A White Coat Is My Closet (13 page)

Miles and his friends must have anticipated my reaction, because they commented on how much my jaw had dropped. Miles jokingly bumped my arm with his shoulder and asked, “See anything you like?”

I turned to look at him but couldn’t bring myself to either speak or close my mouth. My expression said it all:
Oh my God!

The gay beach in Laguna was apparently famous for attracting men from all over the county on sunny weekends. It was almost more than I could process. Wall-to-wall
Hunk of Delicious.
Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined such a place could exist—a virtual army of good-looking gay men who didn’t appear to be thinking about anything other than having a good time. For a brief instant I feared maybe I would stand out as being an obvious “newbie,” but I was so caught up in the sheer euphoria of the moment that, surprisingly, I was able to squelch my anxiety.

It took a little maneuvering, but we were soon able to commandeer a respectable place on the sand to lay out our towels, and then I ran for the water. The next hour was spent neck-deep in the waves, ecstatically trying to body surf. Amazingly, many of the guys I ended up swimming next to were exceptionally friendly. After a few introductions, one of them invited me to play smash ball.

I had never played before, but after a few misdirected swings I found I picked the game up pretty quickly, and within fifteen minutes I actually looked like I knew what I was doing. When the guy who invited me to play ended up tiring, he asked a friend of his to substitute in for him… and handed his paddle to Declan. That was the moment our friendship began. We shook hands and were pretty much inseparable from then on. It was one of the best days of my life.

D
ECLAN
and I both became quiet as we studied the menu. I made my selection quickly and looked around while Declan was deciding. The interior of the restaurant looked pretty cool but probably fell short of completely attaining the LA-chic look it was aiming for. The colors were understated, and the furniture was modern with clean lines. The tabletops were made of thick clear glass and each hosted a vase with an arrangement of fresh flowers. In an attempt to add an impressive final touch to the table setting, the utensils were carefully wrapped in a linen napkin, making them appear to be integrated into an origami sculpture. Truthfully, however, as was the case in many trendy restaurants, the tables were too close together to create real comfort. In an attempt to accommodate as many patrons as possible, customers were made to feel as if they were eating on top of one another. Two adult men sitting across from one another ended up competing for legroom under a table that would have been better suited for dollhouse furniture.

Fortunately, the restaurant was sparsely crowded, and the tables on either side of us were empty. There were four people sitting at a table in the far corner, two couples at separate tables next to the wall behind us, and one couple at a table along the side wall. Because the guy at the side wall table was facing the woman, and because their table was in an area of the restaurant that was a little wider, it put him in my line of vision when I looked in their direction.

I thought,
Funny, he looks kind of familiar. I wonder if I know him from somewhere.

I didn’t have too long to ponder his identity, however, as Declan had closed his menu and the waiter was standing next to our table asking if we had made a decision or if we needed more time. I ordered the pork noodle bowl, and Declan selected different types of sushi. I wanted to opt for a glass of wine, but I had been on call the night before and knew that even a single glass of wine would put me under the table. Declan was more bold and requested a beer.

After the waiter walked away, I found myself being unable to resist teasing him. “Beer and raw fish? Geez, Dec, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d gone straight! What’s next? Are we going to leave here and go toss around the pigskin? Or maybe shoot some hoops?”

Declan laughed. “Don’t be intimidated by my masculinity, Zack. Just because your entire CD collection consists of Streisand and Cher doesn’t mean that the rest of us have to conform to a stereotype.”

“Right! This coming from the straight-acting dude who practices synchronized swimming in the privacy of his own bathtub. Wearing a swimming cap, no less!”

Even if the insults we threw at each other were stupid, they succeeded in helping us to unwind. We casually munched on shrimp chips and became consumed in conversation, trying to determine which of us had had the shittiest week. Declan taught junior high, so even his best days were an exercise in riot control.

The waiter delivered the beer, and before it had even come to rest on the table Declan scooped it up and took a satisfying gulp. Apparently his last period, eighth grade science, had been particularly harrowing. He took four more swallows before he was able to continue his story.

“So, there I was, in the middle of what I’m sure was a captivating lecture on photosynthesis, when someone in the back of the room lets out a huge fart.” He rolled his eyes. “My inclination was to try to ignore it, but the sound was immediately followed by bursts of laughter, pointed accusations, and protests of denial. It was friggin’ chaos,” he continued. “Everyone was either laughing hysterically or making exaggerated retching noises and threatening to throw up.”

As Declan’s story became more animated, he flung a little dipping sauce from his chip onto the cuff of his shirt. He wiped it off with the finger of his other hand, then licked his finger in what he apparently hoped would be perceived as just inconspicuously scratching his upper lip. Smooth. He at least got points for trying to maintain the façade of polite etiquette.

“Anyway,” he continued, “any hope of restoring order was lost when Johnny Grimes shouted out that this guy Carlos Mena was responsible. That only served to piss Carlos off, at which point he turned around and said that such a rank smell could only come from Karen’s ass. Karen is Johnny’s girlfriend and sits right next to him. This, of course, resulted in Johnny jumping up, angry as hell, and threatening to kick Carlos’s ass for talking shit about Karen. I had to grab Johnny when Carlos suggested it was Karen’s ass that had started the whole thing and the next time she felt the need to fart, she should just plant it on Johnny’s face.” Declan took another long swallow of beer. “They don’t pay me enough to be a referee.”

By this time, I was the one rocking with laughter. Suddenly, my day didn’t seem all that intolerable. I could just imagine Declan trying to intervene in a science minirumble. “Man,” I said. “Maybe you can apply for hazard pay. If they give it to cops, they should give it to teachers who have to police fart demonstrations.”

“Funny,” he said. “Let’s see if you get any sympathy from me next time the shit hits the fan in your job and you just happen to be standing in front of it.” Declan tried to look indignant but couldn’t quite pull it off. By the time our food arrived, he’d ordered another beer, and thoughts of Johnny and Carlos dissipated into a distant memory. Now, spicy tuna on sticky rice consumed all of his attention.

I took advantage of his silence to begin telling him about some of my patients. Declan was inherently compassionate, and stories about the kids that I took care of always made a genuine impression on him. His brown eyes became soulfully attentive as I begin talking about a five-year-old who had been admitted for evaluation of a neuroblastoma.

“What’s a neuroblastoma?” he asked, his concern genuine.

“A neuroblastoma is a tumor that develops from neural tissue. It’s the most common extracranial solid tumor in children.” Declan looked immediately bewildered. I put down my fork in order to more fully explain a complex condition in a manner that could be easily understood. “Extracranial means something occurring outside of the skull. And when a cancer is described as being a solid tumor, the intention is to differentiate it from a malignancy that occurs in the blood. Take leukemia, for example. It’s a kind of cancer, but rather than being a tumor, it occurs in the blood.”

It struck me that I sounded more like a professor than a peer, but Declan nodded, confirming that he understood. I paused, aware that the details of medical conditions weren’t on the list of the top-ten dinner table conversations, but his attention was unwavering. He was clearly interested in knowing more and already seemed vested in the well-being of the kid. In addition, I felt a little subliminal pride. Who would have guessed I had enough medical knowledge to give an extemporaneous lecture on pediatric cancer?

“So, is he going to make it?” Declan asked.

“Hard to say at this point. It’s not a great prognosis.” After I had finished my noodle bowl, I pushed my chair back and extended by legs to the side of the table to try to relieve the cramp in my hamstring. Having my legs crammed under the trendy table for the duration of the entire dinner was the recipe for a killer muscle spasm. By repositioning, I was directly facing the guy at the table by the wall. Dark curly hair, dimpled chin; why did he look so familiar? I was pretty sure I hadn’t met him in a bar. I briefly recounted the teasing I had just extolled on Declan about the mistake of taking someone home who you met in the dark. If you spend the night with a guy between the sheets and with the lights off, you might never recognized him again. I chuckled to myself.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep with him.

Having been only momentarily distracted by trying to determine the guy’s identity, I continued my story. “Christopher, the little boy, is stage four, which means that the cancer has already spread to other areas of his body. First he’ll undergo chemo to try to shrink the tumor, then they’ll operate on him to try to remove it. After he recovers from that surgery, he’ll have to have more chemo in preparation for his bone marrow transplant. It’s gonna be a tough road. A lot of kids don’t even survive the initial rounds of chemo.”

Christopher’s prognosis left Declan looking a little dejected. “That sucks. Do they know what causes something like that in a five-year-old?”

“The cause of neuroblastoma is unknown; environmental exposures have not been shown to be causative. There might be some kind of genetic predisposition, but that hasn’t been clearly determined either. There are reports of multiple cases within families, but mostly it just seems random. Either way, it always sucks. Especially when the cancer is already stage four at the time it’s discovered.”

“Should his doctors have suspected it sooner?” Declan asked defensively. He fell naturally into the role of child advocate.

“In this case, I don’t think so. Christopher didn’t have any symptoms until about a week ago, when his mom noticed that he had become disinterested in playing. He was usually bouncing off the walls, and then one day, without explanation, he was instead opting to just sit quietly with a book. Really, there were no obvious symptoms. When his listlessness went on for a couple days, his mom became concerned. When she brought him to the emergency room, she was almost apologetic. She said that though it was probably just her imagination, her intuition was telling her something was wrong. The parents are pretty broken up about the whole thing.”

“That’s probably the biggest understatement in the world.” Declan became pensive as he pushed the last of his sticky rice around his plate with his chopsticks.

I too was lost in thought. I was just staring off into space, contemplating how much the family had yet to go through and considering the injustice of it all. The kid was super cute. Dark hair, dark eyes, captivating bright smile. The day his parents brought him into the hospital to be admitted, he had insisted on wearing his Superman costume. He’d raced around the nurses’ station with his arms extended and his cape flapping behind him. I remember asking him if he could teach me to fly. He’d looked a little bewildered by my question but nodded.

I was pulled from my delirium by a caustic, accusatory outburst. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

It took me a minute to realize that the question was coming from the guy seated at the side table, and that it was directed at me.

I froze. Bewildered as to why he had singled me out and uncertain of what I had done to provoke such an explosive interrogation, I looked over my shoulder, suspicious that his anger was actually intended for someone else and I had just unfortunately wound up in the cross fire. Regrettably, I discovered otherwise. There was no one behind me. The couple that had been there before had already left, and the only remaining couple was as shocked as we were. They looked between me and the hotheaded guy, obviously self-conscious. They did their best to turn their attention back to their dinners and started talking to one other in almost inaudible hushed tones.

I returned my disoriented focus to side-table guy. His face was visibly flushed with anger. His wife cast an embarrassed, almost apologetic glance in my direction, then reached across their table and delicately touched her husband’s hand. I heard her whisper in a soft plea, “Just let it go, it’s no big deal.”

Her request seemed to infuriate him even more. “No, no…. I’m not gonna let it go. Goddamn faggots. Think they can impose themselves on anyone.” He turned his attention back to me. “Hey! I asked you a question: What the fuck are you looking at?”

My head whirled. I hadn’t been intentionally looking at anything. I had been lost in thought, trying to make sense of how a wonderful little five-year-old could be struck by such an awful illness. I was confused, embarrassed, and tongue-tied. Declan looked equally shocked. He had dropped his chopsticks onto his plate and darted his gaze between me and my inquisitor. I suspected we had identical expressions: a combination of “deer in the headlights” and “what the fuck is happening?”

When I finally found my voice, the only thing to escape was a weak, perplexed, “Excuse me?”

“Shit.” He snorted his defiant retort. “Don’t you speak English? I wanna know what the fuck you think you’re looking at.” His wife continued to implore him to keep his voice down and tried to sound a little more insistent that he just ignore us.