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

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.

Heather: just saying hi

wanna go to gramercy on sunday night?

4:55 PM me: I do . . . but I just don’t know what I’ll be able to eat

me: I just had some soup

Heather: i don’t think that’ll be a problem

me: tried to eat some with some chunks. it went over so so

Heather: no chunks will be involved

4:56 PM Heather: you know mike anthony’s dad was diagnosed w/ a stage 4 tumor in the base of his tongue about 8 years ago?

4:57 PM he got surgery, and is now totally healthy

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