On Being There: . . . When Death Is Salvation

By B. W. Van Riper

After months of failing health and anguishing twists and turns in her medical situation, Liz learned that her fate was sealed. Every avenue of hope had closed to her. She was desperate for relief from physical and mental trauma, and she was terrified by thoughts of a depressing and, in her mind, a demeaning conclusion to her life.

Doctors gave what they could, probably all that they could. But they couldn't give Liz what she wanted; they couldn't prolong her life, and they wouldn't hasten her death.

Mortally ill is Liz. Her disease not only terminal, her time is short. By crisis impaled, Liz is inspired to take control of her own fate/with stipulations. At heart, she wants to end her life in her own way surrounded by her dearest friends. The moral support of friends, though, fades to gray when the presence of their company is requested. --This her story.

The devotion of a band of women to a dying friend not only resonates with compassion but also resounds with reservations about a request for involvement in an incredible and impolitic denouement. Stymied by Liz's appeal to be there for her at jouney's end causes her friends inordinate angst as orthodoxy comes down hard on complicity. The fast friends face perplexing terms and conditions of allegiance that are both excruciating and inescapable. Theirs becomes a quandary: Can it be wrong to do the right thing, or conversely, right to do the wrong thing? --This is their story.

The clarion call for uncommon commitment and valor takes more than raw courage to answer. In those rare instances where extraordinary measures are called for, being there for someone in dire need can require the most discordant sacrifice imaginable. --And, in that event, this could be our story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456741938

B. W. Van Riper

Originally from Chicago, he is a Michigan transplant, now of many decades. He graduated from Adrian College. Serving in the Korean Conflict, he returned to Michigan and attended the University of Michigan, acquiring an A.M. and a Ph.D. Human relations intrigued and moved him early on. His educational pursuits followed that interest into counseling, counseling psychology, and counselor education. The author went on to teach graduate students in counseling principles, practices and theory, as well as to supervise outreach counseling practicums—all of which prepared graduate students for licensing in careers in counseling and therapy. As a professor emeritus as well as when he was employed at Eastern Michigan University, he continued to prepare manuscripts for publication in professional journals. But gradually, and then completely, his attention turned to issues in which he had a vital and vested interest. Two manuscripts became books. This will be his third book, and a fourth is in process. Still, above all, he is devoted, not so much to scholarship or writing fiction, as to his family. This most recent book reflects on that love and affection, as well as on the influence family has on its members in terms of the bond embracing heritage, endowment, and legacy. He claims it to be ‘fiction with a heart.’ He enjoys writing, loves what he writes, but doesn’t always love what he’s written. Self-expression is a very powerful inspiration, and liberating, in his estimation. Consequently, it is inherently rewarding. One thing that becomes clear in his books is that issues more so than characters are integral. This is so, he asserts, because characters in a work of fiction are not real, no matter how much effort is put into making them so, whereas issues are likely to be both real and vital. Originally from Chicago, he is a Michigan transplant, now of many decades. He graduated from Adrian College. Serving in the Korean Conflict, he returned to Michigan and attended the University of Michigan, acquiring an A.M. and a Ph.D. Human relations intrigued and moved him early on. His educational pursuits followed that interest into counseling, counseling psychology, and counselor education. The author went on to teach graduate students in counseling principles, practices and theory, as well as to supervise outreach counseling practicums—all of which prepared graduate students for licensing in careers in counseling and therapy. As a professor emeritus as well as when he was employed at Eastern Michigan University, he continued to prepare manuscripts for publication in professional journals. But gradually, and then completely, his attention turned to issues in which he had a vital and vested interest. Two manuscripts became books. This will be his third book, and a fourth is in process. Still, above all, he is devoted, not so much to scholarship or writing fiction, as to his family. This most recent book reflects on that love and affection, as well as on the influence family has on its members in terms of the bond embracing heritage, endowment, and legacy. He claims it to be ‘fiction with a heart.’ He enjoys writing, loves what he writes, but doesn’t always love what he’s written. Self-expression is a very powerful inspiration, and liberating, in his estimation. Consequently, it is inherently rewarding. One thing that becomes clear in his books is that issues more so than characters are integral. This is so, he asserts, because characters in a work of fiction are not real, no matter how much effort is put into making them so, whereas issues are likely to be both real and vital.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

To know them is to question them;

to question them is to doubt them;

to doubt them is to judge them;

to judge them is to condemn them;

to condemn them is to deny them;

but,

to deny them is not to face them;

and,

not to face them—

is not to understand them,

or,

to forgive them …

—Put yourself in their place.

If you can …

Be There

THE END

(Segment 1)

Chapter 1

Dancing on a Bubble

Swirling. Staggering. Banging into this and that. Groping. Lurching. Dizzily spinning in a drunken waltz. Desperately trying to overwhelm the physical and psychological pain with ambrosial revelry. An induced alcoholic fog helping to obscure the misery. A fugue for goodness sake. —Off the cruelly mystic light. Let the darkness hide the fear.

Exemplifying and amplifying her crisis after months of failing health, Liz learned that her fate was sealed. Every avenue of promise had closed to her. The open road was the one that led to ghastly disaster. All that could be done for her, had been done for her. Leaving Liz undone. And twisting in tormented thought. A funk as pox upon her mind. The true ring of terror. Awful alliteration. Dark … Bleak … Death. Doom to tomb. Mordacious morbidity. —Barely alive and fatally unwell. No wonder she grasped at straws …

False hope. Broken promises. —Close the curtain on illusion as mourning becomes allegro.

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She awoke with pangs and pain. Misery lapped agony. Wet and cold, a mess from head to toe, Liz stank. Her disgust of herself and for herself was profane.

Once over the embarrassment of the disgusting salmagundi she confronted, Liz tried to determine where to begin the cleanup after the foul fact. On her knees, of course, washing up the awful mess she’d made. —Of everything. In a state of revilement as she showered, Liz scrubbed herself as hard as she had scrubbed the floor. But, no matter that she scrubbed, even scoured, still she couldn't satisfy herself. No wonder/Unclean from the inside out.

Stuffing her soiled clothes in a garbage bag was a repugnant chore she completed with contempt. Having gathered the debris, she disposed of the waste by toting the defiled refuse to the bin at the end of the hall, completing a chore mandatory, and fraught. As she bore her gross burden, Liz momentarily lurked in the hallway, looking around furtively, with the intent of avoiding the scrutiny of neighbors.

When she returned to her apartment, exhausted, she wept over her predicament. Sickened by vestiges, she continued to sob. And she mourned her fate. -Again.

Liz constantly and continuously recalled the source of her woes: mounting fears of tragic inevitability. Death prompted all her thoughts. She couldn’t forget that. Not her goddamn death. No longer just a looming possibility/now, impending death as a certainty. —Goddamn.

Anger and swearing wouldn’t change the outcome. They couldn’t even relieve the pain, the anguish, the dread and fear and horror and the panic that she experienced night and day for weeks and weeks without recourse. Even months before she learned for a fact, she knew, intuitively. She had IT. IT had her. And that was IT.

Her constant companions: dreadful feelings. Fear, anger, bitterness, and hate, all the negatives, minuses that could not tabulate in any way positive. Not only death, but the agonizing dread of it, too.

One end. The wrong one. The bad one. The sinister one. Alone. Deserted by life. Gloom loomed, and flourished. A mushroom of despair, blossoming, rising, expanding, billowing, engulfing her in hopelessness.

Her body, her mind, her heart, and her will/her fortitude all failing her. They were too busy dying to come to her aid no matter how often or how plaintively she called upon them. They didn’t respond/not because they wouldn’t but because they couldn’t.

What can the matter be, oh, what can the matter be? No energy. No matter to energy. No energy to matter. No resuscitating conversions or transformations. Nothing left but awful images piling in and piling up, paralyzing her; relegating her to a zombie drugged by a destitute destiny.

Let go the grip. Can’t. Such grip is relentless. Because it was her grip on herself. A vice with teeth and strength.

Crush me, then. Now! I want out. The end. I need the end. Help!

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Awry. Amuck. Askance. Mixed up and mixed in the fleeting thought a maybe there was a way, a manner, a sort of saving grace.

She mulled over and over and over the dire but, for her, the restorative nature of her emergent configuration before completing the details in her mind/of a remedial potion that satisfied her wishes. The result: a proposition she formulated/dire but salutary she was finally convinced—that is, for someone on the way out.

Those to whom she proposed her plan of rectification were horrified when she proffered it. Liz was prepared for their reaction; she responded with understanding when they objected to her proposal, placating and proselytizing as she engaged them. Liz advocated, disclosing her resolve with amity as significant others registered their complaints without enmity. There was emotional pain exposed by all those with a vested interest in their friend’s welfare; as there were concerns expressed by all those with a conflict of interest in becoming involved in a dilemma with sociocultural, ethical-legal, and metaphysical/theological dimensions.

The duel was not just a conflict between right and wrong but a challenging exercise in patience and understanding. So— En garde. Parry. Point/counterpoint. & Thrust.

In the process, Liz worked the project …

… as she worked her will. Death as salvation.

All because the life cycle went wrong early in a precipitous descent toward the endgame …

Chapter 2

Hedging a Losing Bet

On seeing the light …

Behind the veil of terrible uncertainty lurked the wicked shadow of appalling doom. Screened images, dark and foreboding, prevailed even against good sense. But when panic intervened, it was goodbye to good judgment.

There was a feeling, a sense of unrightness, that something was wrong. A malaise, but more, or worse. Her body was messaging her something iniquitous that she couldn’t quite decipher. The message was vague; the import was dire.

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When good medicine is bad for a person’s health …

Routine/regular/annual checkup. Pap smear/mammogram/blood sample/EKG/et al. Was ist los? Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s something. Urine sample is just okay/blood sample somewhat suspect, the GP concluded. And weight is down … way down. What’s up?

Haven’t been eating. No appetite. Drinking some. Liz gave feeble reasons in her effort to find acceptable answers to her doctor’s probing questions.

Drinking some? Or drinking a lot? —Come clean, Liz.

I’m no spring chicken, Doctor. At my age/stage of life, even modest debauchery takes a toll. Liz looked up at her GP, unyielding, and stubbornly informed him, I drink a little—

"Debauchery, by definition, is never modest, Liz. And, a few drinks is not the problem. At 51, age is not a problem, either. We’ve talked about your drinking bouts before—and the problems it creates/has created for you. Although they have been mild, on various occasions you’ve complained of ills that turned out to be pancreatitis, colitis, and gastritis—"

—I’m a glutton for punishment.

Unamused, Liz’s GP held his tongue. In afterthought, the medico’s critical judgment was silently reflected in his terse admonition: Not funny, lady. Your body is reaching a critical—mess. I want to run some additional tests, Liz’s doctor mentioned when he did speak.

I’ll make arrangements with your office person when I check my calendar, Liz remarked fractiously.

Today, Liz’s doctor insisted, ignoring Liz’s pertness.

I’ve had my medicine for this month, Liz remarked staunchly.

Liz, don’t put this off.

If it’s bad news, I don’t want to hear it. If it’s good news, I don’t need to hear it. So, what’s the rush? Liz watched the doctor shake his head in solemn contemplation. In response to her doctor’s concern: I’ll be fine, Doctor. Trust me.

The GP was thinking, oh, yeah. You’re a very trustworthy patient. You’ll continue to do what you know is wrong for you. I’ll continue to admonish you— Do something for yourself, Liz. I’m not asking you to do anything for me.

Yes, you are. And it’s very thoughtful of you. But I can’t indulge you, Doctor. You want too much of me/expect too much of me/ask too much of me.

Ignoring Liz’s self-serving recalcitrance, Liz’s GP mentioned, I saw Dr. Vanderholdt the other day. He asked after you. The GP was nonchalant in mentioning his chance encounter with Liz’s former husband.

Say nothing to the good doctor about my condition. Liz was emphatic and firm in demanding the concession. —Do you guys ever call each other by your first name, or is the doctor-stuff for everyone else’s benefit? Without awaiting the answer to her rhetorical question, Liz proffered, We the people are fully aware of what you are without the proclamation, you know. —The white coats are a dead giveaway, Liz noted with a smirk.

Although Liz referred to her GP respectfully by title, Liz met her GP in another life, through her ex before Liz and her ex split. And even though at one time there had been a social connection with her GP, Liz diplomatically respected protocol. So, as it had been even in social venues, it was doctor-this and doctor-that until lately when Liz began to tire of the formality in her sporadic medical rendezvous. Titles, Liz scoffed.

Liz—

"I’ve put you on the spot, eh? Sorry about that Doctor."

"Liz, call me Mark if you want to. Skip the doctor part. But it’s not just a professional courtesy or a degree of notoriety that we’re seeking to gain with the title. It’s authority. That shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. We want our patients to respect our authority. Why? Because when he give you advice, we expect you to take it and not just do it as a favor to us. Doctor, punctuates the essence of our protocol and assigns value to our medical advice."

Mark, consider that I’ve been properly exclamation-pointed.

Liz’s doctor smiled. He patted her arm, and promised, I won’t be sharing medical information with your former husband. I promise.

Thanks for small favors. Remember that privacy is my right as a patient and your obligation as a professional, Doctor. Liz regretted the sarcasm and quickly redressed her misconduct. Please excuse my surliness, Mark. At the moment, I’m not a happy camper. And you’ve been the bearer of bad news. But I’m not supposed to blame the messenger, am I?

It’s not easy to separate the message from the messenger, Liz. I understand.

I think you do, and I’m grateful. — I’ll take some more tests. Just try your best to find a silver lining. Call me when you have the results. —And, Mark, I need to hear good tidings.

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Without any evidence, relying solely on intuition, infamous affect prompted Liz. Just because he didn't find it, just because the lab didn't detect it, just because medical science didn't discern it, well, none of that was any assurance that it wasn't there. That is, IT probably was true. Whatever IT was. Something was wrong; she knew that. She felt IT. But was she right in her supposition? She hoped not. But how could she know she was wrong? She couldn't. And, she couldn't get the idea out of her head that she was right about something being wrong/terribly wrong. Energized and enervated by the synergism of anxiety, Liz vacillated between expectation and trepidation.

There was no rhyme or reason to the anguish she created for herself, Liz’s alter ego submitted. No matter, Liz admonished the voice of reason from within, Whudyouknow?

The specter of disaster was on her mind all the time, now/all the time. On an el ride to the Loop. Shopping or dining. In a rare visit to the church during mass. Wondering and worrying. At home in her apartment. Alone and disconsolate. On a walk along Sheridan road to here or there. Thinking and anguishing. On the beach, looking out at Lake Michigan. The tortured reverie was tearing Liz asunder. And she was too proud to look outside herself for succor, and too distraught to find the strength within to hold herself together. So she just fretted—

What do I have—if I have it? When did I get it—if I did? How did I get it—if I got it? Where did it come from—if I came by it? —& Why?

Never mind all that. Get to the quintessence of the conundrum: Who has the answers—if there are any? And, who holds the magic—if there is any? —Where's Mandrake the Magician when you need him? Where you’d expect. Hanging out in the comics.

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When Liz’s GP called about her most recent round of tests, he was matter of fact. Liz thought that was a good sign. She was into signs/into omens, too.

Liz could feel her heart race/pound. Her voice reflected her apprehension, even though she tried desperately to control her tremulous inflection. So, what’s what?

Good News/Favorable results/No clear signs of disease to report. Liz absorbed the news without relief, because she sensed that there was some other news being withheld. That news followed.

A medical sandwich: first tell the good news, then tell the bad, and, finally, tell how the bad news might get to be good news. Buyer beware: Remember that the meat is in the middle of the sandwich/be careful that the meat is not baloney/or worse/rancid baloney.

Meat: … still disturbed about the results of the blood test and your weight loss. Baloney: It’s not something to be overly concerned about … not at this point … but I think we should arrange for further diagnostics, Liz … Elizabeth? the doctor asked, resorting to formality when he received no response to his recommendation.

"‘We should arrange’ things? The royal we. That we is me, isn’t it?"

Well, you know your schedule better than I do, Elizabeth. Liz could hear the formality in her doctor’s voice by his use of her given name. The tests are needed, Elizabeth, the doctor implored by intonation more so than by his words. He relaxed his hold on the phone when he realized how tightly he was gripping it and how hard he was pressing the receiver to his ear.

More tests, Liz groaned abjectly as she suddenly began to worry about the efficacy of medical tests. Then Liz groused disconsolately, another a batch of tests for what purpose?

They help. —We need some more help, Elizabeth/regrettably, some more tests. I’m sorry to put you through this. Really. But please, do this, the doctor entreated.

I’ll give your recommendation my utmost attention/top priority. What Liz said was incompatible with how she said it. There was rancor in her voice, and her affirmation could not be trusted. "But I’m thinking that I just went through two rounds of tests at your request. Now, you’re saying I need additional tests/a third round. What’re we trying to prove? Or, maybe I should say, what’re you trying to prove?" Liz waited impatiently on the other end of the line for word of an answer.

The doctor noted that his patient was growing surly/and demanding. He fine-tuned his approach in response to Liz’s change of mood by becoming even more businesslike, Elizabeth, these tests are important and necessary. If you want me to schedule them for you, I will.

The altered state of her GP’s formality did not escape Liz. No, that won’t be necessary. But thanks anyway, she said, sorry that she had taken out her frustration on her doctor.

I think everything will be just fine, the doctor offered in conciliation. Then, in resorting to an even more friendly tone and addressing his patient by her familiar name, the GP added, I just think the precaution is warranted, Liz. No sense taking any chances that something troublesome is being overlooked.

"I’m getting a mixed message, Doctor," Liz complained, reverting to causticity.

Maybe I’m sending a mixed message. I just want to be on the safe side.

Don’t we all.

These tests will very likely relieve your mind, and mine. Rancid baloney?

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The enigma, the dire enigma sent Liz reeling.

Her medical reports pending, possibly with trenchant consequences, Liz entertained/invited dire imagery and toxic intervention to pervade and infect her judgment, running rampant to a catastrophic conclusion. Suppose the results portended a worst case? Anything was possible. That being the case, what was possible loomed feasible in her perverse speculation. And suppose that her daunting omen of tragedy was realized, what then?

Without tangible evidence, relying solely on intuition, infamous affect prompted Liz to imagine the worst. Liz was thinking that just because her GP hadn’t found IT, just because the lab didn’t detect IT, just because medical science didn’t discern IT, well, none of that was any assurance that IT wasn’t there. Probably IT was. And if IT was, that was probably IT for her.

Morbidly transfixed, she dwelled on the reverberating catastrophic scenario that hampered her mental health and enervated her: Suppose it was a lethal affliction, what could she do? What could anyone do? What did anyone do for her mother? And Liz somberly considered the possibility that her disease—whatever it was/if she had it—might even be worse. What could be worse than breast cancer? She wasn’t finding answers/she was discovering more questions. And, she couldn’t seem to escape the box.

—Pandora's box. While there was hope in the box, the box was largely a retainer filled with varied and sundry troubles. Still, she opened the box; it was not a pretty sight/and hope was out of sight. No wonder Liz worried she might be at the mercy of the same cruel circumstances that plagued her mother, and to which her mother succumbed, as so many others had. Liz reacted sotto voce to her inner self: No to wasting away in a gruesome manner. —But what then?

—An escape? Liz took arcane comfort in a strange notion: to celebrate a terminal exit that was orchestrated as a planned change. Personal control.

It was certainly not bizarre to want to manage one’s own affairs. After all, if ‘life’s a party,’ why not death?

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When it rains—pour …

One stop shopping. In a state of disquietude after the call from her doctor, Liz went to a familiar cocktail lounge near her apartment. She ordered a Manhattan.

‘Wanna run a tab? the bartender asked when he brought Liz’s drink.

No—uh, yes, I guess I do. Her alter ego flinched as Liz and her alter ego could not come to terms. Liz relegated her better judgment to limbo—incommunicado.

She glanced around the bar/caught the eye of a male patron/quickly disengaged/hoping he wouldn’t get the wrong idea and try to come on to her. Liz finished her Manhattan/another Manhattan followed in quick order.

Months earlier, Liz had been in the same lounge. One of the regulars tried to come on to her: a putz in Liz’s view. ‘No thanks,’ to his overture to buy her a drink. She shouldn’t drink alone, he told her. Liz thought she would be better company talking to the wall than talking to the putz, but she shrugged and complied. When he asked her if she was ‘attached,’ Liz told him quickly and with an edge that she had married once too often, ‘And once was enough.’ Putz laughed, but he didn’t know why. ‘So, what happened to the ex?’ the meddlesome one had the audacity to ask. ‘Nothing,’ Liz proclaimed. ‘Dick—a most appropriate eponym, and even better epithet for him—boogied. —You’re kind of nosy, aren’t you?’ Liz asked with blunt candor. Putz chuckled, and grew uncomfortable.

‘You know,’ Liz said turning to face the eponymous uncouthness seated beside her, ‘every man has the capacity to make an asshole of himself. Some are just more headstrong about it than others.’ Liz scolded Putz with her wry smile.

Putz felt awkward. His smile grew wary with the realization that he was in for a bad time if he tried to go any further with his chit-chat; and, his fervor about rosy prospects for the night plummeted. Putz excused himself and escaped to a booth, his back turned to Liz for good reason.

The recollection of her encounter with Putz faded as Liz downed her second Manhattan and raised her cocktail glass in the direction of the bartender. Do this again, Liz demanded when the barkeep sidled over. The bartender gave Liz a look that was meant to intimate her. Expressing the thought that his bar patron might have reached her limit, the barkeep asked, Sure about that? Liz shook her cocktail glass at him, providing reaffirmation. Leaving no doubt in the barman’s mind about her intentions, she mumbled a recalcitrant soliloquy, I know what I want, and I want everyone to know it. Any more, no one screws me over—and certainly not over and over again. ‘Been through that/done it/had it.

The barkeep continued to have doubts about the wisdom of serving yet another drink to Liz. He would have said something but he was daunted by Liz’s declaration of independence. Thinking her insistence might be backed up by belligerence if he attempted to deny her, causing him aggravation he didn’t need, the barman did as he was bade with a shrug. The way he figured it, there was no reason to provoke the wrath of a ‘women’s libber.’

As she sipped her drink, Liz worried about her future. Surreptitiously, she rubbed her hand over her breast, wondering, worried. Could there be a problem? —That way. There, in her bosom/where her mother had a problem/was there the beginning of something dreadful?

Liz paid the tab she had run up and walked to her apartment in a melancholic fog. She disrobed on entering her bedroom and headed for the bathroom. Obsessed by the daunting thought that her body had fallen prey to a genetic flaw, almost urgently, certainly compulsively, Liz began to make an exhaustive examination of her breasts in the shower. Closely following the instructions she had read and reread periodically over the past months, Liz moved her fingers meticulously over her breast and her chest and armpits; she gently/gingerly pressed her fingers into her skin and tissue, searching for aberrancy. Almost disappointed that her probing did not uncover evidence to support her suspicions, Liz stepped out of the shower in a pensive mood. She toweled off, lay down on her bed and resumed her examination, first circling her breast tissue in large concentric rings, then in smaller ones. Again unsuccessful in discovering solid evidence for her fears, she concluded that something was probably there but too small to feel.

She drank, never giving a thought to how much she had already consumed. Several drinks later, still buck naked, she began to think that there was no reason to worry, after all. That’s what a few drinks can do for a person’s depression, Liz convinced herself. -I just need an evening out. Liz dressed herself and drank liberally from her bourbon over the rocks with each item of clothing that she donned. Now, I can go out and get a meal/that’ll sober me up so I can worry again/or, I can go to that little bar on Loyola that serves pizza and have a little wine with my dinner. But I don’t really like pizza, so I think I’ll just have the wine. Or, maybe I’ll just skip the wine, too, and have what I really want.

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The next morning was a bad morning for Liz. It seemed that every organ in her body was reacting to the abuse of the toot Liz went on the night before; and, at the same time, her mind was revolting against her pleas for relief. She was being punished mentally as much as she was physically for her profligacy of the previous evening. The phone rang and distracted her/mercifully saving her from further anguish and self-deprecation.

Liz picked up. She exhaled in relief when she heard the familiar voice.

What’s up?

Sounding exhausted and despondent, Liz replied, Everything is down. I’m in the dumps. I feel terrible, and I’m having an acute attack of self-pity. Anguish was conspicuous in every syllable Liz uttered. Liz’s tremulous voice alarmed TC, one of Liz’s best most faithful friends, because it sounded more like a cry for help than a need for conversation.

TC tensed with apprehension. She employed an aversive technique: When there’s uncertainty about a situation, but an instinct that something is brewing … dodge it, until there’s a clear need to face it. Well, we ought to do something about that, TC suggested. Lunch at the Drake? Of course, TC understood that avoidance only postponed the inevitable.

God, I don’t know if I can travel that far without barfing. And just the idea of lunch almost makes me sick.

Shopping then. Let’s do Michigan Ave. I haven’t been in Nieman Marcus since it opened.

I know I’ve got to get out of this apartment, Liz confided. Maybe we could stop for an eye-opener.

Liz, I can’t believe you. You used to be a teetotaler.

"I used to be a lot of things, TC. Now, are you going to scold me about my drinking, too?"

Whuddya mean? Who else’s been scoldin’ you?

My GP, Doctor Proctor.

Is that your GP’s name?

No, that’s my GP’s function, or so he thinks. He wants to supervise my drinking behavior. But he’s not willing to pay the check.

Lizzz, TC extended her friend’s name in some dismay and inquired with concern, what’s going on?

I don’t know/I don’t feel right/I don’t feel good. I’m a basket case/a coffin case, Liz droned on woefully. To TC, Liz was uncharacteristically querulous/and maudlin.

Sounds bad, Liz, TC acknowledged.

Let’s have that drink, and I’ll spill the beans. Promise.

Okay, sure, TC agreed to the meet.

The old haunt just off State, Liz suggested.

Fine.

Meet you there in, say, two hours, at, what, three o’clock? That good for you? Liz asked.

I guess.

Be there. Don’t let me down, TC. I need to talk—

I’ll be there, Liz. You can count on me. TC folded her cell phone slowly, deliberately, not knowing what to think except that Liz’s situation seemed dire.

Liz placed her phone in the cradle. She stared at it for a moment, thankful that the call had come but wondering just what she would say to TC/wondering what she could say/wondering if she should say things about the source of her fear(s).

Liz walked to the el station; it was a chore. She boarded the el, took a seat, worried herself over the perplexing news she had received from her GP the day before, and suffered pangs of conscience for her reaction to her portentous medical assessment. As for her tribulation over the past twenty-four hours, What a difference a day makes, Liz mused ruefully.

Liz wasn’t waiting outside the cocktail lounge when TC arrived. So TC entered the lounge and discovered that Liz had secured a booth.

Do you mind if we postpone the shopping? Liz asked. That OK?

TC quickly confirmed that it was, because she had no problem postponing her gratification.

I need a drink or two in order to divulge what’s bothering me, Liz confided. Liz took her time to explain her situation to TC over her first Manhattan. By the time their second round had arrived, Liz had noted most of her concerns about her physical examination.

But there was really no bad news, right? TC asked when Liz finished her description of the state of her health.

Well, there was nothing good about what the guy told me. I thought he was hedging his bet. I just don’t think he came out with everything. He’s hiding something from me, and I hate that. And contrary to what she told her GP, Liz asserted, If it’s bad news, give it to me.

Did you ask him? TC inquired.

Sort of/not really. I was lying when I told him I didn’t want to hear bad news. I’m just afraid to hear bad news because I’m afraid the news is going to be bad.

Whuddya mean, and why’re you so sure the news is going to be bad?

He wants me to take more tests.

Liz, TC scolded with her tone of voice, of course you’ve got to take more tests if they’re called for. I can’t believe you’re becoming an ostrich.

Liz smiled defensively. She looked around helplessly, then she caught the attention of the waitress and raised two fingers."

Jesus, Liz. No wonder you didn’t pass your physical.

Don’t start lecturing me, TC.

OK, TC condescended, but I don’t have to keep up with you, either.

Dismissive, Liz scoffed, Another drink won’t kill you.

I drove down, Liz. And even if a drink won’t kill me, I don’t want to get pulled over for driving while impaired.

Liz didn’t respond to TC’s tongue-in-cheek. Instead, Liz turned increasingly morbid. Her once idle speculation about her condition was gradually converted to a dire certainty that tragedy was just around the corner. Growing serious, Liz confided, I drink so I won’t have to get in touch with myself, TC, because if I get in touch with myself, I probably won’t like what I find.

TC felt the burden of Liz’s problems, and bore it almost as if it were her own. She got lost in gloomy thoughts of her own: a mother who died of congestive heart failure too young at fifty-seven. Why must we be saddled with genetic baggage? Because/we have to take the bitter with the sweet. And still TC wondered what was sweet about her heritage. She grimaced.

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Worried and nervous, Liz sat in the anteroom of the hospital lab awaiting her turn to submit to what the technicians commonly referred to as ‘pokes and draws.’ She dreaded the procedures on the previous occasion; she dreaded them even more the third time around, because of the increasing portent. When she entered the room in which she would provide samples of her vitals, Liz cringed anxiously, first, with the more immediate concern for the ‘poke and draw’ and, then, for the more dire concern about the results. The latter concern was the greater because she knew that since the results would not be immediately forthcoming, her anguish would be prolonged. Liz did what she could to mask her wretchedness and to put on a good face for the nurse.

The nurse was pleasant and joked about the procedures. Liz joked back, but she was not as at ease as she feigned, certainly not the ‘tough cookie’ she wanted the nurse to think she was. The bluff—what Liz sometimes referred to as the Chicago Bluff—was just a coverup of feelings, a way of hiding emotions with a steely façade meant to protect the soft underside. So, smile away.

You did good, the nurse congratulated Liz, more or less perfunctorily.

You, too, Liz complimented the nurse for her work, more in a manner of speaking than in gratitude.

We’ll send the results of these tests to your doctor. I’m sure he’ll be calling.

I’m sure he will. Liz desperately wanted to ask when her doctor would receive the results, but she couldn’t ask, because she didn’t want the nurse to think that getting the results was of any particular concern. But Liz did have concerns, general concerns and particular concerns/loads of them. All about damage control. And she had this dread: ‘The White Coats are coming.’

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‘Something in the air,’ so to speak, but they didn’t speak about it … directly …

Friends noticed the nuances. Whatever they noticed, however, they kept it to themselves. Because. There was no sense/no reason to risk ‘making a mountain out of a molehill.’ Besides, other topics were more tangible/less problematic. Why raise concerns over figments of imagination. —So Liz looked out of sorts. It happens.

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Shit happens. Who doesn’t have bad days or—periods, Margo contended without identifying the provocation for her observation. Hers was an equivocal reference to their good friend Liz. Having alluded to dire circumstances troubling Liz, exposing their existence by suggestion but without subjecting them to scrutiny, Margo became uncharacteristically pensive and distracted by the germ of mayhem worming its way through her central nervous system.

Shah knew instinctively who Margo was talking about without Margo having to provide details. She wanted to share her own vague impressions of Liz’s situation, but because it had ominous implications and ramifications for their friend, Liz, Shah resorted to subterfuge. She made conversation, but it wasn’t about the issue, or the person, she had on her mind.

They both sensed each other’s reticence and reluctance to share, and they respected each other’s right to privacy in the matter of defining their concerns about their friend, Liz. Deliberately evasive, skirting the portentous matter, neither Shah nor Margo directly broached the subject that disturbed them. And even though there may have been relief in disclosure, they could not bring themselves to talk about Liz’s presenting problems. That pending concern about Liz made them edgy, inducing them to pursue other issues of consequence in their lives.

Life can be funny/sad, I mean. We’ve all had our losses. Like my parents. Like your daughter/I bet that was really tough. So young, Margo remarked with a shake of her head.

She was a treasure, Margo, Shah confided to her friend. I love my son dearly, but my daughter was the light in my life. To say that she was special because she was handicapped just does not begin to describe how really special she was to me. Losing her was a tragedy/almost unbearable for me. All I ever thought was how unfair life can be. That darling girl never complained, always had a smile, and love burst out of her. She was sunshine. Distressed by her last remark, Shah lost her voice, but her tears spoke clearly about her state of mind.

Margo respected Shah’s moment of remembrance with silence.

Composed after a brief stay of emotions, shaking her head ruefully, Shah mentioned her husband’s response as being out of touch with the enormity of the loss they had experienced. When Tracy died, I told Phil, I didn’t understand it. I had no answer for it. Phil said, ‘Well, Shah, that’s a start.’ I know what he meant, but I wasn’t consoled by his remark.

You’ve always said Phil was a caring person, Margo felt obliged to mention.

He is. But he’s not necessarily understanding/of the pain that I experienced as a mother. Oh, I don’t mean that he wasn’t touched. He was. But he told me later that maybe Tracy was better off. I couldn’t believe what he said. It made me think he was more worried about how she would handle herself as she grew older than about losing her. Shortly after that, maybe because of that, I started a relationship with someone at the firm where I first worked. I needed something, someone, I don’t know. Maybe I just needed a diversion/a distraction.

Margo looked up at Shah, startled by her friend’s revelation. Not you, Shah, Margo was thinking but did not say.

Shah confided with surprising ease that "Phil and I grew apart. I needed him to embrace me/to hold me. And more. He wouldn’t touch me—that way. You know?

"Every once in a while, I wanted Phil to ravage me. He never did. I suppose he can’t. Phil’s tender and loving, but he’s no lover. What he has to offer is OK. I can live with it. But it’s not enough. I still, well, want to be ravaged. I took care of that need the only way I could.

I had a fling. That’s all it ever was/nothing more to my affair than fulfilling a desire. Lust/it came and went about once a week. —It’s our secret, Margo, Shah said looking at her friend in that way in which confidentiality was solicited, but an avowal was not required.

Margo’s demeanor silently conveyed compliance born of allegiance. Also, Margo was the perfect confidante. She was trustworthy and understanding. Besides, as importantly, Shah more than suspected Margo had been complicit; there were overt signs beyond mere peccadilloes.

Shah couldn’t confide in Liz or TC or Dee, because, while they would have been understanding and would have kept her secret, her good friends would have been disappointed by her conduct. And Shah didn’t want her image to suffer in the eyes of her fast friends.

As for Penny, Shah couldn’t rely on her other sister. Understanding wasn’t a problem for Penny; Penny would have provided understanding in abundance. But Penny was a sieve. She told things that were told to her in confidence in spite of the proviso, Now don’t tell anyone else. Swear. Penny didn’t have any problem swearing the oath; she just couldn’t seem to keep the faith. Penny let things slip. Confidences she gave away were guileless or unconscious, not crafty or vile. She just had a habit of blabbing without thinking, but she wasn’t censurable for anything more than loose lips and poor judgment, not—Toxic Tattletales.

… I guess I’ve said all I can say about what I shouldn’t say. And for what I did say, well, I took care of that today/with you/and, periodically, at confession, so I’m all right with that part. And thanks for listening, Margo.

Margo was glad she could help, even though she wasn’t quite sure how she had managed it.

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Checking in. Checking up. Just checking out her friend.

What’s up? Penny asked Liz.

Liz shrugged. Not much.

Something about Liz’s response and the distant look of her friend forced Penny to ask, You sure?

Pretty sure.

What’s that mean? Penny asked with some concern.

Just some medical stuff. Didn’t get sterling results/got kind of a bad report card.

How bad? Penny asked with growing alarm.

Nothing to put a finger on, but things aren’t right.

Penny was now full of questions. And concerns. What did the doctor say about this?/About that? And when Liz said the doctor was going to do additional tests, Penny wanted to know what the tests were for, and when the tests would be conducted, and how soon Liz would get the results. Liz maintained that everything would be fine, but she said so without much conviction.

Penny didn’t want to ask more questions for fear that she would just trigger more anxiety for her friend. I’m with you, Liz. I’m here for you, Penny wanted to assure her friend.

I appreciate that, Penny. It’s good of you.

It’s a human instinct, isn’t it?

What’s that, Penny?

You know, to want to help your friends.

Possibly. Liz wasn’t quite sure what point Penny was trying to make, because her friend had a penchant for abstraction. And she didn't want to penalize Penny with polemics. Besides, Liz was busy musing about personal problems that were unrelated to matters of fidelity.

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From a person who seldom complained about aches and pains, Liz became prone to catastrophizing about ill-defined ailments. Gradually, the aberrancy was duly noted by her companions, although they had not addressed the matter between or among themselves.

It was inevitable that someone in their coterie would broach the subject. And Dee was the ideal person to do it.

Liz is going through a difficult time in her life. She’s got more than just a medical problem. Liz is more worried about what she might have than what she does have, Dee was telling TC.

You think so? TC asked, feigning ignorance, but feeling awkward about an obligatory veil of confidence she was trying to preserve.

I think Liz worries about her family’s medical history, Dee volunteered.