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

from the best doctors around the country; Alinea was busy and he was fully engaged; we expect that he will beat this.

All of the reporters sounded upset. All of them offered personal wellwishes. But they all pressed me: “What if?”

“What if he loses his tongue?”

About the third time a similar hypothetical entered the conversation I slipped. “Well, if that does happen, then it would be a Shakespearean tragedy. The irony is not lost on Chef. Still, we’re not concentrating on that, and I’m sure that if anyone could overcome such a thing it would be him.”

“What irony is that, Nick?”

“Well, it would be no different than a painter losing his sight, right?”

I woke up the next morning to the sound of the Chicago Tribune hitting my nightstand. Dagmara had it folded in half and dropped it on the table. I saw, on the front page, the article announcing Grant’s cancer. And I immediately saw my name. “‘It’s Shakespearean,’ said Nick Kokonas, Achatz’s friend and co-owner of Alinea. ‘This is like a painter whose eyes are taken from him.’ ”

I recoiled in horror. That was not what Grant needed to hear. “Brilliant,” was all I got from Dagmara, with a roll of her eyes.

My phone rang a minute later. It was Grant.

“Shakespearean? I guess you’re the one who needs some media training!” he said, laughing. “That’s just great. Why don’t you come by and poke out my eyeballs while you’re at it.”

I felt terrible, but was glad that he knew how the media worked.

“Front page, though. Front page,” I said. “I think we finally have our angle for Oprah.”

Grant laughed. I still felt terrible.

“Grant. Wake up. I just got a call from the University of Chicago, the guy I’ve been trying to reach. They can see you immediately. Call me.”

I rolled over and saw the text message from Nick on my phone. I had no desire to go to another doctor. I felt like shit. The painkillers made me tired as hell, I could barely open my mouth, I’d barely eaten in days, and I had run out of options. I had been given a clear directive: Cut out your tongue as soon as possible.

I thought long and hard about what the doctors had all said. They weren’t saying, “We’ll cut out your tongue and then you’ll be fine.” Instead, removing my tongue was only the beginning. Chemo would follow, then years of therapy—if I lived that long. The quality of life seemed low at best, while the odds of dying anyway were very high.

And despite everyone’s encouragement it was unlikely that I could be a great chef. Or perhaps I could, but would I want to be? Would I want to be surrounded by food that I could never eat?

I didn’t want to live without my identity. And I didn’t have the energy or desire to create a new Grant Achatz.

“Hey,” I said when I called Nick. “Thanks, but I’m not going. What are they going to say that’s any different? We went to Sloan-Kettering and we saw Ebert’s guy. I’m sure Ebert and the whole staff of the paper were searching the world for the best doctor. They both said the same thing. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Get dressed. I’m picking you up in thirty minutes. I’ll drag your ass out of bed if I have to.”

We drove south toward the University of Chicago hospital along the lake. The sun was bright and the lake looked beautiful. I had never been to U of C before, and was surprised that a gothic-style university existed on Chicago’s South Side.

“You know, Grant, there is something magical about this place. If I could go back to school, this is where I would go. It’s filled with intellectually curious people. I read Dr. Vokes’s studies, and his statistics and conclusions were consistent and logical. I know nothing about the hospital, but I’m hoping it’s like the rest of the place.”

“Whatever it is, this is the last one. Then I have to decide. I already have, actually.”

“Fair enough.”

We parked and found our way to the reception area of the oncology center. Nick walked up to the desk to check me in, but before he could do so another woman approached from the hall and walked directly to me. “Chef Achatz, I’m glad you could make it this morning. Dr. Vokes saw the article in the Tribune and then we realized that your friend had called here already. So we reached out to get you in as soon as possible. Dr. Vokes is confident he can help and is anxious to meet you.”

We followed her to an exam room where she asked me a few questions about my insurance and I filled out a few forms. Dr. Vokes came in with two younger doctors.

Tall, angular, with cropped thinning hair and an unidentifiable European accent, Dr. Vokes introduced himself. “Hi, Grant, I’m Everett Vokes. I’m glad that we were able to find you so quickly. It is important that we sort this out as quickly as possible. I understand from what I could gather that you have an advanced case. But we will look that over right away. I have also taken the liberty of calling Sloan-Kettering and Northwestern to get copies of your scans, with your permission, of course.” Vokes spoke slowly but confidently, and began to put on some rubber gloves. He realized that he hadn’t introduced himself to Nick and said hello and waved since he already had the gloves on.

“Grant, or should I call you Chef? If you could come over here and sit down, I’ll give you a brief exam. I assume it’s okay for Nick to stay?”

“Just call me Grant. Nick is the guy who dragged me here today against my will. He can stay,” I said, laughing.

“Okay, then. Why did he have to drag you? Are you not feeling well?” Dr. Vokes asked this with childlike simplicity.

“You know, Doctor, he does have cancer,” Nick said. Everyone smiled.

“I