Chapter 32

"Settling In … Making Waves on Palm Beach"

IT TOOK AN HOUR FOR A PAIR OF BURLY MEN FROM A MOVING AND STORAGE FIRM TO REMOVE MY CHOSEN BELONGINGS FROM THE STORAGE UNIT IN PRINCETON'S INDUSTRIAL PARK. THE TRUCK THEY PUT MY FURNISHINGS INTO WAS A SIX-WHEELER, BECAUSE I NO LONGER POSSESSED THE MASSIVE ACCUMULATION I'D HAD WHILE I LIVED AT THE LOFT WITH HOUSE.

I SOLD ALL THE MAJOR APPLIANCES TO THE OWNERS OF THE LOFT, AND THEY ALSO OPTED TO PURCHASE SOME OF THE LARGER PIECES AS WELL. MY LIVING ROOM AND BEDROOM FURNITURE NESTED PERFECTLY AGAINST THE FRONT WALL OF THE SMALLER VAN. THE MEN BROKE DOWN THE KITCHEN TABLE AND PACKED IT INSIDE, ALONG WITH THE SIX CHAIRS AND SOME HEAVY BOXES THAT CONTAINED TOWELS, BEDDING, SOME OF MY CLOTHING, DISHES, COOKING UTENSILS AND FOODSTUFFS FROM THE KITCHEN CUPBOARDS.

IT HAD BEEN A SIMPLE CHORE TO PACK POTS AND PANS AND GATHER THE FEW THINGS I DECIDED TO KEEP FROM THE DREARY LITTLE FLAT IN PRINCETON'S SEEDIER DISTRICT. I REMOVED THE REST OF THE STUFF I NEEDED FROM THERE AND STASHED IT EASILY INTO THE CLAM SHELL AND 'VANNA'S' BACK SEAT AND FORWARD STORAGE COMPARTMENT.

THE VAN LEFT ABOUT AN HOUR AHEAD OF ME, AND IT WOULD PROBABLY MAKE GOOD TIME ON THE INTERSTATE. THEY HAD THE KEY TO THE APARTMENT I'D RENTED IN WEST PALM BEACH, AND A FLOOR PLAN THAT SHOWED THEM WHERE I WANTED EVERYTHING TO BE POSITIONED. THE PLACE ALREADY HAD MAJOR APPLIANCES, INCLUDING WASHER AND DRIER, SO I DIDN'T HAVE TO BOTHER WITH THOSE. I WAS ON THE GROUND FLOOR THIS TIME, MAKING IT LESS OF A HASSLE FOR THE MOVERS, AND LESS OF A PAIN IN THE NECK FOR ME. I EVEN HAD A PARKING SPACE RIGHT OUTSIDE MY BACK DOOR.

I DRESSED CASUALLY FOR THE TRIP: BERMUDA SHORTS, GOLF SHIRT, BASEBALL HAT … THE SAME HAT I WORE ON MY HIKE UP HUNCHBACK HILL … AND MY FAVORITE BROWN MOCCASINS WITH NO SOCKS. HOUSE USED TO HASSLE ME AND CALL THEM MY "GAY SHOES" … DAMN HIM!

I left Trenton behind me, not quite two hours after the van, and it didn't take long until I was cruising along the I-95. After that, I putt-putted down the eastern seaboard, watching my speed and enjoying the late-summer scenery. I wanted this move to be the last one I'd ever make in my life. It was time to get my head out of the past and start over.

*But my head isn't listening very closely …*

I left the highway just before dark to fill up with gas and find a convenient motel just a little south of Richmond to stay overnight. I wasn't crazy enough to try going nonstop. I ate two chicken sandwiches and two candy bars for supper, along with one bottle of water. That night I fell into bed like a stone falls into a creek.

In the morning I hit the road again with my cooler and five bottles. Oh yeah … and a large cup of hot coffee I got from a convenient doughnut shop.

Below Savannah the highway began to bear east, paralleling the ocean. The view took on a natural beauty that I had almost forgotten this country still possessed. I turned off the radio and the A/C, opened the windows and just enjoyed the scenery. The little air-cooled engine of the VW made the car sound like a motor boat on the busy highway.

When I finally turned off for West Palm Beach and located the moving van on Clematis Street, the men were loading furniture ramps and metal trolleys and getting ready to pack up and roll. We walked inside the apartment and looked the place over. It resembled a furnished apartment that the last tenants had just moved out of. (The 'cake' was baked; it just needed the 'icing'.) The living room was furnished, but otherwise barren looking. My kitchen was set up, but nothing was unpacked yet; still in cartons. The bedroom was also set up, but no finishing touches. All the cartons from the movers were collapsed and waiting by the front door. Everything was shipshape.

I grinned. Both men grinned. We shook hands and I pulled two white envelopes from my back pocket; handed them over. We stood around and talked for awhile, but I knew they were anxious to be off. They wanted to make the Georgia line before stopping for the night.

The van pulled away from the apartment and threaded its way carefully down the street to find a place to cross over and head north again. I waved and one of them waved back; I could see his grinning face in the side-view mirror. He was making a thumbs-up sign out the window. I guessed they were pleased with their tip …

It took another week to get settled into the bright, cozy apartment on this fairly busy street. I decided my time and money had been well spent. The place was delightfully air conditioned and I was equally delighted that I did not have to straddle the kitchen table every time I opened the refrigerator door. Every piece of furniture was left over from the expensive, comfortable stuff I'd purchased for the loft in Princeton …

The loft.

Just that quickly he was back; his elfin ghost perched on the back of the sofa across from the TV. He was leering across the open space at me … daring me to make some remark he could turn to his own advantage and taunt me with. His wraithlike image wore that forlorn, hopeless half-grin that used to make me grit my teeth and see angry red dots in front of my eyes: that mesmerizing, engaging adolescent smirk that hitched my breath in my chest and caused my heartbeat to flounder in confusion.

His poltergeist was humming that mood-lifting melody from "Chorus Line", the one I'd teased him with the night I embarrassed the daylights out of him by proposing marriage in a crowded restaurant.

"One … singular sensation … every step that she takes! One … thrilling combination … every move that she makes …"

*Damn you, House, I miss you …*

I wasn't 'new' on the new job very long.

Dr. Gresh transferred three of his newest patients to my care, and as I got to know them and began to treat and prescribe for them, I certainly received a liberal education about affluent patients who did not have to worry about where the money for their treatment was coming from. Soon I fell into a comfort-able routine, very unlike the tension-filled atmosphere that had existed with many of the indigent patients who showed up at Princeton-Plainsboro and broke my heart in the process.

It's late October now, the beginning of "Snowbird Season', the time of year when thousands of happy, vacationing retirees from the north flock to the Sunshine State to escape the annual cold season. Frozen landscapes filled with snow and ice is not an option for Gresh's patients. It's the time of year when unfamiliar, temporary Florida residents suddenly begin showing up here with "Lon-Gyland' accents and New York and Pennsylvania twangs. Strange and funny, and a taste of home to a transplanted Jersey boy like me.

I'd been on the payroll here since last July, and I found that I fit in very well with the Greshes and their staff. I shared an office with Jerry Sunday, another oncologist, maybe five years older than me, with a blond military crewcut and black-rimmed glasses. Jerry had worked here since he finished his residency, and he usually showed up in Bermuda shorts and a sport shirt with no tie. He told me that the politicking and bullshit that goes on at a large city hospital was not for him. He'd tried it briefly and didn't stick around long. He preferred the easy going southern atmosphere of this clinic. And he liked the boss and his wife. I had to agree with him. This was a pleasant place to work. It was efficient and clean. Most of the patients were retired and good natured and had the best damn medical coverage in the world.

There were two other oncologists whom I saw now and then. Nancy Rafferty and Midori Chan were wil-o'-the-wisps, in and out. The three of us had a nodding acquaintance. Both women had private practices as well as their work here. Their office hours were staggered, and they popped in and out of this office like Meer cats in and out of their burrows.

Two researchers shared an office across the hall from Jerry and me. These two came to work in the morning, checked their schedules and left again for their laboratory somewhere downtown where there were chemicals and lab rats that could not be housed here. They checked back in before they went home in the evening.

One of them was a native Kenyan named Ubu Kutu, whose skin was so black that it seemed to radiate a blue aura around him. He spoke English with a pleasant, melodic lilt that was very fascinating to listen to. I loved talking to this guy, and my fascination amused him.

The other one was the polar opposite of Ubu. She was the obligatory female that political correctness dictated, but if she resented those connotations, she was the last to show it. She was short and stocky like a female athlete at the top of her game; sort of Mary Lou Retton with red hair and freckles. And she had attitude. Her name was Ruthie Barnes, and she had an IQ of about 150, according to Jerry. To say she was a big genius in a small package would have been an understatement.

It was an odd arrangement, but it seemed to work well for all concerned. I soon learned the rhythm of it and got used to people appearing and disappearing at all hours. Ruthie called Jerry "Dikes" because he was so bowlegged, and she called Ubu "Oob" because it just seemed to fit. It took a couple of weeks, but one day I discovered that I was called "Sneakers", although I had no idea why. When I asked Jerry, he laughed in my face and walked away.

We'll soon be into the holiday season. I've never spent this time of year in a warm climate where people run around in shorts and sandals, with sunglasses riding on their noses. Neither can I imagine Santa Clauses and reindeer and silver bells hanging from palm trees, and Christmas elves sucking Pina Coladas through a straw. But that's the norm around this neck of the woods.

But life goes on, and here I am.

One of the patients I see on a regular basis is Paul Seebold, who knows he's not going to make it until Christmas. He is a widower living alone in one of the highrises that dot the landscape in southern Florida. He's just one of many senior citizens who have migrated here after retirement. Paul is a pleasant man who knows the score and accepts it. He won't let me hospitalize him; says he wants to die with his boots on. I do not insist. It's his choice. His life. His death. Paul comes here to see me twice a week because his pain is beginning to escalate. I treat him according to medical protocol and wait for him to tell me when it is time to surrender to hospice care. I know it won't be long.

November 16:

Thanksgiving is a week away now, and Paul hangs on. His time is near. He's been admitted to the cancer ward at Palm Beach Gardens Medical Center. He is on respirator and morphine pump. I visit him as often as I can break away here.

Two of my other patients are holding their own. These are two women who have had radical mastectomies. They are on Tomoxifin and are doing well. There is a new drug in the trial stages, and it looks promising, although FDA has not yet approved it. I wait. I have not told either patient about it. I don't want them to be disappointed if something unforeseen turns up in the drug trials.

My other patient is a boy of sixteen. Sometimes I would like to slap him silly. He's an only child and his name is Bobby Dryden. He lives with his parents in Lantana, a town a little south of here. Bobby lost his right leg to Ewing's sarcoma, a small genetic tumor that settled into the core of his tibia. When the cancer advanced enough that it became painful, he assumed it was muscle strain.

Bobby was the major hitter on his high school's baseball team, and he did not want to give up the power and adulation that his talent had given him. When the pain began to rock him so badly that he could no longer pass it off as something in the muscle, he and his parents showed up here. He had awakened screaming in the night with escalating pain and a high fever. Two days later his leg was removed below the knee.

Bobby was inconsolable. His disposition turned to self-pity and anger at the world. He blamed his misfortune on his parents, his friends, the doctors who had saved his life, and even the coach of his baseball team. His guilt overwhelmed him and turned him hard. When we met, he was still in a wheelchair, claiming pain and weakness. He would not attempt to get on a walker or strengthen his healthy leg on parallel bars. He would not do physical therapy. He expected to be waited on hand and foot … which his parents did. He hid from everyone. His friends had given up and began staying away. When he finally came to me, he sat in the office with an angry scowl on his face and refused even to speak.

I talked to him calmly at first, explaining that he had to do something to help himself, or he would end up in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Medicine could only go so far …

His reply was screamed so loudly that I cringed. The veins in his neck and forehead stood out and spittle flew from the corners of his mouth. "Well fuck you, asshole! What the hell would you know? You have two good legs and you're just like all the others … telling me what to do and how to feel. Go away and leave me alone!" He sounded a lot like someone else I had known …

I picked up his file, removed the receiver from the office phone and put it in my pocket. Without a word, I walked out, closing the door quietly behind me.

I went across the hall to Ruthie and Oob's office and sat down, rolling my eyes and keeping an ear out for any further uproar. Oob knew what was going on. He'd heard the diatribe; he couldn't help it. "What are you going to do?" He asked.

"Nothing. The next move is his. He told me to get out and let him alone. So I did. The bomb should go off in a minute or two." I picked up a copy of JAMA and began to read it.

Actually, Bobby lasted almost three minutes.

'WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYBODY? I'VE BEEN IN HERE TWENTY MINUTES. WHERE ARE YOU, ASSHOLE?"

Ubu watched me not react. "Evidently you have not met the young prince's great expectations."

I shrugged; grinned. "I just have to impress on him that I'm 'Sneakers', not 'Asshole' …"

Oob's head went back. His laughter was boisterous, unlike his formal speaking voice. "Very good," he said.

The yelling continued for a minute more, and then it quieted. I put the journal down and meandered across the hall. I opened the door and reclosed it behind me. I replaced the phone on its cradle.

Bobby was sitting in his wheelchair bawling. His body shook and his voice cracked … like a kid whose body is still changing from child to adult, but whose angry sensibilities were still only eight years old.

He looked up, startled, while I leaned against the desk and stared at him. The sobs stopped as though someone had shut off a tap. "Where the fuck were you? I've been here for …"

"… twenty minutes. Yeah, I know. It seems we're finished here. If you don't want me to treat you, then you're free to go." I walked over and opened the door and stood back.

"Where's my Mom? She has to come and get me."

"No she doesn't. She and your dad are talking to Dr. Gresh. Go on, get out of here. I'm not holding this door open forever."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. You have two healthy arms, and I'm sure they can turn the wheels on that chair quite easily. Go on … try 'em out. Scram!"

He started to bawl again. I stood still. "That baby stuff isn't going to work, Bobby." I walked out into the hallway and kept going. Twenty seconds later, I heard the sounds of the wheelchair as it was being trundled clumsily toward the door. One big wheel caught on the doorjamb and jerked him sideways. He sat cursing and sobbing until he had worked it loose by himself and came clattering down the long hallway toward me.

I smiled. "See?"

"Fuck you, Sneakers … you asshole."

This time I grinned as I walked back the hallway and entered my office without another word.

Florida is interesting …

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