Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

exam at Sloan, and while I was never one for drugs, let alone a cocktail of painkillers and alcohol, it was hard to argue against it.

We arrived at the restaurant to find Keith and Charlene sitting at the bar paging through the wine book. I noticed that they had glasses of rose champagne in front of them. “What are you starting us out with?” I asked.

“I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of ordering some bubbles for us,” Keith replied.

We laughed at the absurdity of celebrating. Heather and I pulled up some stools, and Robert Bohr, the wine director at Cru, appeared with two glasses and the bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon Rose. “Some champagne for you both, Chef?” Robert asked while extending his hand to greet me.

“That sounds perfect, Robert.”

Keith slid the wine book toward us and said, “Have at it, Grant.”

The wine list at Cru is not a list. It is indeed a book, or rather two large volumes—one for whites and one for reds. It is heavy, comprehensive, and several hundred pages long.

“Keith, I have no idea where to start, seriously,” I said. I got the sense that Keith dined here with frequency and knew the list well. I also suspected that he had prepped the staff about the circumstances. The elephant in the room, of course, was that this was a sort of last supper, a blowout dinner while I could still barely manage one. “Go ahead, Keith. I’m sure you know better than I do.”

“I have a few ideas,” Keith said, grinning. Robert escorted us to our table and topped off our glasses of champagne.

“Have you made any decisions, Keith?”

“In fact, I have,” Keith said coyly. “Let’s start with the ʹ90 Meursault-Genevrieres from Jobard, then some Henri Jayer wines. How about the’78 Vosne-Romanée ‘Beaumonts’ and the ’90 ‘Cros Parantoux.’ ”

Robert looked down at Keith with a raised eyebrow and a giant smile on his face. I leaned over to Heather and said, “Holy shit.”

Keith and Charlene did a great job of keeping the conversation far away from all things cancer. The food started coming and didn’t stop the entire evening. A rapid-fire succession of delicious courses and endless glasses of world-class wines were the distraction I needed. But from time to time, the pain in my mouth would bring me back to reality.

Desserts came and chef Shea Gallante appeared to say hello.

The grand meal was over, and I walked out thinking that it could be my last great dinner.

CHAPTER 23

I was more or less certain that I was going to die fairly soon. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of having my tongue and jaw removed, but I could somehow accept death. While I didn’t express these thoughts, both Heather and Nick clearly knew what I was thinking because they kept encouraging me to press on regardless of how unacceptable the treatment options were. Surgery wasn’t great, they would say, but they insisted I was worth more than the sum of my parts. I wasn’t so sure.

I returned from New York feeling reasonably well physically, but emotionally destroyed. Sloan was the pinnacle of American cancer treatment, so I lost all hope when the doctors laid out my dismal options. The doctor had said, quite simply, that if I didn’t follow his course of treatment, I would die a painful death within six months.

When Heather and I landed at OʹHare I got a call from Nick, who informed me that Dr. Pelzer of Northwestern University was leaving his family vacation early to see me the next morning.

A few days earlier I had received an e-mail from Roger Ebert, the esteemed movie critic and writer at the Chicago Sun-Times. Ebert had suffered from cancer of the salivary glands and had gone through difficult years of treatment similar to those that were being recommended to me. The note read: “Dr. Pelzer is a kind, wonderful person. I trust him with my life, literally. I feel safe around him.” Additionally, he was kind enough to e-mail Dr. Pelzer on my behalf. I, however, didn’t see the point in going, but I agreed to go.

We arrived early the next morning, and Nick walked up to the reception desk to check me in. The secretary looked puzzled and said Dr. Pelzer was on vacation. Nick explained that he was, in fact, coming in this morning to see Grant, and this confused her even more. “That seems impossible. He’s in Colorado.”

The receptionist finally figured out that Dr. Pelzer had not yet left for Colorado and was just a room over. He came out in street clothes and led us into an examination room. In his midfifties, a bit shy and quiet, Dr. Pelzer didn’t seem happy to be there, but he quickly explained why. “They all think I left a few days ago,” he said. “Otherwise, they squeeze in appointments like this one.” He chuckled and shook his head. I liked him immediately.

He gave me a quick examination, pulling and prodding on my very sore tongue, then took off his gloves, leaned back and gave a quick sigh. He seemed every bit the quiet, caring gentleman that Ebert described. “What did Sloan tell you?”

I relayed their diagnosis and told him what treatment they had recommended. At this point, I hoped and expected that he would disagree. Unlike the doctor at Sloan, Dr. Pelzer had a quiet confidence devoid of ego. I was hopeful that I would receive a different prognosis and a different recommendation for treatment. He paused a moment to reflect and looked at me square in the eye. “I’m afraid that what they told you is largely correct, although I never would have put it to you quite that way.”

The air left the room. Again, my hopes were destroyed, though this time I didn’t have as far to fall and so I merely shook my head a bit.

“What pain medication are you taking?” he asked. “You must be in a great deal of