“Rachel has it. There’s an outside chance of removing her entire right lung. If the tumor spreads to the middle of the chest, then surgery is not an option — we have to do chemo. It’s probably the most common type. I forget the statistics on it.” I don’t believe him. A quick Google search: average untreated life expectancy, less than eight months; five-year survival rate, thirteen percent.
“I?ve been in practice thirty-five years and I’ve seen a lot of it. I had my arm around her when they made the diagnosis and she didn’t even flinch. Might have seen it coming, I guess. She’s gonna see a thoracic surgeon on Thursday.”
“I’ve decided to retire. I’m shutting down my office now. It’s really heart rending to do that. I’ve taken care of those patients for years and years. One lady of mine cried. She said, ‘You’re the best doctor in town.’ But I don’t want to be working if she needs me at home.”
“Rachel’s probably kept me alive and I want to be there for her now. I’m kinda numb right now. I wish it was me instead of her.”
What can I do, Dad?
“Don’t vote Republican.”