traces the skin of his spine.
“No, Dad. I don’t think I am.”
5
September 7, 2009
“You have a bleb.” Dr. Richard Fost says, flipping a paper on his clipboard like a cue card.
“A what?” Michael says. His feet dangle a few inches above the floor. Lauren sits in the moderately comfortable chair adjacent to the examination table. Both of them have dressed casually for the occasion: Michael in his office polo and slacks, Lauren wearing a red blouse and black jeans.
“The chest x-ray results showed a very noticeable entity positioned in your right lung, near the top. Most likely, this was, and still is, the source of the bleeding in the sputum that caused you to come here today.”
“Richard, you’ve been taking care of me for six years. Where the hell did this come from?” Michael’s palms grip the thin paper of the exam table with precipitation.
“There are a few possibilities for what it could be, and also where it could have come from. The only way to positively determine an answer would be for you to undergo a procedure known as a bronchoscopy.”
“What is that?” Lauren asks, her voice small. Her fingers softly trace the band of her wedding ring.
“It’s a relatively minor procedure.” Fost wheels to his desk, his white overcoat pressing against the hard gray of his seat. His short, black hair is tightly cropped.
“A bronchoscopy will allow us to enter your lung and physically examine the source of the bleeding. Instead of having to crack your chest open and go in there with a magnifying glass, we can stick this tube down your throat and take samples of whatever is on top of this bleb. You’ve had how many incidents of bleeding so far, in these past few weeks?”
“A lot.” Michael says quickly.
“Right. So the fact that there is a potentially foreign body actively causing the release of blood is quite concerning, but its manageable. This bleb thing is a little pocket full of fluid that has attached itself to your lung, providing a possible entryway for foreign and malicious diseases to enter. By conducting the bronchoscopy, we’ll be able to get a solid idea of what exactly may be causing this, or which, if any, possible infections may be associated with your current symptoms.”
“When would I be undergoing this procedure, exactly?” Michael thinks of Alex, who had just started eighth grade not even a week ago, who falls asleep to a coughing father and crying mother.
“I’d want to have it done today, or as soon as possible.” Fost says resolutely, looking between the couple.
“Today?”
“Yeah.”
Michael shares a look with Lauren, her pupils aloft with fear.
“Alright, then, I guess we’d better do it.” Michael pats the table in a quick beat.
“Good.” Fost flips the papers on his clipboard back to their state of rest. “Let’s get you over to the hospital.”
—
After the initial incident of bleeding, more episodes of coughing and resulting blood had followed; Lauren had pushed him to schedule a more appropriate examination than self-diagnosis of “I’m fine” or the surgical “I probably just coughed too hard.” Michael started tossing paper towels in the trash, labeling incidents as less severe by swallowing his grimaces.
At the same time, Alex dutifully went and made his parents proud by earning his grades in school. He ate the starter assignments for the year seamlessly, completing them with expedience. He recalled his review and absorbed all the new information. At the age of 13, he’s already preparing for a life of compartmentalization and success in the face of stress. Such is the nature his parents have taught him through their earliest practical lessons of argument and division.
—
On the night of Michael’s bronchoscopy, Lauren is the parent on duty. On a typical night, she usually tucks herself in her room with a book on mental health or uses the computer while Alex occupies himself with his electronics elsewhere in the house. Michael often pulls Alex away from the screen, ready to discuss the news of the day or potentially the activity of the music world.
As Michael’s in for surgery, Lauren and Alex wait in the reception area, Alex listening to his music, and Lauren reading in the chair next to him.
Harlan and Cynthia join them, driving down after dinner. Harlan sits next to Alex, stationed like a real life version of the Lincoln Memorial. He sits examining the magazines left on the table of every hospital waiting room, thumbing through stories related to celebrities who synthesize a completely different world and ordinary people. He vests no value in their tales, yet he reads on, soaking up details to occupy his eyes. Harlan’s seen the fear in his son’s expression upon coughing up the blood. He can only imagine the disappointment and shock accompanying every sequential bloody paper towel, collected as mementos or tossed into the garbage.
Harlan’s fingers leaf through the pages slowly, transitioning from a story on kidnapping to a story on weight loss. Society seems to be evolving in reverse, where such fickle topics as ways in which celebrities lose weight sit next to a story on how to destroy a young girl’s world. The pages Harlan turn are marked with a touch of sweat. Lauren mentioned Fost speaking of a small possibility of cancer, but tragedy needs no data for a hypothesis.
Alex sits in the chair next to Harlan. The boy stares downward, his music player singing to him. Harlan and his grandson live less than an hour apart, and Harlan loves seeing him when they get together four times every year. The inches between the chairs include the opportunities never seized and the moments never spent, memories lying in wait for discovery. In only a few hours, Alex has gone from his school to the waiting room, for a parental procedure nobody in the family can correctly name. Harlan taps his grandson on the shoulder, his fingers touching the light gray fabric of Alex’s hoodie.
Alex snaps out of his own mind, removing the buds. His eyes, similar to his mother’s, look at Harlan reservedly.
“How’re you doing, Alex?”
“I’m doing alright, just listening to my music.”
“What’ve you been listening to?”
Alex pulls the device out of his pocket. It’s a sleek gray, with an engraved trademark on the case. Alex clicks a button on the top of the device, and the screen displays an image of an album cover. A young, princely boy, with a crown upon his head, is in the motion of turning away from Alex and Harlan’s intruding eyes. In red letters, the word Train hangs like a portrait next to the royal youth.
“It’s a song called ‘Drops of Jupiter’, by this band named Train. It’s one of my Dad’s favorites.”
“Train...”
Harlan attempts to reach back into the years to find a whisper of the band’s sound.
“It came out in, like, 2000 or something. You might not have heard of it.” Alex says softly, pressing the button to turn the screen.
Humor reaches Harlan’s face.
“Are
