Four

FOUR

DESPITE THE USUAL HAMPTONS traffic heading east, Jimmy gets me to my doctor's appointment in Southampton with plenty of time to spare.

When we pull up to Dr. Samantha Wylie's office, I ask if he wants to come in with me, and hear whatever I'm about to hear, so later he can't accuse me of holding back.

"Gonna take a hard pass on that."

I'd asked knowing the answer. The only people in the world who scare Jimmy, truly, are doctors. He'd rather have somebody pull a gun on him. The only doctor he tolerates is my boyfriend, Dr. Ben Kalinsky.

And Ben's a veterinarian.

Sam Wylie isn't my oncologist. Just my internist. But so much more than that. She's been my friend since junior high school. I sit down across from her desk, where she's been reviewing my latest test results.

I have stage 4 cancer. Neck and head. Mostly neck. You know how people talk about the Big C? Trust me when I tell you something:

There's no Little C.

When I visit Sam's office, I sometimes imagine her as a professor about to tell me I'm flunking my major, and the final is just around the corner.

I've just gone through my second round of chemo. Against all odds, I've still got my hair. And don't plan to give it up without a fight.

I'm not giving up without a fight, period.

"Good news first, or bad?" Sam says.

"Surprise me."

"The good news is that your numbers haven't gotten any worse."

I go blood test to blood test. All cancer patients know the drill, labeled day-to-day like some injured athlete. It doesn't feel like living.

"Wait for it," I say.

"The bad news, unfortunately, is that they haven't improved to the extent that I'd hoped they would after two rounds of chemo. Or might."

Sometimes I feel as if the last really good news I received is when the jury foreman in Rob Jacobson's trial said, "Not guilty."

"So what do we do?"

"We keep doing what we're doing," she says. "At least we've slowed its progress, which ain't nothing, pal."

"You've talked about this with Dr. Gellis."

Who is my oncologist.

"I have started to feel, since the patient is my friend Jane Smith, that I talk to Mike Gellis more than I talk to my husband these days."

She then patiently explains to me, not for the first time, the confidence she has in Gellis. She hasn't changed very much since we went to school together and she was the smartest girl in our class. Even smarter than me. Not that I was going to admit that to her, then or now or ever.

"We both know what great physical condition you were in before this," she says, "when you were still training for those no-snow biathlons. And you're still young."

"Define young."

I thought that might get a smile out of her. It doesn't. Tough room.

"I'm not even classifying today's numbers as a setback," she says. "Just part of the process."

I smile at her now.

"You're one of the best friends I've ever had," I say. "So please don't bullshit me. Remember, we've got a deal about you not bullshitting me. So promise me again that you won't."

Her voice is suddenly small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.

"I promise," she says.

Then, just like that, she starts to cry.

Really cry. Chest heaving. Sobbing-type crying. Trying to get air into her and failing. Losing it.

Maybe I'm too stubborn, even now, to break down in front of her. There have been times, plenty of times, when I've lost it in the privacy of my own home. Or with Dr. Ben. Or on a beach walk with my dog, Rip.

Just never in front of her.

Before I know it, she's come around the desk and the two of us are standing in the middle of her office, arms around each other, her tears finally beginning to subside. She's the doctor. She's the one giving me what passes for good news these days. Only now I feel like I'm the one consoling her.

When we both step back and out of the hug, Sam Wylie's face is a mess for what I think is the first time in all of recorded history. She does manage to smile now, embarrassed.

"Sorry about that."

"Don't take this as a criticism," I tell her. "But you may think about doing some work on your bedside manner."

I get to the door, but then turn around.

"I don't want you to die," Dr. Sam Wylie says.

"Imagine how I feel."