“—it’s what you want?”
“Huh?” Donald’s voice shook her out of her thoughts. She realized she had already set the table. “I’m sorry, hon, I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, are you sure this is what you want?” Donald was leaning against the kitchen counter, his tie loosened around his collar, regarding her with those soft blue eyes. He had a neatly trimmed beard and his wavy hair was cut short and thinning a little along the top. He also kept himself in relatively good shape, too; they both did. Of course, Michelle thought she could lose thirty pounds, but Donald thought her weight was fine. Besides, as he jokingly told her whenever she complained about her figure to him, he liked her just the way she was, which just made her love him more even if she knew he probably silently agreed with her that she could lose weight.
“I do,” Michelle said. “It’s pretty much everything I’ve been looking for in a job.”
“Is it just computer graphics?”
“It’s that, along with some technical writing, designing and laying out technical documentation for both online and print publications, and creating financial reports.”
“So it’s pretty close then,” Donald said. Michelle knew what he was getting at now. Another reason she loved him fiercely. Donald was her biggest supporter when it came to encouraging her to leave the corporate world and strike out on her own with her computer graphics, at least on a part-time basis. She could then devote the rest of her time to her art. He brought the subject up every time they talked about their jobs. Correction: every time Michelle complained about hers. “You wouldn’t be bitching like this if you were doing what you really love to do for a living,” he’d told her one evening after a particularly bad day at one of her consulting jobs. “Granted, even I have bad days sometimes, but not to the extent that you do. If you were making your living with your art, the occasional headaches that arise would not be as big a deal.” She knew what he was talking about and wished she could be brave enough again to go out on a limb to try carving a niche for herself in her chosen vocation, but she did have to pay the bills.
“Pretty close,” she said, smiling. “Close enough that the Crystal Report stuff will be only a minor annoyance. I’m hoping to use the technical writing and design portions of the job to bolster my resume, maybe use them as a springboard to start my own business.”
Donald smiled back. “That’s what I like hearing!”
“I don’t know how it will help me in getting back into art again,” Michelle said.
“You could design CD covers, create advertising for magazines, write press-releases. The possibilities are endless.”
“Yeah, but — “
“Do enough work locally and let people know about your background, it might be enough to get you a couple of jobs,” Donald continued. “You know… some work for a cartoon or a commercial, maybe getting into teaching.”
Michelle laughed. “I need a degree for that!”
“Did you need a degree to produce commercial art for the Wynn Agency?”
“No, but—” Ten years ago, Michelle had become a client of the Wynn Agency, which represented commercial artists of all kinds—photographers, painters, graphic artists. One of their clients saw her portfolio and commissioned her for a series of portraits that now hung in all their corporate buildings around the world. It had been a good paying gig.
“There you go. Excuses, excuses. No buts, Michelle. You set up too many roadblocks for yourself without even trying things. If you put as much effort at directing your energy towards the things you really like to do, that you know you’re good at, instead of working at all these god-awful corporate financial firms, you’d be —”
Michelle felt herself growing a little angry with Donald and tried not to let it show. He was right of course, but he also knew she had no choice in the matter. She had to make a living, dammit! And making forty dollars an hour as a Business Intelligence Analyst paid the bills far better than an art teacher pulling in fifteen dollars an hour at some community center teaching retirees how to use watercolors. “I know, I know,” she said, heading to the refrigerator to finish getting the table set for dinner. “Swim with sharks long enough, you become one.”
Donald stepped up to her and put his arms around her mid-section. “Hey, I’m sorry, honey.” He kissed the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean to push you that hard. I know you hate working in the whole corporate environment thing, and I know you don’t need me to be constantly reminding you that your talents will be better used elsewhere.”
Michelle sighed. How many times have they—had she—gone through this? She knew he was right; knew that the corporate world was unsuited for her, but it was all she knew. Donald was smart enough to recognize it, and he cared enough to encourage and support her through his little pep talks. She also knew that if they were in the right financial situation she’d be able to leave the corporate world and pursue her avocation—art. She turned around and hugged him. “Thanks,” she said. She kissed his cheek. “I know you’re just looking out for me.”
“So stop it!” He finished for her. They laughed.
Donald helped her finish with the table setting, and when she began dishing out the casserole he joined her at the table. “I guess I wouldn’t have been so gung-ho about this if it hadn’t been what I went through today,” he said.
“Oh?” The change in direction of the conversation startled her. They’d started talking about what they were going to do this weekend and Michelle had completely forgotten Donald’s foray into pushing her to leave the corporate world. “Why’s that?”
“I met with Red Rose today,” Donald said. They were eating supper, the night outside was chilly and Michelle heard the heater kick on. “Remember that patient I told you about a few days ago who I diagnosed with testicular cancer?”
Michelle nodded.
“His blood tests came back showing that cancer was a possibility,” Donald said. “I started getting the ball rolling, contacted a Urologist I know at Lancaster Urological who specializes in this sort of thing, and started getting the paperwork going. Then this morning Red Rose informs us they want more tests because they want to rule out testicular cancer.”
“Rule it out?”
“Yeah.” Donald paused between forkfuls of food. “Bastards would rather pay smaller lab fees to run multiple tests rather than the surgical and biopsy fees that will not only make the diagnosis, but will determine the type of cancer. And in the meantime, letting Michael wait for surgery is just prolonging things.”
“It’ll spread, right?” Michelle asked. She’d listened to enough of Donald’s stories about Red Rose Medical Insurance to know they were run by the most incompetent morons in the universe.
“Sure. Let testicular cancer go long enough and even a seminoma type will spread through the lymph nodes and affect other parts of the body. Lymphoma could develop, certain lung and bone cancers. That’s what’ll eventually kill a patient.”
“And their rationale for wanting more tests is?” Michelle already knew the answer to this, but for some reason she had to hear it in order to grasp the absurdity of it.
“You and I both know that,” Donald said, continuing his supper. “They just don’t want to pay for the surgery. If we go ahead with the surgery anyway, they’ll deny the claim. But if they get Michael to jump through all their hoops in the name of their excuse for ‘determining the best level of care for their member’”, he emphasized the quotations with his fingers, “then they’ll eventually come around. In the meantime we’ll have wasted a few weeks, even a few months, and Michael’s condition could very well get worse.”