Life, on the Line (44 page)

He looked ill overall, like it wasn't just a mouth problem. All I could think of was VD.

“Dude, I am guessing that perhaps your little jaunt in Spain left you with a gift that keeps on giving,” I said with a laugh.

“No. Come on. Seriously. This has been going on for a while. Remember? I told you about it before, but then it went away. Now there's is a little area that hurts like you wouldn't believe if my tooth rubs against it.” He removed a wad of gum from his mouth that he had been using as a buffer between the spot and his teeth. “I have to keep gum in there or I can't talk.”

He seemed almost panicked, or as close to panic as I had ever seen him.

“Let me see it,” I said.

“No. I'm not going to show you my tongue.”

“Come on. What's the big deal? Let me see it.”

He opened his mouth and carefully stuck out his tongue, then grabbed the tip with his fingers and rolled it to one side. I felt odd standing in an alcove of the Alinea kitchen looking in his mouth, but once I saw his tongue I could tell something was wrong. There was a small white area surrounded by a highly inflamed circle, and his tongue seemed misshapen and swollen. It did indeed look painful. I had no idea what it was, but it didn't look normal. I figured he had an infection of some kind and told him he should go to the doctor the next day.

“I have been to the dentist three times in the last six months.”

“No. Go to an oral surgeon. Just call the nearest one and go.”

 

The oral surgeon asked me to open my mouth. Because I couldn't talk at this point I had typed up a letter detailing the problems and handed it to the receptionist upon arrival. The letter said:

I opened my mouth, he looked in, and his mood changed instantly. “I'm going to want to take a biopsy of that,” he said. He didn't look at me as he left the room and returned quickly with two more doctors.

He explained how the biopsy would work. The doctors looked at each other and one said, “Make sure you take a good sample.”

As opposed to what?

He took a healthy slice of the area and despite the anesthetic I nearly flew out of the chair. But it was over that quickly. He explained that it would be sent to a lab and that he'd have results in a week to ten days.

I still didn't know quite what he was testing for. “What kind of test is it?” I asked.

“We are testing to see if the tissue is cancerous.” He began packing up. It seemed like the exam was over. I was waiting for him to do something else, or to prescribe some antibiotics or something. But that was the extent of it.

“And that's it? Nothing else to do?”

“Not right now. We'll see what the test results say. In the meantime I'm giving you a prescription for some pain medication.”

I left the office feeling very uneasy. If there was a chance that the test result
wasn't
cancer, shouldn't he be trying to figure out what else it could be?

I headed back toward Alinea and called Nick on my cell. “Hey. I went to the oral surgeon. The guy freaked me out. Took a biopsy and that was it.”

“Well, that's what you went there for, right? Did he say anything else?”

“No. Not really. That's why I'm worried.”

 

A few days went by and we heard nothing. The pressure of the uncertainty clearly weighed on Grant and was reinforced by the constant pain in his mouth.

I decided to call the oral surgeon's office to try to get the results of the biopsy more quickly. Grant was nervous, to say the least, and neither of us had a good feeling about the outcome.

A woman answered the phone.

“Hi. My name is Nick Kokonas and I'm the business partner of one of your patients who recently had a biopsy. He was told that he would have to wait seven to ten days for the results. I was wondering if there is any way we can pay the lab to expedite the analysis.”

She was confused by this question. “This biopsy was performed on you?” she asked.

“No ma'am. It was performed on Grant Achatz. He is a chef at a nearby restaurant named Alinea. Have you heard of it?”

“No.”

That was too bad. I was going to use that angle. I pressed on, “Well, he's a world-famous chef. His restaurant was named the number-one restaurant in the country by
Gourmet
magazine. Number one. He is in tremendous pain and is having a very difficult time eating, let alone performing his job. And frankly, ten days seems like a long time to have a potential cancer diagnosis hanging over your head. If there is anything at all we can do to speed up the lab results it would be hugely appreciated.”

She really wasn't following any of this, it seemed. “So, he's a chef, he can't eat, he's in pain. Has he seen the doctor?”

I grew frustrated. “Look. I need to speak with someone there that deals with the lab. It is critical that we get these results very soon. Is there someone else I can speak with?”

“Please hold.”

A few minutes went by and I could feel my blood pressure rising. Thankfully, someone came to the phone who was on top of things. I repeated my entreaty.

“Well, the doctor can request the results more quickly in emergency situations.”

“Great. Have him do that, please. Grant is in a great deal of pain, his livelihood depends on his palate, and frankly he's freaking out a bit. I really would appreciate anything you can do to expedite this on his behalf.”

She promised to do her best.

I called Grant and relayed the conversation. “You know, it feels a bit better today, actually,” he said. “Maybe it's nothing.”

 

The next morning the oral surgeon's office called me.

“We have your biopsy results and the doctor would like you to come in first thing tomorrow morning. Can you make it at nine thirty?”

“No. Not really,” I replied. Ideally, I would be asleep at 9:30 in the morning, since I was leaving Alinea these days at around 3:00 A.M. and getting to sleep closer to four. We were implementing a series of menu changes, and the kitchen was struggling to keep up. “Can you just tell me the results over the phone?”

“No, sir, I'm sorry. I'm not allowed to do that. Only the doctor can give you the results.”

“Well, can you have him call me, please?”

“No, sir. The doctor needs to see you at nine thirty A.M. tomorrow. He will give you the results then.”

My blood ran cold. I knew.

Negative results, I figured, were good news that could easily be communicated over the phone. You get a strep test, they call you to tell you that it's negative.

“Okay. I'll be there.” I hung up the phone and immediately dialed Nick. “Hey. The office called me and said they got the results. But they'll only tell me the results in the office and want me to come in first thing tomorrow morning. That can't be good.”

“I am sure it's just a formality,” Nick said. “Or maybe they want you to come in because they want to see if it's changed at all, or to prescribe medication or something. Even if the result is negative, they still have to figure out what is wrong.”

He was right, but not convincing. “I don't know. Think about it. If it were negative, why wouldn't they just tell me?”

“Who knows? Insurance reasons, the fact that she's just a secretary, or maybe the doctor is just on the golf course today and she didn't read the results. Speaking of which, I'm leaving for Michigan tonight to play in a tournament up there. I should cancel and come with you. What time is your appointment?”

“Nine thirty. But don't come. I'll give you a buzz from the office when I hear. We're probably nervous over nothing.”

 

I headed up to Lost Dunes Golf Club in Bridgman, Michigan, the next morning.

I was going to go up a night early before the tournament and get in a round and relax in one of the cabins, but I decided to wait and see if Grant changed his mind and wanted me to come along to the appointment. When I didn't hear from him, I figured he didn't want me around, so I woke up at six, picked up a buddy of mine, and drove the two hours from Chicago to the course. It felt like an odd thing to do, but at the same time a doctor's visit is a private thing and I could tell that while Grant was thankful for my help in getting the results quickly, he wanted to go on his own.

I told my friend Bruce that I would likely be distracted due to my concern over Grant's situation. “Does he smoke?” he asked.

“No. Never had a cigarette ever, he claims.”

“He's got something, but it's not likely to be cancer. He's like thirty years old or something, right?”

Lost Dunes is a small, gorgeous private club, and that weekend's tournament was the annual member-guest event, which drew a field of 120 or so golfers. I was, to say the least, nervous and distracted. Despite the prohibition against cell phones, mine was on “vibrate” and was sitting in my pocket. There was nothing I could do but wait.

Our first competitors would be member Chris Morrow, a fine golfer and all-around great guy, and a guest of his visiting from Florida named Andy Fox, also a single-digit handicapper. As far as distractions went, this was my favorite one in the world—match-play golf.

I went over to say good morning and to introduce Bruce. Chris and I had met once or twice, but only in the context of events like this one. He shook my hand, then called Andy over to say hello.

I noticed right away that Andy had something wrong with his face, something missing. I couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, but then he turned and I could tell that he was missing half of his jaw. He wore a goatee and spoke normally, so it wasn't obvious. But it was definitely not all there. A scar traced down his esophagus on the same side, making his neck thinner than usual. My first thought was that he had been in a fire.

We chatted for a bit about the course and the impending match. Andy had a ton of energy and spoke in rapid-fire sentences. He was thin and fit and clearly in good shape for a guy in his forties. I felt instantly comfortable with him in a way that golfers who love the game and have played their whole lives do when they meet a passionate competitor. You see someone roll a putt and you can tell what kind of person he is.

“Hey, Andy. What happened to your face?” I asked. I said it in an offhanded way as I struck a putt, but I wasn't worried about offending him. I could tell he was a confident person.

“Oh this?” he said with a smile. “Cancer. I should be dead. But I'm a ten-year survivor, and I'm about to kick your ass all over this golf course.”

Then it hit me.

The man standing in front of me on this course had the same cancer that Grant was about to be diagnosed with. I lost my composure and Andy could sense it right away. The coincidence was insane. I could only stare at the ground.

Andy put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Hey. Don't worry. You didn't offend me. I've been living with this for a long time now. Life is great.”

“Andy, it's not that,” I said as I led him to a corner of the busy practice green. “My good friend had a biopsy a few days ago. He's going to the doctor in about an hour to hear the results. I should be there with him.”