Hell Fire (21 page)

When she arrived, she checked in at reception and sat down to wait with a magazine. But she couldn't concentrate and put it down again. After half an hour, she was called in. She sat down in the patient's chair.

“Good morning, Thomasine,” her doctor said. “It's a long time since you were last here. How's Eddie?”

“Oh, you know how he is,” she said. “Stubborn as a three-year-old and still on disability. But he's good company. Without him, I'd be all alone.”

He pulled up her medical records on the computer screen and read through the last consultation notes. “So, how can I help you today?”

“I've got these terrible pains in my back. And for some reason, my right wrist is sore as well.” She put her arm down on his desk, and he lifted it gently and examined it carefully.

“No swelling,” he confirmed. “Have you fallen or hit it in any way?”

“Not at all. I'm still steady on my feet; I'm only fifty-six, you know,” she exclaimed.

“Quite,” he said and nodded. “Have you lifted anything heavy?”

Mass started to laugh. “I've got Eddie. And he's as strong as an ox.”

“How long has it been hurting?” he asked.

“Quite some time now. It wasn't much to begin with, but it's gradually gotten worse.”

“I see,” he said and paused for thought. Then he turned back to the screen and added some notes in the records.

“And otherwise?” He looked at her. She was sitting with her handbag on her lap and looked as though she wanted to take flight.

“Well, I've got some bruises,” she had to admit. “There seem to be more and more of them and I've had them a long time.”

“Where are they?”

“On my thighs. I notice them when I shower. And I have no idea where they come from.”

“Let me have a look,” he said.

Mass stood up and pulled down her pants. She was shy, but she knew the doctor. She had been his patient for many years, and she really needed to find out what was wrong. He put his finger on the bruises one by one.

“Are they tender?”

“I can't feel anything, that's the strange thing.”

She pulled up her pants again. The doctor sat and pondered; she wanted him to say something, but he was just silent.

Then he took out a small flashlight and rolled his chair around so he could get closer and shined it in her eyes. First one, then the other. Mass had no idea what he was looking for.

“We need to take some tests,” he said. “You'll have to sit and wait outside the lab. We need to check your blood. And I also want you to go to the main hospital for some x-rays. I'll send a referral and you'll get an appointment in the mail.”

“Will I have to wait long?”

“No,” he said promptly. “I'll say it's urgent.”

“Is it urgent?” she asked, horrified. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably not,” he said and smiled. “But we need to find out what it is. And in the meantime, I'll prescribe tramadol, which is good for back pain.”

She took the prescription and thanked him.

“Say hello to Eddie,” he said as she got up. And she promised to do so.

“I don't see much of him,” he commented.

“Eddie's never ill,” Mass replied.

She took a number outside the lab; there were obviously a lot of people in front of her and she found it impossible to relax now. When she was finally shown in, she didn't dare ask about anything. But when they were done, she did ask if they could send a letter when the results were ready.

“We'll send the results to your doctor,” the receptionist said, “and he will contact you.”

She thanked him for his help and went out to the car. She stopped at the pharmacy to pick up the painkillers. When she got home, Eddie asked where she had been.

“I had a few errands,” she said. “You know, the bank and things. And the post office.”

“Jeez,” Eddie said and whistled. “Does it take that long to go to the bank?”

She didn't answer. Instead she went into the kitchen and out of habit glanced down into the corner, but Shiba was gone. Neither of them mentioned the dog anymore.

Only a week later, she got a letter from the hospital with an appointment. When she got there, she made her way through the main entrance and took the elevator to the x-ray department, full of hope. This time she didn't have to wait before she was shown in and the examination didn't take long. They took x-rays of her back and wrist.

Once again, the results would be sent to her doctor. She took Eddie out for a Chinese meal later in the afternoon. She hadn't told him about her visits to the doctor and hospital yet. She kept telling herself that it was nothing serious. In any case, the tramadol was working so well that she almost forgot the pain. And when her doctor contacted her to say that all the results had come in, she was certain that it would soon all be sorted.

He sat with his hands in his lap and looked at her. He took off his glasses.

“I'm going to explain to you what we've found so far,” he said, “but I'm afraid you're going to have to go for further tests at the hospital.”

Mass didn't dare respond. Her eyes were glued to the doctor, and she was gripping her handbag so hard that her knuckles were white.

“We have found something in the blood tests and x-rays,” he explained. “And when I examined your eyes, I saw that you had jaundice.”

“What?” She stared at him, nonplussed.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “The whites of your eyes are yellow. You perhaps haven't noticed yourself.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“That's what we need to find out, and that's why I'm referring you for more tests. But there's something else as well, and this will probably surprise you. It turns out that you have a fracture at the base of your wrist. Radius. And I initially thought osteoporosis, as it's a common symptom and injury.”

Mass closed her eyes in dismay. “I've heard about women who get fractures just by turning over in bed,” she said. “Or banging into something, like a door or piece of furniture.”

“Yes,” the doctor said hesitantly. “That's right. But I'm not entirely sure that is what's wrong with you. When is the pain in your back the worst?”

“When I'm lying in bed. Not when I'm moving around. It seems so illogical.”

“Fractures can actually happen spontaneously,” he told her. “Which might be the case here.”

“But how can that happen? Is it an illness?”

“I don't want to comment on that, really; I'll leave it to the experts,” he said. “I'll give you a referral. They'll probably take some more blood tests at the hospital. Ultrasound, an MRI, and a CT scan. And maybe a couple of biopsies.”

The worry was eating at her now. What was wrong with her, and should she tell Eddie? She decided not to say anything until she knew for certain.

When she got home, she tried to distract herself with domestic chores, but it was impossible to concentrate. She sat down with the paper but didn't read it; she ate some food but didn't taste it; she turned on the TV but it was nothing more than images that flickered by. She hardly slept that night and took more and more tramadol. Even though it would soon be spring, she couldn't muster any enthusiasm.

Eddie thought she was in mourning for Shiba. It worried him that she was so restless. One day, he suggested that they get a new puppy, but Mass gave a definite no. “This time you're not going to persuade me,” she said.

She went back to the hospital, where she went through endless tests. Everyone was friendly toward her. She wondered if that was because they realized how worried she was. But then she thought probably not, because they had to deal with so many people and were practiced at it. When she was finally done, she put her clothes back on and took the elevator down to the café. Now she just had to wait for another letter. In the past few weeks, she had started to experience stomach pains and had lost some weight. Even though that was something she had wanted for a long time, she knew this weight loss was due to something else, which wasn't good. She sat there with a cup of coffee and studied the other people. She thought they were moving so slowly, that all the voices just merged into a hum that rose and fell. Then she drove back home to Eddie. She didn't tell him anything about what she had been through.

One day, he came in with the newspaper and put the mail down on the kitchen table.

“There's a letter for you from Vestre Viken Health Authority,” he said. “Are you going in for a mammogram?” He could just imagine his mother's heavy breasts pressed together between two glass plates, and he was sure that she didn't like standing half naked in front of strangers.

“No,” she said evasively. “It's something else.” She picked up the letter and then put it back down on the table.

“Aren't you going to open it?” he asked. “What is it?”

She sat with the envelope in her hands. “Can you get me a knife?” she said wearily.

He fetched a knife for her, and she opened the envelope. She read the few lines on the page. They asked her to come to the hospital for a consultation with Dr. Bromann, in connection with the examinations and tests that had been done.

“It's just the results of some tests,” she said bravely to Eddie. “I have to go in on Friday and talk to the doctor.”

“I want to come too,” Eddie said swiftly. He didn't like the white envelope and his mother's evasive eyes.

“No, I'll go on my own,” she said. “You don't need to hold my hand. I'm a big girl now.”

“I know. I just thought you might like the company.”

She shook her head and put the letter down. She couldn't look her son in the eye.

The shelves were filled with books and there were great piles of paper everywhere. Bromann was sitting on a high-backed chair. He had a large melancholy face and some thinning tufts of fine white hair. When Mass entered his office, he got up to greet her.

“Please, sit down,” he said kindly. “We have a lot to talk about.”

She put her handbag down beside the chair and waited for the judgment.

“So, Thomasine,” he started, “you have had a series of tests done, and you are probably quite tired of it all. And no doubt a little confused.”

“Yes,” she said, “I'm exhausted.”

“But we had to make sure it was a thorough examination, and we've found a number of things. I'll go through them one by one and will try not to use too much terminology, so you can understand.”

She didn't say anything. She realized that something was about to happen, something she had always feared.

“First of all, you have jaundice,” he said. “You have pains in your stomach and you've lost weight. You also have pain in your back, which is worst when you are lying down. Your blood counts are all over the place. And we noticed something in your bones when we did the MRI scan. And the ultrasound.”

“Gosh, that doesn't sound good,” Mass said in an anxious voice.

“Well, it isn't entirely good,” Bromann said and looked her straight in the eyes. He didn't blink.

Mass noticed the most absurd things: that his glasses were smeared, that there was a dent on the bridge of his nose. She felt as if she were standing on the shore and a wall of water was rushing toward her.

“I'm afraid I have to tell you that you have full-blown cancer of the pancreas,” he said.

Mass gasped. “You mean tumors? Malignant?”

“Yes. Several of them.”

“But they can be taken out?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Why not?”

“Normally, we can operate,” he told her, “but not in this instance.”

“But dear God, why not?”

He sank into his high-backed chair. “Because unfortunately it has already spread to your bones. You have been ill for a long time without realizing it. This particular cancer has only a few and rather diffuse symptoms.”

The tidal wave engulfed her. In a matter of seconds, she understood she was going to die. She thought she might collapse on his desk and Bromann would gather her up in his strong arms.

“But what about Eddie?” she sobbed. “He can't cope alone.”

“Your husband?”

“No, he's gone. I've only got a son. He lives at home with me because he needs help and he's on disability.”

Bromann nodded. The sympathy he felt for the woman sitting opposite him who was soon to die was in danger of making him lose his professionalism.

“What is his diagnosis?”

“He doesn't have one,” Mass wailed. “But he can't work. He's incapable; he doesn't fit in. But he manages fine at home with me.”

“Can you tell me what sort of things he can do and what he can't?”

“He's very slow and cautious, but his brain is good. He gets anxious when I leave the house. When he was small, he suffered from separation anxiety, and he's still frightened of strangers even now. He seldom goes out. He's twenty-one years old and he will live at home with me until I die. And now you've told me that I'm just about to die. Because that is what you're telling me, isn't it?”

She looked at him in desperation. “Can I not have a marrow transplant?”

“No,” Bromann said. “I'm afraid it's too late.”

“But when am I going to die, then?”

“I understand why you ask. The cancer is quite far advanced, but you know, even doctors can be wrong. You will be given chemotherapy.”

“And then I'll lose my hair?”

“Do you think that's so bad?”

“No, I've never been that vain. But Eddie will be scared.” She picked up her handbag, opened it, and looked for a tissue. She didn't have any, so she put the bag down again. “Is it a matter of months? Or maybe a year?”