m not entirely sure you don’t have some kind of personality disorder, but I think maybe you and I can help each other.”
She smirks at me, and I make a mental note to be less insulting the next time I’m trying to convince someone of something.
“I’m actually rather delightful when you get to know me,” she says. “But what is this about us being able to help each other? What do you get out of this?”
“It’s my job,” I tell her. “Whether you think it’s trite or not, I really do enjoy helping people, and I’d like to continue to help you in whatever way I can.”
“Great,” she says, “in that case, I’ll stick around to have my cells bombarded with a giant magnet while I wait for the chemo to make me feel like I’m dying in the process.”
“What are you getting out of this?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”