Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [180]
“All right, Marion, you budding clinician. What do you think it might be?” He loved the Socratic Method. Only this time, he was the patient, and it was my heuristic I would invoke.
I'd noticed his pallor before, but I'd refused to let it register. Now I remembered that I'd seen bruises on his arms and legs for the past few months—bruises for which he always had explanations. Was it just a week ago he had the paper cut on his finger? It happened in front of my eyes, and it bled for a while; when I saw him a few hours later, the wound was still oozing. How had I managed to dismiss that? I remembered, too, his hours exposed to radiation from the Old Koot, the ancient X-ray machine which, despite everyone's protests, he'd continued to use until Missing finally got a new machine. The Koot was broken apart with hammers and the pieces hauled to the Drowning Soil. There it would keep the army man company, while making his bones glow.
“A blood cancer? A leukemia?” I said, hating the sound of those ugly words on my lips. Ghosh's disease was only born, it only came to life, the moment I named it, and now it couldn't go away.
He beamed, turned to Matron, raising his eyebrows. “Can you believe this, Matron? My son, the clinician.”
Then his voice lost its ebullience; he spoke in a manner in which pretense had fallen off like leaves after a frost.
“Whatever happens, Marion, you mustn't let Hema know. I had my slides sent off about two years ago through Eli Harris to Dr. Maxwell Wintrobe in Salt Lake City Utah, USA. He's a fabulous hematolo-gist. I love his textbook. He personally wrote me back. What I have is like an active volcano, rumbling and spitting. Not quite a leukemia, but brewing into one; it's called ‘myeloid metaplasia,’ “ he said, pronouncing it carefully as if it were something delicate and exquisitely wrought. “Remember the term, Marion. It's an interesting disease. I still have many years left, I'm sure. The only troublesome symptom I have now is anemia. These blood transfusions are my oil changes. I'm going dancing tonight with Hema. It's our big day, you know. I wanted more gumption.”
“Why won't you let Ma know? Why didn't you let me know?”
Ghosh shook his head. “Hema will go crazy … She'll, she shouldn't, she can't … Don't look at me that way, my son, I'm not being noble, I promise you.”
“Then I don't understand.”
“You didn't know about my diagnosis these last two years, did you? If you had known, it would've changed your relationship with me. Don't you think?” He grinned, and he ruffled my hair. “You know what's given me the greatest pleasure in my life? It's been our bungalow, the normalcy of it, the ordinariness of my waking, Almaz rattling in the kitchen, my work. My classes, my rounds with the senior students. Seeing you and Shiva at dinner, then going to sleep with my wife.” He stopped there, silent for a long time as he thought of Hema. “I want my days to be that way. I don't want everyone to stop being normal. You know what I mean? To have all that ruined.” He smiled. “When things get more severe, if it ever comes to that, I'll tell your ma. I promise.”
He looked at me intently. “You'll keep this a secret? Please? It's what you can do for me. A gift, if you like. Give me as many normal days as I can possibly have. And you mustn't