Life, on the Line (50 page)

Three days earlier I was convincing myself to avoid surgery and simply die. Then we met with the team at U of C and suddenly I was entering treatment. I really had no idea whether this was the right decision, but it was the only course of action I had.

It felt great to actually be doing something, to fight this in some way.

It felt great to have a chance.

I hopped in Nick's car and we headed south down Lake Shore Drive.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yeah. I feel good,” I said.

“I bet you do—you're toasty!” he said and laughed. “Keep a few of those patches around for the crew, just in case we get sick of dealing with you.”

“Naw. It won't be that bad. I'm ready for it.”

“Dude. Get steely. Get steely. I watched my dad go through mild chemo, and it sucked. It won't be bad at first, but it'll get there.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” I said and laughed. But I knew what he was talking about. I was, of course, terrified. “What is chemo, anyway? What do they do?”

Nick looked at me like I was out of my mind. “Are you fucking kidding me? You didn't look this shit up?”

“Nope. I started to look at the stuff on the Web and it just freaked me out—the surgeries, guys with no necks—fuck that. That's why I keep you around.”

“Well, it really is nothing, procedurally speaking. A slow IV drip into your veins of highly toxic shit that tries to poison the cancer cells. It generally does a good job of that, but the problem is, it kills a lot of good cells, too. So basically, it slowly kills you from the inside out, hopefully killing every single cancerous cell while leaving the rest of you intact enough so that you can recover and live. But today, all I expect that will happen is that you'll sit there for a few hours with a needle in your arm and then go home.”

“Really? That's it? We can work on the book. I brought my laptop.”

 

We arrived at the medical center without getting lost. Small miracles already.

A nurse said, “Well, hello, Mr. Achatz. Welcome. I'll take you up there, but first we'll take some vitals. This will be routine. Every time you come in, more or less, we'll take your weight, blood pressure, temperature, sometimes a blood sample—just to make sure you're progressing along okay and getting everything you need nutritionally. We also mix the chemo to your weight each time so we know you're getting just the right amount. So we'll do this, then you'll wait over there while the lab mixes up the potion. Sometimes it's quick, sometimes it takes a long time, depending on the hour of the day and how busy we are. They do their best to be quick, but with this sort of thing you kinda want to get it right, right?”

Damn, she was cheery.

Soon enough, we were led to a large room that was bisected in the middle by a nurses' station. All along the outside were a series of curtained-off enclosures, the kind you see in an emergency room. Along one wall there were glassed-in versions of the same. I got the feeling you didn't want to end up in one of those. It was all brightly lit with a buzzing staff. It all seemed so normal.

As we walked along the line of stalls I could see the people sitting there, IVʹs standing on poles behind them, reading magazines, sleeping. No one looked too terribly sick, but I couldn't help thinking to myself: All of these people have cancer.

I looked at Nick, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing. In fact, he looked more fearful than I felt.

We came to the second-to-last little stall, and I was told to sit in what looked like a firm-backed La-Z-Boy. Nick perched on a stool. He was looking kind of grim.

“What's up?” I asked.

He looked up and forced a smile, but I could tell something was bothering him. “Nothing,” he said. He was lying.

He paused a second and could tell that he wasn't fooling me. “Last time I was in one of these places was with my dad,” he said. “I went with him once or twice. We talked about life and such, but it was depressing. Neither of us wanted to talk like that, so we just talked about business and stuff. He eventually told me not to bother coming—that he would like to read or sleep. I should have gone more.”

“So let's talk business, let's work on the book. I want to bang this out and get it done.”

A nurse arrived before I could pull out my laptop. She was perky as well. “They must force themselves to be like that,” I thought.

“We're almost all set here. My name is Peggy and I'll be here most days. If you need anything at all, just holler. Today's your first treatment, right? So you know what to expect?”

“Not really,” I answered. “I signed up for this two days ago.”

She seemed surprised by that but continued, “Well, basically, you're going to sit here while we give you the dosage of whatever you need on that particular visit. Ninety-nine percent of the time we hook you up, you wait and do whatever you want, and that's that. Just ring us when it's almost gone, but we usually know how long it takes. If you feel dry, hot, cold, whatever, you let us know—even if it seems like nothing. Okay? Since today is your first treatment with Erbitux we're going to make sure you don't have an allergic reaction of any kind.”

“Like what?”

“Well, a small minority of people have a violent reaction to it and we have to discontinue it. Nothing life-threatening or anything, I swear.” Big, reassuring smile. “Just a nasty rash, fever, that sort of thing. If you make it five minutes without it, you're good for the three hours.”

I had no idea how long these treatments would last. I figured I would go in, get a few shots, a few X-rays, and move along. This slow drip was going to kill me with boredom more than anything else.

With that she flipped the little switch on the drip and the first drops of chemo hit my bloodstream.

“How does it feel?” Nick deadpanned.

“Boring.”

 

Chemotherapy sessions were every Tuesday. I would get up early and try to arrive at the hospital by seven. The chemo chairs were first come, first served, and if I made it in on the first round it significantly reduced my time at the hospital.

I would settle in, get hooked up, and immediately pull out my computer to start working on the cookbook or talk online with Heather or Nick. At some point during each treatment Dr. Vokes would stop by to see how I was doing and answer any questions I had. Typically these were just casual conversations; the nitty-gritty medical discussions were left for my weekly exams. But a couple of weeks into my treatment, he wanted to see how I was progressing.

The thing was, I felt better than I had in months. I thought it was possible that the drugs were working already. It was easier to eat, easier to talk. I felt odd telling him that, thinking it was all in my head.

“It's possible, Grant. Here, follow me.”

Dr. Vokes led me out into the hall and into an examination room. “Let's have a look.”

He felt my tongue slowly, and quietly repeated, “This is good, Grant. This is good. You're responding well to the Erbitux. A very good sign.”

I was ecstatic. I thanked him and walked outside as a sense of calm washed over me. I felt like I could eat again, like I had a window on life. I hopped in the car and decided that a quick trip to New York was in order. Later that night I IʹMd Heather to suggest the trip. She must have been thinking the same thing, because she quickly suggested Gramercy Tavern.

We decided to make it happen. Earlier in the month I had exchanged e-mails with Thomas and he suggested I let him know when I was next in NYC. So before we left I texted him and asked if he was in town, suggesting that he and Laura Cunningham join us at Gramercy. They were arriving the night we were dining, so they agreed to join us at the end of the meal for dessert and some wine.

We were seated at our table and greeted by chef Michael Anthony. I thanked him profusely for making special preparations that I could eat and let out the bombshell that Thomas Keller would likely join us for dessert if his flight wasn't delayed.

The meal was perfect. Mike engineered it with a firsthand understanding of my limitations. Going in I was afraid it would be composed of liquefied courses, and while I would not have complained, I was feeling better and wanted to push the boundaries in an effort to feel normal, at least for a night. I needn't have worried. To the untrained eye the meal would have looked entirely normal. Perfectly cooked trout was served with sunchoke puree and pickled shallots. Chilled pea soup surrounded a dignified mound of moist, dressed crab meat, and handmade pasta came coated in a silky sauce.

Just as we were finishing our final savory course Thomas and Laura walked in. They spotted me and could not hide their shock that I looked like myself. I introduced them to Heather, and Thomas immediately commented on how healthy I looked.

“What, Chef? You thought you were coming to see an invalid? I feel great actually, best I have in weeks.”

I filled them in on my treatment and the story of finding the U of C. The mood was emotional—it was the first time they were hearing it from me directly. I told them about telling the staff, and Nick's take on the reaction in the room. Then Thomas asked me how long I intended to work at Alinea.

“All the way through, Chef.”

He smiled at me and nodded his head. He wasn't surprised.

 

I couldn't decide how and when I should tell the kids about my cancer. I thought about not telling them at all, but Nick and Heather urged me to be as honest as possible. They were so young that I knew that they couldn't fully understand the facts of illness and death, but I also knew that my physical state would gradually deteriorate even under the best of outcomes. There would be no hiding it.

I made a point of spending more time with them than I usually did. One afternoon after a morning chemo treatment the three of us were deep into a Wii tennis tournament when I decided to pause the game and tell them. I stood up, turned off the TV and sat them on the couch. Keller started to whine and Kaden looked up at me with a puzzled look, wondering why he was being punished.

“Hey, guys, Dad needs to talk to you about something.” The boys could tell my tone was serious and Keller quit his tantrum and Kaden sat up straight. I knelt down on the floor between them and put my hands on their legs.

“I'm sick, boys.”

Kaden interrupted, “Is that all, Dad? Can we play now?”

“No, bud. I need to tell you this. I have an illness that is very serious. It's called cancer and it is in my tongue and neck. Do you know what cancer is?”

The question was directed at Kaden. At almost six years old, I thought he might have heard the word before, either at school or on TV. Keller was only three and a half and I knew that he had no idea. He looked over my shoulder at the TV, clearly hoping that I would turn it back on soon.

“It's a thing in your body, like a bump,” Kaden said.

“Yeah, kinda like that. There are many different kinds of cancer, and all of them are bad for you. I have a lot of it in my body right now, and so I need to take some really strong medicine to get rid of it. But the medicine is going to make me really sick too.”

Kaden thought that was odd. Why would medicine make you sick? “What if it doesn't go away?” he asked.

I didn't want to tell them that I could die. There seemed no point in doing that. I skipped over the morbid details for now and kept things simple. “I'm going to look different for a while, guys. I'll probably lose a bunch of weight, get a nasty, pimply rash, and my hair will fall out.” They found that part funny.

I didn't know what else to say. I fought back tears and tried to project love over my fear. “Do you guys have any questions?”

Keller shot back immediately, “Nope!” I smiled at them, gave them a hug, and flipped the Wii tennis back on.

The next day I decided to take them out fishing. During the summer months I tried to get them out one day a week, just like I used to go with my dad or uncle. We had fun exploring the different baits that we could cull from the Alinea kitchen. Cheddar cheese, shrimp, bacon, and baby octopus were some of the favorites. I taught Kaden how to cast, and he was to the point where he could do it on his own.

We headed out to the lagoons in the northern suburbs and I set Kaden up. Keller disappeared for a moment. When I went to see what he was up to, he was throwing handfuls of the shrimp I had brought into the water, giggling all the while.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

“Feeding the fish, Dad. Look, they're coming right to the top. We can catch them now.”

Out of bait and only ten minutes into our fishing trip, we packed up our stuff and headed to a nearby gas station to buy some night crawlers. Returning back to our spot I got Kaden set up again with a bobber and a hook. I instructed him to get a worm from the container and bring it over. He returned with a huge one.

“If you're going to fish, guys, you have to learn to hook the worm yourself. Watch.”