Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(47)

O demonstrated how the rubber bands keep the cane from falling when propped against something: “A physical therapist taught me that!”

We bought three pounds of coffee—as well as a box of tea sacks, two tea bricks, which he’ll give as gifts to Jonathan and to Nick’s family, and some coffee-flavored candies—O is going to his nephew’s in D.C. for Christmas. It came to $125—not a small amount of money to spend in a coffee shop. O is not an extravagant man, by any means, except for on those rare instances when he is.

We said happy holidays and thank you to all the gentlemen at McNulty’s. We walked up Hudson, like other streets empty of people because of the bitter cold. O talked easily and nonstop, making his signature “pronouncements,” as I think of them. For instance: suddenly saying, “I find I am very interested in automatism.”

I elbowed him: “Only Oliver Sacks would say that!” He started laughing. “Well, why not? It’s very interesting. It’s the signal characteristic of homeostasis!”

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12-25-14:

Spoke to O, who is in D.C.—“Merry Christmas,” and so on—he sounded tired and said he was not feeling well. Back home tomorrow. Hope he’s okay. We leave for a trip in ten days.

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1-12-15:

Got back last night from St. Croix—a birthday trip. I turned fifty-four (equivalent to the atomic number for xenon, so O gave me four xenon flashlights). It was warm there, sunny, I did some scuba diving and we swam every day, which was nice, yet I’m relieved to be home. O did not feel well much of the time—nauseated, tired, slept a lot. We almost cancelled the trip last minute. Two nights before we left, he told me had “dark urine.” I was skeptical—he’s hypochondriacal even on good days, as he is the first to admit. But I could see he was worried, talked him into peeing into a clear glass so I could check, and was startled when he brought it into the kitchen; his urine was the color of Coca-Cola. It seemed to clear up some while we were in St. Croix. Even so, he had made a doctor’s appointment before leaving for the trip.

Later:

O just returned from his GP, who thinks he has some kind of gallbladder inflammation, maybe gallstones. Did an ultrasound, but they’re running more tests.

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1-15-15:

O’s doctor phoned: “peculiar findings,” re: CAT scan yesterday. So: Am taking him to see a radiologist at Sloan-Kettering. They want to see him this afternoon.





BUT …


Sloan-Kettering is a cancer hospital, but cancer had not entered my mind. I was still banking on the possibility of gallstones; I thought, at worst, Oliver might have to have his gallbladder removed. I remember the doctor entering the consulting room with a young medical fellow (he was from Italy, I think), and how nervous the young man looked. The doctor got right to it and told us that he had carefully reviewed the CAT scan and, although a confirmatory biopsy would have to be performed, he was ninety percent sure of the diagnosis and said he had some “tough” news. I remember that word, “tough.” He asked Oliver if he’d like to see the CAT scan. Oliver said yes, of course, and he flipped on the computer monitor. I got up and stood behind Oliver, who scooted his chair in close so he could see.

Later he told me that he knew instantly what the scan said. I did not, and I was stunned when the radiologist explained that what we were looking at was a recurrence of the uveal melanoma Oliver had had nine years earlier—a cancer arising from the pigment cells in his right eye; over time, it had metastasized to his liver, which was now “riddled like Swiss cheese” with tumors. He enlarged the image on the monitor, so the white spots—the tumors—looked as large as those made by a hole punch. In cases like this, with a possibility of the cancer spreading, and at Oliver’s age, the doctor said, neither a liver resection nor a liver transplant would be possible.

A liver transplant? I thought.

What has stuck with me so clearly is how calmly Oliver took this news. It was as if he was expecting it, as perhaps he was. He sort of tilted his head and stroked his beard and asked about the prognosis, and the doctor said, “Six to eighteen months.”

“And there’s no effective treatment?”

The doctor didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes. He explained what could be done, that everything possible would be done, an oncology team was already in place, he’d just gotten off the phone with a specialist, and so on, but Oliver cut him off. He said he was not interested in “prolonging life just for the sake of prolonging life.” Two of his brothers had died of cancer (different forms of cancer), and both had regretted undergoing horrid chemotherapy treatments that had done nothing but ruin their last months.

“I want to be able to write, think, read, swim, be with Billy, see friends, and maybe travel a bit, if possible.” Oliver added that he hoped not to be in “ghastly pain” or for his condition to become “humiliating,” and then he fell silent.

I looked over at the young fellow standing by the door; his brow was damp with sweat. My right hand reached for Oliver’s shoulder, my left hand to steady myself on his chair.

I’m sure we discussed details of the liver biopsy he would have at the hospital the following week. A nurse came in. We had to review some paperwork. But I don’t remember much else about the discussions that followed. Somehow I got us back down to the parking garage, and I drove us home. It was dark by then, and the traffic slow. Oliver made a few calls on the way, calmly relating the news to his close friend Orrin and to Kate. Only once did strong emotion come into his voice. To Kate, he said in no uncertain terms that he wanted his just-completed memoir to be published as soon as humanly possible; it had already been slated for the fall, nine months later, which he said “would be too late” for him to see. Kate said she would contact his publisher and his agent immediately. I remember holding Oliver’s hand when I could take mine from the wheel, and knowing, without saying so, that our life and his life and my life had all changed in ways I could and could not comprehend. I just drove.