Author's Note: Wow, sorry for the delay - I came down with SOMETHING last weekend, some evil superbug (probably passed to me from a student - the little germ factories) and it knocked me flat. I'm significantly better now, but woefully behind in a number of things, including this story. :/
Another Evan POV for you, one that I hope will be enjoyable, since I was doped up on Benadryl for much of the writing. Just a heads-up: so far each chapter has roughly picked up right as the other left off, but there might be a time jump coming soon (otherwise Evan will NEVER get out of the hospital). It'll still be a lengthy, multi-chapter story, but we've gotta keep things moving here. There's a lot to tell yet.
Evan
Today finds me in my brand-new, regular private hospital room! There's a TV and everything, and I don't have to wear the nose tubey thing anymore either (it was kind of itchy sometimes). After my scans this morning, I was pronounced ready to move out of the ICU, despite still being sore and achy and yeah, still kind of fat. The doctors and nurses are actually impressed that I seem to be doing so well after 'the incident.' I've always been a quick healer, I'm just that awesome. Unfortunately, I still have to hang around the hospital for while, a week at minimum, if I'm lucky.
I'm glad to have been upgraded, especially given what a disaster my bloodwork turned into earlier. After my MRI, little Nurse Mc-Can't-Find-A-Vein had a little trouble, um, finding a vein. She poked me seven or eight times, and missed. Every. Single. Dang. Time. I think she would have kept going if I hadn't gotten really woozy. She just kept sticking and poking and nothing was coming out and she even like wiggled the needle in my fat arm which stung quite a bit, and the next thing I know I've got my head between my legs. That's something I never expected to experience: feeling faint from lack of blood loss. It was the proverbial 'trying to squeeze blood from a carrot'… or whatever the hell the phrase is. Hank came in about that time and was kind of pissed off with her when he figured out what was going on. He didn't yell at her, but he very abruptly put a stop to the procedure when he saw me, pale and shaking and two inches from passing out. Someone, either him or her, whipped out some smelling salts or some such thing and held them up to my nose, and suddenly it was like, POW! I don't even know how to explain it – this sort of sharp smell that didn't really smell like anything except awakeness, and suddenly I'm sitting up straight sniffling and blinking the spots away from my vision. I wonder if snorting cocaine is like that? The nurse clearly felt bad for the epic failure of her blood drawing skills, but she said I must still be a little dehydrated from the hemorrhaging episode. So we get to try again tomorrow. Joy. As it is, I've now got budding bruises on the crooks of both my elbows.
Dad brings Mrs. Newberg along today – he said she's been pestering him every five minutes about how I've been doing, and now that I'm in a normal room and can receive more visitors she insisted on coming to see me. She floats into my room, marches over and gives me a giant hug, and though I expect her exuberance to hurt me a little, she's surprisingly gentle with me. Dad is just behind her, carrying a rather elaborate and colorful flower arrangement which brightens up the sterile grey environment.
"Evan, sweetie!" she exclaims as she embraces me. She remembers my name! I mean, Mrs. Newberg is a pretty nice lady, but I can't recall a time when she's actually called me by my name. And apparently, Boris knows my name too, according to Hank. This just floors me. I've always been 'Hank's little brother' – story of my life, actually… being the other, lesser Lawson brother. But suddenly, out of nowhere, I have my own identity. Weirdly enough, I think my illness has set me apart somehow, singled me out. Now I'm "Evan… the guy with cancer." That's a little weird, I guess, to have that be your defining characteristic. It's not exactly the identity I wished for.
"I am soo relieved that you are on the mend," Mrs. Newberg says. She pats my hand and leans in, almost confidentially. "And you are going to get through this. I know it." Pausing for just a moment, she seems to come to some sort of inward decision, and continues, "You know, I understand exactly what you're feeling right now. I've been in your shoes myself."
My eyes bug a bit. "What?" I sputter in disbelief. "YOU? You don't mean you had…?"
She nods patiently. "About three years ago. Annual mammogram picked up a Stage 2 carcinoma in the left knocker. I had a family history, so I went for the double mastectomy. A bit extreme maybe – they probably could have gotten it all with a lumpectomy – but I wanted to be aggressive. There was no way I was going to let my hooters cut short my life, no matter how naturally spectacular they were."
"I… I had no idea!" I stammer, carefully trying to process the revelation of Mrs. Newberg's past illness amidst the TMI. I also have to fight the sudden urge to look at her cleavage – I knew they were fake, but I never once paused to wonder why they were fake. It never occurred to me that they were the result of anything other than vanity.
"Well, you wouldn't, would you? I'm healthy now! I had a great reconstructive surgeon, and when it was deemed appropriate, I decided to celebrate my life with the best rack money could buy." She grins at me with what I believe is genuine affection. "And to think, it was because of that purchase that all of you Lawson men came into my life." Technically, I guess she's right. The first thing Hank ever did for her was fix an issue with her deflated implant. And because we were here, Dad came here, and then… Whew, I feel a little overwhelmed. Of course, if Hank had this knowledge of her medical history he wouldn't have told me, with that whole doctor/patient confidentiality thing, and I respect that – at HankMed, we value discretion and our patients' privacy. Besides, he probably was too stressed to really think about it yesterday. But…
"Does Dad know about this?" I find myself asking. Is this why he feels like he can stay for me when he couldn't stay for Mom?
"He does now. He came over last night and told me about everything that happened yesterday, about your diagnosis, and what you said... your terms. He also told me how he acted when your dear mother got sick, and how he wanted to be there for you, but wasn't sure how to be. I could tell how scared he was, both for you and for himself, so I thought it was time to let him know about that part of my life. Needless to say, he was a little… surprised," she says with a wink, and we both glance over to the corner where he is quietly conferring with Hank about something. They seem to be giving us a semblance of privacy, though I'm sure they know full well what we're talking about. "But we had a very good talk. I think he gets it," she smiles meaningfully.
The idea that Mrs. Newberg fought the same disease I have blows my mind. You would never guess she had been sick, she's so vibrant and so… healthy. I mean, for a mature lady she looks really good, you know? And she was technically worse off than I am. The only other example I've had of this disease has been my mother, which of course didn't turn out well at all. But the story was different for Mrs. Newberg. She survived, she lived... she's still living. For her, it really was just a blip. Suddenly, I feel like my own survival is slightly more tangible. Yeah, I know what the doctors said about my prognosis. But somehow, actually seeing proof that someone can, in fact, beat cancer and flourish makes me more confident that this will be my outcome. And I am betting it helped Dad as well. But the fact that he only found out last night, after leaving here, means that he decided to stay on his own.
"Thank you," I murmur to her. "For telling me. I mean… you didn't have to, because it's really personal, but because you did, I feel… better. About this." I give a helpless gesture trying to communicate my feelings, wondering if I'm making any sense whatsoever.
"Don't you worry about a thing, honey," she says, putting her well-manicured hand on my cheek. "You've got me in your corner now. You need anything – even just the sympathetic ear of someone who actually understands – you just come to me." And I am so grateful.
She joins the rest of my family (hmmm, I like that concept) and we begin chatting about all sorts of things. Divya soon joins us, having brought lunch after making a patient visit. Sadly, while everyone else is nibbling on their sandwiches, I'm resigned to more Jello – though the doctors did say I might be able to have something more substantial tomorrow. Here's hoping; I fear that much more of this gelatinous evil will drive me into jiggly madness.
Wiping his mouth, Dad says, "So, when would the radiation process actually start?"
I repeat what Dr. Bowers told me. "They said I had to wait until I was healed from the surgery, so I guess I'll start in a month or so." I set aside my Jello cup, wrinkling my nose as I swallow the last of it. "I wish it could start sooner."
"Ev, the tumor isn't going to grow back while you wait," Hank says, trying to reassure me.
"That's not what I'm worried about," I scoff (though the thought had crossed my mind). "I just mean I'd like to start it sooner so that it would finish sooner. Then I could get back to normal sooner, you know?"
"You said it would make you tired," Dad states, his brow furrowed. "But is that it? That's the worst to expect from it? How tired are we talking here?" He looks to Hank for an answer.
"I hope it won't be like when I had mono. Remember, Henry?" I say with a pointed look at my brother. "Remember when I had the mono?"
Hank groans a little. "Yes, Evan, I remember," he replies tersely.
"I get the feeling there's a story here," Divya says, narrowing her eyes warily.
"Oh there is, there is!" I say, smirking almost villainously. "It's the story of how my big brother ruined prom night."
"God, not the prom story… always with the prom story…" Hank mutters, putting his head in his hands in mock despair. We've done this routine before.
"I came down with mono six weeks before the end of my senior year," I begin to explain. "And Captain Pre-Med over there thought he was a full-fledged doctor... and my personal prison warden."
"I never thought that," Hank looks up, exasperated, which brings me no small amount of enjoyment. "I was merely following the orders given by your actual doctor, because you wouldn't!"
"He grounded me from my prom," I say to my audience. "My own brother forbade me to go to my senior prom, the most important night of my high school career. My doctor never said to ground me from my prom." I can tell by their sympathetic faces that Dad and Mrs. Newberg feel for me, though I think Divya is siding with Hank on this.
"I'm sure it was for your own good, Evan," she says in a conciliatory tone.
"Oh, come on, Divs! He made me cancel on Stephanie Warner! That's what really stung the most. She was a cheerleader, too! It took me weeks to get up the courage to ask her to go with me, and he totally ruined my one last shot with her." Also ruined my last shot to lose my virginity before college, but we won't get into that.
"I think that giving Stephanie a highly contagious disease would have ruined your shot a little worse." Hank exclaims sarcastically. "Quit trying to make me the bad guy here! Who tried to go against doctor's orders and sneak out anyway?"
"I would have been successful if SOMEONE hadn't disabled my car!" I exclaim. I also begin to notice that the heads of Divya, Dad, and Mrs. Newberg are following this exchange as if it were a tennis match. Ha.
"That just proves how well I know you, little bro! For the millionth time: your lymph nodes were swollen, you had a chronic low-grade fever, and you could barely stand up for more than five minutes at a time. You really thought you were going to dance all night? I was doing you a favor! I let you go to your graduation a couple weeks later, didn't I?"
"Some fun that was! You let me walk ten feet to shake a hand and get a piece of paper and then made me come home and go to bed for the next month, while everyone else in my class – even the geeks – partied. To this day, I'm astonished you didn't roll me across the stage in a wheelchair."
"Do you like your spleen? You're welcome!"
"I liked Stephanie more," I say flatly. He always brings up my dadgum spleen when this story comes up, since apparently severe cases of mono can hurt it. Somehow he thinks this is his trump card. You know, I'm not entirely sure there is such a thing as a spleen – I'm like 78% certain it's just something anatomical-sounding made up for medical TV shows. Spleen… spleeeeeeeeen… seriously, it has to be fake, right? And if it is real, I mean, come on; what has it done for me lately?
"This is my least favorite bit that we do," Hank sighs, chuckling a little. "When are you going to stop throwing the mono thing in my face?"
"When I get my prom night back," I grin. Everyone starts chuckling, realizing that what they've just witnessed was not in fact an genuine argument over a long-held childhood grudge, but a little brother playfully sparring with his older brother and teasing him about his innate overprotectiveness. And yes, I can admit I am sort of doing it to avoid talking about what effects radiation will have on my body. Yes, I'm worried about freaking Dad out (I'm still not totally sure how far I can trust him, the news about Newberg notwithstanding), about seeing that little furrow between my brother's eyes get more deeply ingrained. About freaking myself out. I don't want to be dreading the treatments a whole month before they actually begin. So I attempt to deflect to a different subject, and hopefully lighten the mood. Hank gives me a knowing smile, so I'm sure he can sense my motivations for dragging this story out of the vault.
I continue in a dismissive tone, "I'm sure this won't be as bad as mono was. Oh, and just so we're clear, Henry: you may have been able to thwart my prom, but there is no way you're keeping me from going to Divya's wedding." I turn my eyes to her, smiling. I had decided long ago that I needed to come to terms with the fact that Divya would get married to Raj whether I liked it or not. It's her decision and she wouldn't have made that decision if that wasn't what would make her happy. She's had every opportunity to change her mind and she hasn't, so I have to believe that she really wants this. And therefore, I have to support her happiness. She's my friend. I'm not completely thrilled about her leaving us, but I'm resigned to the wisdom of that old song lyric, "If it makes you happy / it can't be that bad."
But something weird seems to cross over her face when I say this. Her smile sort of tightens, and I wonder briefly if maybe she doesn't want me there after all, even though she sent Hank and me an invitation. Her eyes become rather darty, and she hems and haws a little. "Right… erm… the wedding… well, funny thing about that…"
We don't get to find out what's funny though, because right then the door to my room opens without the preface of a knock, and in walks that woman we met several weeks ago, Dr. Emily Peck – the one Boris had brought in to attend to HankMed patients while Hank and I were in Cuba with him. I had thought it was nice of Boris to cover his bases like that, but when she declared her intention to remain in the Hamptons as a rival concierge doctor, my dander instantly went up. I do know that one of our clients decided he preferred her brand of medicine; God knows how many others she's attempted to poach from us. She seems pleasant enough to the untrained eye, but something about her just feels off. The way Divya tenses up as she appears tells me that she shares my opinion. Hank is far more courteous, standing to greet her, though as shocked as I am that she's here.
"Dr. Peck," he says, trying to mask his confusion. "What a pleasant surprise. What, um, what brings you here?"
"I heard about your brother and wanted to come by and see if there is anything I can do for you." Aw. Isn't that nice of her, wanting to do something for Hank because I'm sick.
She finally deigns to address me, politely enough (I get the feeling that she knows I'm on to her). "I was so sorry to hear of your illness," she says.
"How exactly did you hear about it?" I ask, curious because I'm fairly certain that Hank, Dad, and Divya haven't taken out an advertisement in the paper proclaiming that I have cancer, and I'm pretty sure that Dr. Bowers and Dr. Kirkland aren't supposed to talk about my medical condition with random people. Again, that whole confidentiality thing...
She smiles blandly and merely says, "Dr. Lawson had to cancel some appointments due to 'family issues.' News travels fast in the Hamptons."
Right. I forgot about that.
Looking back to Hank, who is obviously the more interesting of the two of us, I suppose since he's not scowling at her with thinly veiled hostility, Dr. Peck goes on. "I also wanted to discuss transfer of patient files. I figured it'd be easier to come to you."
"Transfer of files?" Hank says, a bit confused. I'm a little confused myself, and from the look on Divya's face, I assume she's in the same boat.
"Well, yes. I just wanted you to know I'm ready to take over your clientele whenever you're ready. I just wanted to make the transition as smooth as possible, both for you and for the patients."
"Hank, what is she talking about?" I ask in growing alarm. Hank looks a little blindsided.
"Um, I'm not entirely sure myself. What do you mean by taking over our clientele?"
Dr. Peck innocently darts her eyes between Hank and myself. "I just assumed… you would be devoting yourself to caring for your brother during this difficult time. Naturally, your family comes first, and of course, HankMed would be making provisions for their clients to continue receiving care in your absence."
Oh. My. God. I can't believe this woman! She literally just wandered into my frikking hospital room to use my condition to guilt my brother into turning over all our clients to her? Are you kidding me?
"Excuse me!" I butt in abruptly. "HankMed is still in operation; we have no intention of relinquishing any of our patients." I glare at her (as calmly and politely as possible), and beneath her placid face there are daggers in her eyes in response to my bursting of her bubble. I think she would kill me herself if she didn't think cancer was beating her to the punch. Hank looks uncomfortable and confused. Unfortunately, he does have some unhappy-looking guilty looking twinges encroaching onto his face.
Sure enough he mutters, "I didn't even think about what I'd do about our clients." No, no, no, no, Hank! Don't let her get to you. Don't look directly into the beast's eyes!
"Hank, you don't need to do anything about our clients," I growl. "No arrangements need to be made. We're going to continue exactly as we've been doing. This," I gesture generally to my swollen, bruised self. "…changes nothing. You said it yourself, I'm not going to be incapacitated by the radiation – I can still take care of business matters on my end and rest when I have to. It doesn't affect you or Divya. You'll both keep seeing patients. Nothing has changed; it's still business as usual."
"But…" Hank wavers, a whole host of new worries now brewing in his mind thanks to this harpy's intrusion. "If I'm out seeing patients, who's going to take care of you? Yeah, you won't be incapacitated, necessarily, but your immune system will be compromised. What if you were to need something and I wasn't around? If something were to happen to you…"
"I think you're forgetting about me, Hank." All our heads swivel to my father, who now stands up, Mrs. Newberg beaming at him proudly from her seat. "If Evan needs to be looked after, I can do that." He looks at Hank with complete sincerity, his face a mixture of personal satisfaction at being able to contribute a possible solution to our dilemma, and perhaps a slight hint of hurt at Hank for not even considering his presence in our lives now.
Hank studies him, carefully considering the option. "I guess you're right. And if necessary, Divya can take on a little more responsibility… if she doesn't mind, of course." He looks to her for her opinion.
"Absolutely," she replies, also standing up, addressing Hank but looking at Dr. Peck with dignity. "I can handle things if, for any reason, Evan needs your presence more, and I can call you in the event of any serious trouble."
Dr. Peck gives a little sniff – did she just scoff at our Divya? - and says, "Well that's all well and good for the short-term. But if I'm not mistaken, your wedding is rapidly approaching, is it not, Divya? And following that, you'll be leaving the Hamptons… leaving HankMed short-handed in the patient care department." We all sort of freeze for moment. Crap, she's right. When Divya gets married, she'll have to move to London, and I know Hank hasn't had the chance to give much thought to hiring a new PA, especially what with the whole "Evan's-gland-exploded-and-he-has-cancer" thing of late. I doubt if he was even planning on replacing Divya, since she's simply irreplaceable. I'll still be in the middle of the radiation when she leaves us, and if something comes up, something medical that Dad can't handle, Hank will insist on dropping everything for my sake, whether I want him to or not. Crap, crap, crap… is our company, the one I helped build, imploding right in front of my eyes, because of my stupid cancer?
Then the weirdest thing happens.
Divya pulls herself up to her full height, and speaks with the magnificence of a Shakespearean actor (sans "thee" and "thou") to all of us. "Actually, that's what I was about to address before we were interrupted." She sends a surreptitiously pointed glance at Peck, and it doesn't go unnoticed, though it is unmentioned. "After speaking with Raj extensively on the matter, we have decided to postpone the wedding until after the first of the year. Which means," she tries to suppress a triumphant grin, "HankMed is still operational in its original form for the foreseeable future."
We all just sort of stare at her. Did she seriously just say this, or is this merely a bluff in front of Emily Peck? A mere six weeks before her wedding, and suddenly there's not going to be a wedding? Why has she done this now? Raj is ok with all of this? Was this really a mutual decision? But I can't find my voice to ask her any of this… I'm just too stunned.
Hank is as well, but a slow grin spreads on his face. Attempting to remain placid and trying to control the twitch in his lip, he turns back to Dr. Peck and says, "Well, then! There we go! Looks like all systems are go on our end. But thank you for stopping by, and wanting to help us out; that was very kind of you. And thank you for the well-wishes for my brother's health. If we wind up needing you, we'll let you know." He opens the door for her in a gentlemanly fashion, and with a glare directed at all of us, Dr. Peck tightens her smile and bids us farewell.
"Bye-bye!" Mrs. Newberg chirps from her seat, daintly waving her fingers, as Peck walks out the door.
Somehow I feel like when she gets to the elevator she's going to shake her fist in our general direction and intone like some Scooby-Doo villain, "Curses! Foiled again!" I'm probably being over-dramatic though – she's not a cartoon, she's just a regular person with a ruthless business sense. I'm sure she doesn't mean any real harm. Right?
The minute the door closes on Dr. Peck, all attention turns back to Divya, who seems to be going out of her way to ignore our prying stares. She calmly rummages through her purse, pulls out a stick of gum, painstakingly unwraps it and pops it into her mouth. She glances up and pretends to just notice that we're all looking at her as if she's sprouted another head. With wide innocent eyes, she gestures to us generally. "Gum? Anyone?" No one seems to hear her.
Rolling her eyes, she caves. "Alright, now look: the wedding is still going to happen, it's only been postponed a little while. Raj and I both – together, mutually – decided that there was far too much going on right now for the wedding and the overseas move to feasibly occur at its set date, so we changed it. It's for the best. Raj can fix some business issues on his end and do some much-needed job-related travel, and I can continue here in the Hamptons, doing… you know, the usual. It's that simple."
"But… Divya, were your parents ok with this?" Hank asks tentatively. I know he's as pleased as I am that we're going to have her for a little longer, but this is so out of left field, and we both know it's not simply a case of a couple changing the date of their wedding. This marriage was arranged: the parents are playing a way bigger role than usual (than is, in my opinion, normal or healthy, but that's beside the point). If they get pissed at Divya for this, then she'll be miserable. And I'll feel horrible. I know the gist of the idea is to help Hank with patients for as long as possible, but she wouldn't have needed to worry about it or change her plans so drastically if I wasn't sick. Ok, if I wasn't convinced before, this has done it: cancer is officially the hugest inconvenience EVER.
Divya shrugs dismissively. "They weren't thrilled with the news, no. But Raj got his parents on our side, so against the four of us, they had to accept the decision. They'll get over it; it's not like we cancelled it completely. Mummy was having some doubts as to the auspiciousness of the date anyway. If anything, this is a good excuse for her to get things exactly as she wants them."
"Divya…" I murmur, shaking my head. I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around this. "I can't believe I've ruined your wedding…"
"Evan, stop right there!" she exclaims in a stern voice. "Nothing has been ruined, it's just been moved back a few months. It needed to be done, for a number of reasons. I didn't make this decision because of you. Now then, can we please move on and focus on more important things?"
Oh. Um, ow. That sort of stung. I know she doesn't mean for it to sound that way, I know she was merely trying to assuage my guilt about the change in plans, but I suddenly feel very… inconsequential. I wasn't a factor at all? Not even a little? Not that I wanted to be the one wreck her wedding plans – I wasn't keen on this arranged marriage for her to begin with, but if she was going to back out, it should be because she wanted to, not because of "extenuating circumstances." Ok, I'll admit it: if I was going to be the reason Divya wasn't going to marry Raj, I'd rather it be because she decided to be with me…. not because I'm sick and I'm inconveniencing everyone and Emily Peck is lurking in shadows ready to pick through the flaming ruins of HankMed. THIS isn't what I wanted… not like this. But I merely nod my head, silently agreeing not to make a big deal of this any further, for her sake, and eventually the conversation picks up again and moves on. It does take a little while for the awkwardness to dissolve, though.
Hank sees when I'm beginning to fade, and hints that everyone should clear out for a while so that I can get some rest. Dad and Mrs. Newberg kiss and hug me, and Dad promises to be back later that evening. Divya gives me a hug, and quietly whispers, "You know what I meant, don't you, Evan? When I said the decision about the wedding wasn't because of you? You know that I didn't mean to make you feel that I didn't care, or that I didn't want-"
"I know what you meant. It's ok, Divs," I murmur back. I hear the worry in her voice. I guess she saw me flinch a little earlier. I don't feel that much better about spoiling all her planning (to say nothing of her mother's – sheesh), but I give her a smile anyway, to let her know we're cool. Once again, whatever makes her happy – if a January wedding will be more to her taste, then ok; let's just be grateful for the extra time with her.
They leave, and Hank throws away some of the sandwich wrappers and napkins. "What are you doing now?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"What are you going to do if I rest?"
Hank sort of shrugs noncommittally. "Just, you know… hang out. Maybe read a little bit…"
"Or you could go home and get some rest yourself." I see his hackles go up, and I can tell he's resistant. "I mean it, bro. You're exhausted – I can tell. I'm glad you were with me in the ICU – it was a little scary in there, I'll admit it. But I'm out of there now, and everyone says I'm doing really well. You need to take care of yourself a little now. Go home, sleep in your bed for a little while. I'll be fine," I add, to reassure him.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah. Please get some rest. You need it."
Hank gives me a soft smile. "Fine. But I'm still staying with you tonight."
"Fair enough, big brother," I grin. Even though I don't think it's necessary for him to remain with me all night long, frankly I like the company. I'll gladly let him do that, as long as he doesn't martyr himself for my sake. Which brings me to my next request. "There's one other thing…"
"Sure, Ev. What do you need?" Hank looks at me expectantly, eager to have something to do for me. I sort of believe he would attempt to lasso the moon for me at this point, since he's not able to treat my illness this time.
"I need you to call a doctor and make an appointment for a full checkup. For yourself," I state matter-of-factly. He blinks at me a couple of times, processing, and seems stunned.
"What? Evan, I don't need to go to the doctor. I'm perfectly healthy!" He sounds almost indignant that I would imply otherwise.
But I shake my head. "No offense, Hank, but I believed I was healthy too, up until yesterday." His face falls a bit, and I suddenly regret saying that. Truth is, I haven't had a proper physical in years. Always too busy, or couldn't afford it, or a million other excuses. Hank has been my personal physician for a while now, but he's really only treated me when I've actually needed it, prescribing antibiotics and monitoring me when I have the flu or stitching me up when I crack my head open on scuba gear. But we just treated things as they came – it's been ages since I had a true wellness checkup. I don't want Hank to think that I am blaming him for not examining me thoroughly enough over the years. "And it's my own fault," I add hurriedly, before shame can take hold in my brother's soul. "I haven't taken enough of an interest in my own health – I assumed I was young and fit enough to never have anything really wrong with me. I should have been more proactive. Which is why I want to make sure you are ok." Doctors make the worst patients after all.
"Evan, I get what you're saying, but I had a physical back in January. It was required - hospital policy. I was fine then, and I'm still fine now," he explains patiently.
"Hank, please. I don't think it's an unreasonable request. Cancer runs in our family – it's pretty much official now if it wasn't before. I have to know that you don't have… that you're ok. If you don't get checked out, I'm going to feel awful and worry about you constantly, and of course that will hinder my own recovery." Yeah, okay, I realize what I'm doing. I'm not above using guilt to get what I want, as long as it's not misplaced or malevolent. It's one thing for Hank to feel guilty over some stupid notion that he neglected my health or that I developed cancer because of said negligence on his part. It's another thing entirely to make him feel guilty for making me feel guilty. That I can use. "So really, if you care about me at all, you'll do this." I allow a ghost of a smile to creep into my face, so that Hank knows my true intent.
It works. He sighs in defeat, and places a hand gently upon my head. "Ok. I am positive I'm perfectly healthy, but if it means that much to you, bro, I promise, I'll get checked out. I'll get a doctor's note proving it."
"Thank you," I say quietly. "And you have to help me talk Dad into doing the same."
Hank chuckles, and sniffs, and leans down to give me a hug. "You're too much, you know that?" he murmurs fondly.
Yeah, I know I am, sometimes. But I'm so grateful that my brother doesn't mind the overabundance.
To be continued...