patient, the gray lines under his strenuous blue eyes, the clefts about his mouth, the ashen color of his thin lips. “Well, we’ll soon see.”
Tests, tappings, soundings, breathings, bendings, listening. The hour was up, but the doctor had not finished. “I must go,” said Eugene impatiently.
“Yes,” said the doctor with grave thoughtfulness. “But just to be sure, I want you to see Dr. Hampshire in this same building. He’s the blood specialist, you know. I want to be absolutely sure.”
“Of what?”
“Of something I suspect. Of course I may be wrong. I hope I am. How long, by the way, has it been since you had that attack of tonsillitis?”
“Two months ago. How did you know I had that attack?” Eugene became alert.
The doctor said evasively, “And you had swellings under your jaw line, too?”
“Yes! What was it? Strep? I took some of the penicillin tablets you left for one of the kids. Look, do I have to go to this Dr. Hampshire?”
“Yes. Right now. You may call your office from here, if you wish, and tell them you’ve been delayed. And I’ll call Dr. Hampshire.”
“Can’t I make it next week, or after we come back from our cruise?”
The doctor did not say, “You’ll probably never come back from that cruise.” Instead he said, as if after giving the matter thought, “No, I’d feel better about it if you had the examination now. For Emily’s sake. She’s been worried about you for weeks.”
This was another surprise. So they were on a first-name basis, were they? And why had Emily been worried? Of course he had lost some weight, suddenly and very recently, and he had been feeling sudden exhaustions and palpitations, and there had been that day when he had vomited after breakfast and had thrown up some blood. Ulcers. Well, that was the badge of success, as they said.
“Ulcers?” he said to the doctor.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Never mind.” If he told about that blood there’d be more delays, and barium meals and X-rays; he knew all about it. Young Hartford had ulcers, and his descriptions had been graphic.
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life,” said Eugene as he dressed.
“Good,” said the doctor. He waited until he was certain that Eugene was on his way to see Dr. Hampshire, and then the young doctor called his older colleague. “Eugene Emory,” he said. “I’ve known him for years, but he hardly notices anybody. He’s tough. He can take it. Leukemia. But I’d like to make sure. Acute, I’m afraid.” He attempted to laugh, feebly. “Try to make it chronic, will you, Ed? Then perhaps we can prolong his life.”
The doctor thought about all the advances made in the treatment of leukemia. Sometimes life could be prolonged, even in such devastating acute cases. But it was a life under absolute sentence of death. Of course, thought the doctor, we all live under sentence of death, but so long as we aren’t aware of it all the time we can forget it. People with leukemia, though, can never forget it. Not even in fantasy.
Less than an hour later Eugene Emory returned. He sat at the young doctor’s desk, and there was death in his face. He said, “I don’t believe it.”
“You must, Eugene. If you have any affairs that need putting in order — you can’t evade the fact that you are going to die. And too soon, I’m afraid.”
Eugene said nothing. He lit a cigarette with pale thin fingers. He stared over the doctor’s head.
“We begin to die the moment we are conceived,” said the doctor. “Sooner or later, we die. I may die tonight, under the wheels of an automobile, or next year, of a coronary thrombosis, or tomorrow, falling down those damned steep steps at our club. Death is something we can’t escape. The only thing that’s wrong with it is that we don’t begin to tell our children about it in the very earliest childhood, so that they will live with
Tests, tappings, soundings, breathings, bendings, listening. The hour was up, but the doctor had not finished. “I must go,” said Eugene impatiently.
“Yes,” said the doctor with grave thoughtfulness. “But just to be sure, I want you to see Dr. Hampshire in this same building. He’s the blood specialist, you know. I want to be absolutely sure.”
“Of what?”
“Of something I suspect. Of course I may be wrong. I hope I am. How long, by the way, has it been since you had that attack of tonsillitis?”
“Two months ago. How did you know I had that attack?” Eugene became alert.
The doctor said evasively, “And you had swellings under your jaw line, too?”
“Yes! What was it? Strep? I took some of the penicillin tablets you left for one of the kids. Look, do I have to go to this Dr. Hampshire?”
“Yes. Right now. You may call your office from here, if you wish, and tell them you’ve been delayed. And I’ll call Dr. Hampshire.”
“Can’t I make it next week, or after we come back from our cruise?”
The doctor did not say, “You’ll probably never come back from that cruise.” Instead he said, as if after giving the matter thought, “No, I’d feel better about it if you had the examination now. For Emily’s sake. She’s been worried about you for weeks.”
This was another surprise. So they were on a first-name basis, were they? And why had Emily been worried? Of course he had lost some weight, suddenly and very recently, and he had been feeling sudden exhaustions and palpitations, and there had been that day when he had vomited after breakfast and had thrown up some blood. Ulcers. Well, that was the badge of success, as they said.
“Ulcers?” he said to the doctor.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Never mind.” If he told about that blood there’d be more delays, and barium meals and X-rays; he knew all about it. Young Hartford had ulcers, and his descriptions had been graphic.
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life,” said Eugene as he dressed.
“Good,” said the doctor. He waited until he was certain that Eugene was on his way to see Dr. Hampshire, and then the young doctor called his older colleague. “Eugene Emory,” he said. “I’ve known him for years, but he hardly notices anybody. He’s tough. He can take it. Leukemia. But I’d like to make sure. Acute, I’m afraid.” He attempted to laugh, feebly. “Try to make it chronic, will you, Ed? Then perhaps we can prolong his life.”
The doctor thought about all the advances made in the treatment of leukemia. Sometimes life could be prolonged, even in such devastating acute cases. But it was a life under absolute sentence of death. Of course, thought the doctor, we all live under sentence of death, but so long as we aren’t aware of it all the time we can forget it. People with leukemia, though, can never forget it. Not even in fantasy.
Less than an hour later Eugene Emory returned. He sat at the young doctor’s desk, and there was death in his face. He said, “I don’t believe it.”
“You must, Eugene. If you have any affairs that need putting in order — you can’t evade the fact that you are going to die. And too soon, I’m afraid.”
Eugene said nothing. He lit a cigarette with pale thin fingers. He stared over the doctor’s head.
“We begin to die the moment we are conceived,” said the doctor. “Sooner or later, we die. I may die tonight, under the wheels of an automobile, or next year, of a coronary thrombosis, or tomorrow, falling down those damned steep steps at our club. Death is something we can’t escape. The only thing that’s wrong with it is that we don’t begin to tell our children about it in the very earliest childhood, so that they will live with
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