Pat was standing behind Dr. Gardner looking at Jack with a big smile on her face. “All right, I can see I’m outnumbered,” he muttered and retreated toward the front door. “I’ll go check us in at the hotel and be back at five.”
They were staying at the Windmar Hotel in South Beach. Anxious and unable to settle down, Jack spent the next couple of hours walking the beach and sightseeing. He made a reservation for them that evening at a restaurant on the main drag, specifically telling the maitre d’ that he wanted a table on the patio overlooking the street.
Pat was waiting when he arrived back at Dr. Gardner’s office at five.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Great. Dr. Gardner is very nice and very professional. She had somebody from her staff drive me to the hospital for the CT scan and the ultrasound, and I didn’t have to wait at all. Everything was all arranged beforehand. She’s going to read the reports tonight.”
“Good,” Jack replied. “I got us all set up at the hotel and I made us dinner reservations.”
“Oh, where are we going?”
“Right on Ocean Avenue. We can watch the show while we eat.”
The show was the other people who walked up and down Ocean Avenue to see and be seen and the exotic cars that took their turn driving up and down the same runway.
“This is quite a scene,” Pat marveled after they’d settled in at their table.
“It never changes,” Jack told her. “Some of the buildings around here get redone and the styles change a bit, but the people are as wacky as ever.”
They went dancing after dinner at the Windmar nightclub. The music was a little loud, but after a few drinks they didn’t notice.
“I think this is the first time you’ve ever taken me dancing,” Pat shouted to him over the music. “You’re pretty good.”
The liquor had removed Jack’s usual inhibitions on the dance floor. He was flailing his arms and gyrating and laughing and having a grand old time. “It’s not the first time,” he shouted back. “I danced with you at one of Father O’Pray’s dances when you were fourteen.”
“I remember,” she laughed. “You stepped on my foot.” Later, in their room, they opened the sliding glass doors and made love to the continuous roar of the ocean smashing up against the shore. Their lovemaking was slow and sweet, and Pat didn’t have any pain this time. When it was over they lay there silently, listening to the waves and thinking about the news they would receive the next day.
At 10:00 a.m., they were back in Erica Gardner’s waiting room holding hands. Finally the receptionist ushered them into the doctor’s office.
Erica motioned them to sit. “I’m afraid I have bad news,” she said, leaning forward on her desk.
Pat spoke first. “How bad is it?”
“There is a mass in your uterus, which by its size and shape I strongly suspect is malignant. That’s not the worst part, however.” Pat squeezed Jack’s hand. He felt like he was in a dream-a nightmare. “There are other tumors in your lungs and liver.”
They were both stunned. Jack was normally a realist, yet he could make no sense of Erica Gardner’s words. He wanted to protest, to tell the good doctor there was some kind of mistake, that other than a little pain once in a while Pat was the picture of health-hell, they ran every night. All you had to do was look at her. Instead, he sat there silently, his arm around his wife, wishing they were someplace-anyplace-else.
“What does this mean?” Pat asked after a long silence.
Dr. Gardner took a deep breath. “The outlook isn’t good,” she began. “But there is always hope. Miracles happen every day.”
Miracles? Jack thought. Pat’s life is dependent on miracles?
“My cousin, Estelle,” Dr. Gardner continued, “is a gynecological oncologist here in Miami. I have already called her and made an appointment for you to see her this afternoon. I’ve discussed your case with her and I’m sending your films over right away. She will discuss all available options for treatment with you.”
Jack could not say anything. Pat, on the other hand, was able to focus on the doctor’s words and question them.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean by ‘the outlook isn’t good,’” she said.
“You have what we call stage four cancer, which means that in most cases it is terminal,” Erica told her. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that your case is terminal. You’re young and you’re healthy. Your chances of tolerating heavy doses of chemotherapy are better than most. If your tumors can be reduced and controlled, they can possibly be removed. But the cancer has spread through your system and it’s already in three places. That is not good.”
They left in a daze, stopping for lunch before heading over to Estelle Wright’s office, although neither of them was the slightest bit hungry. Jack was devastated. Pat was his rock, his world. He couldn’t remember his life before she’d come into it, and he certainly couldn’t contemplate a future without her.
Estelle Wright was very nice, but she didn’t have any better news for them. She took a needle biopsy of the tumor in Pat’s uterus and explained to her the joys of Carboplatin and Taxol, the two drugs that were going to be used in her chemotherapy regimen.
“We haven’t confirmed the diagnosis, but I’m going to go ahead and schedule you for chemotherapy based upon an educated assumption that you do, in fact, have cancer,” Dr. Wright explained matter-of-factly. “You’ll come in once a week. The chemo will be administered intravenously. It’s not a traumatic process at all.”
Jack could tell from her use of just the right words that Dr. Wright had given this little speech quite a few times in the past. He tried to concentrate as she continued with her description of what lay ahead. “You may become very tired and listless,” she said, looking directly at Pat. “Some people don’t. You may experience nausea, constipation, diarrhea-and your hair may fall out. You may have a loss of appetite. You may develop sores inside your mouth. You may need a blood transfusion from time to time. If anything gets too bad, call us immediately and we will admit you to the hospital. Do not hesitate to call. Someone is available twenty-four hours a day. I will meet with you every six weeks so we can discuss your progress.”
They didn’t say much to each other on the ride back home, partly because they didn’t have the energy to talk. Jack drove with one hand and held Pat’s with the other. Ever since they’d first heard the news, he hadn’t let go of her-not even through lunch. He wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but he couldn’t. This was out of his control. What he could do was be with her every moment of her fight.
“You’re not going to quit Henry’s case,” Pat suddenly said to him after many minutes of silence.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge that she had read his thoughts.
“I’m talking about what you’re spinning in your mind right now.”
“I’m just thinking that I don’t want to be away from you for one second. They can get somebody else to pick up Henry’s appeal.”
“Jack, honey, it’s three weeks to Henry’s execution. You can’t drop his case. You will never forgive yourself. I don’t want you to.”
“Sweetheart, I’m going to be with you. We’re going to fight this together. That’s the end of it.”
“No it’s not, Jack. We’re going to fight this together, but you are not going to let Henry go, and neither am I. His fight is our fight. That’s the way it has always been with us, and we’re not changing now.”