says.
"I want it done soon," I reply, determined not to slip into the achingly slow hospital schedules that drag even the simplest procedures out until they last forever. "Every day we wait is another day that this cancer could creep out to another part of my body. My lungs. My liver. The cancer's reaching out to the rest of my body, like Adam reaching out to God, and the longer we wait, the more chance there is that their fingers could touch and I'm a goner. I'm ready for this and I don't want to wait."
"It could take a few weeks to get you a slot. Your insurance is pretty good, but obviously there's a reasonable backlog."
"I'd rather do it now."
"There's a process," he replies wearily. "I'll hurry it along as much as possible."
"Are you sure it wouldn't be easier if I just cut them off myself?" I ask. "I could drink a bottle of whiskey stick a piece of wood between my teeth and grab a pair of scissors. Hey presto, instant weight loss." I wait for him to smile, but there's a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I know they're not the biggest specimens in the world," I add eventually, "but still, it wouldn't be bad to suddenly lose a few pounds. Do I get to keep the nipples? Do they sew them back on, or do I get them in a jar, or -"
"You're rambling," he says suddenly.
I take a deep breath. He's right. I hate this, but I also know I've got no choice. Breast cancer killed my mother and both my grandmothers. There's absolutely no doubt that I'm next in the cross-hairs, and if there's one thing that scares me more than this surgery, it's death. That's why I want to get it over with as fast as possible; I'm scared that I might lose my bottle and reverse the decision if I'm given long enough to mull over the possibilities. It's better to strike now, while I've got my head straight. The thing that scares me the most is the thought that I might change my mind.
"If I pay more," I say after a moment, "can I get it done today?"
"Not unless you've got a few million stashed away somewhere."
Sighing, I realize that he's right. Damn it, if I'd just made this decision a few weeks ago when the subject first came up, I could be getting the surgery in the next few days. As it is, my own indecision has left me vulnerable. Why was I so dumb? I guess it must be the drugs affecting my mind again. The old Joanna Mason - the real , drug-free Joanna Mason - would have made the right decision ages ago.
"A couple more weeks should be fine," he replies, switching to that soft voice he uses when he's trying to sound calm and soothing. It never works. "I'm going to schedule you today, and you'll get a letter after the weekend with a date and a time. After that, you just need to focus on eating healthily, getting some exercise, and putting yourself in a positive frame of mind for when the surgery comes around. Maybe see a counselor."
I smile. Gibbs is always pushing me to see a counselor, even though he knows that I'd never, ever stoop so low. Counselors are for people who can't deal with things on their own terms. I'm stronger than that.
"Seriously, Joanna," he continues. "Don't underestimate how much this is going to affect you."
"What you mean," I reply after a moment, "is that I shouldn't overestimate my own ability to deal with it."
"Speaking of which," he says with a sigh, "how are you doing regarding the other matter?"
"What other matter?" I ask, even though I know full well what he means. He's referring to the same thing that everyone else has been referring to for the past few weeks. I swear to God, I don't think I've had one conversation recently that didn't include a little side discussion of the impending moment.
"Sam Gazade is going to be executed by lethal injection at midnight tomorrow night," he continues. "Twelve years after everything that happened, justice is finally going to be served. That has to feel... good? Right? You must have some kind of emotional reaction, Joanna."
"You're an oncologist," I reply. "Shouldn't I be
"I want it done soon," I reply, determined not to slip into the achingly slow hospital schedules that drag even the simplest procedures out until they last forever. "Every day we wait is another day that this cancer could creep out to another part of my body. My lungs. My liver. The cancer's reaching out to the rest of my body, like Adam reaching out to God, and the longer we wait, the more chance there is that their fingers could touch and I'm a goner. I'm ready for this and I don't want to wait."
"It could take a few weeks to get you a slot. Your insurance is pretty good, but obviously there's a reasonable backlog."
"I'd rather do it now."
"There's a process," he replies wearily. "I'll hurry it along as much as possible."
"Are you sure it wouldn't be easier if I just cut them off myself?" I ask. "I could drink a bottle of whiskey stick a piece of wood between my teeth and grab a pair of scissors. Hey presto, instant weight loss." I wait for him to smile, but there's a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I know they're not the biggest specimens in the world," I add eventually, "but still, it wouldn't be bad to suddenly lose a few pounds. Do I get to keep the nipples? Do they sew them back on, or do I get them in a jar, or -"
"You're rambling," he says suddenly.
I take a deep breath. He's right. I hate this, but I also know I've got no choice. Breast cancer killed my mother and both my grandmothers. There's absolutely no doubt that I'm next in the cross-hairs, and if there's one thing that scares me more than this surgery, it's death. That's why I want to get it over with as fast as possible; I'm scared that I might lose my bottle and reverse the decision if I'm given long enough to mull over the possibilities. It's better to strike now, while I've got my head straight. The thing that scares me the most is the thought that I might change my mind.
"If I pay more," I say after a moment, "can I get it done today?"
"Not unless you've got a few million stashed away somewhere."
Sighing, I realize that he's right. Damn it, if I'd just made this decision a few weeks ago when the subject first came up, I could be getting the surgery in the next few days. As it is, my own indecision has left me vulnerable. Why was I so dumb? I guess it must be the drugs affecting my mind again. The old Joanna Mason - the real , drug-free Joanna Mason - would have made the right decision ages ago.
"A couple more weeks should be fine," he replies, switching to that soft voice he uses when he's trying to sound calm and soothing. It never works. "I'm going to schedule you today, and you'll get a letter after the weekend with a date and a time. After that, you just need to focus on eating healthily, getting some exercise, and putting yourself in a positive frame of mind for when the surgery comes around. Maybe see a counselor."
I smile. Gibbs is always pushing me to see a counselor, even though he knows that I'd never, ever stoop so low. Counselors are for people who can't deal with things on their own terms. I'm stronger than that.
"Seriously, Joanna," he continues. "Don't underestimate how much this is going to affect you."
"What you mean," I reply after a moment, "is that I shouldn't overestimate my own ability to deal with it."
"Speaking of which," he says with a sigh, "how are you doing regarding the other matter?"
"What other matter?" I ask, even though I know full well what he means. He's referring to the same thing that everyone else has been referring to for the past few weeks. I swear to God, I don't think I've had one conversation recently that didn't include a little side discussion of the impending moment.
"Sam Gazade is going to be executed by lethal injection at midnight tomorrow night," he continues. "Twelve years after everything that happened, justice is finally going to be served. That has to feel... good? Right? You must have some kind of emotional reaction, Joanna."
"You're an oncologist," I reply. "Shouldn't I be
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