Sound inside

The Sound Inside 8/23/19 34
IV
BELLA(to AUDIENCE)
The consultation with my oncologist yields only the grimmest of prospects.
The tumors are rampant.
I ask him what my odds for recovery are. He says they are very low. I ask him
for a hard number. He says, “Twenty-to -twenty-five percent, probably closer
to twenty.” I tell him that I feel fine. I tell him that I can’t smell any rot
seeping out of me. I say, “Maybe I’m closer to twenty-five percent.” He says,
“You’re not.” I tell him that my bowel movements are regular; that the pain in
my abdomen is practically negligible. I tell him how I recently had sex with a
man; how everything in that department felt normal. He says, “Good.” I say,
“Maybe that puts me at twenty-three percent.” He says, “It doesn’t,” and
shows me my scans. He points to the healthy tissue, the unhealthy tissue.
I say, “Oh.”
“I’m being generous with twenty percent,” he says.
He wants to start me on a cycle of aggressive treatment immediately.
The following day, a male nurse leads me to a chemotherapy bay, which
boasts a dozen oyster-gray pleather recliners, which are separated by orange
shower curtains. There are three vacancies and I’m allowed to choose my
very own.
I sit into it. It feels as if I’m accepting some sort of ergonomic, living-roomquality
death sentence.
In a soothing voice the nurse asks me if someone is going to come by and pick
me up after my treatment.
“No,” I say. “I planned on walking home.”
The nurse advises that in the future I should have someone come get me, that
the medication can cause lightheadedness and that the nausea will very likely
get worse with each successive visit.
I’m only half-hearing him. I’m too busy noticing all the other patients. The
catheters attached to the backs of hands and forearms and collarbones and
the prophylactic arrangement of the various tubes, ports and fluid bags that
appear to