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

that some people liked to keep them for posterity. I wanted nothing more than to forget about the whole thing. I looked horrible, but I was still vertical. The treatment protocol had taken me to physical and mental lows that I didn’t know existed, but I was relieved that regardless of the outcome—whether I lived or died—this ordeal was over.

I walked across the hall, hopped up on the table, and was greeted by Dr. Haraf for my exit exam. As was always the case, he started with a few jokes as he ran me through the standard series of tests, opening my mouth as wide as possible and turning my neck from side to side. He felt under my chin and the sides of my neck, checking the severity of the muscular atrophy caused by the radiation.

I avoided conversation as much as possible, pausing to reformulate answers to his questions in the fewest number of words. The inside of my mouth was completely raw and my body was producing mucus to protect my open sores.

“Carry-over cooking, just like a prime rib getting pulled from the oven,” Haraf joked. He explained that even though I had made it through the last of the radiation treatments, the process of cellular degradation would continue for a few weeks. It would get worse before it got better. “I told you it would be miserable, and I didn’t lie. But you took it like a champ, much better than most.” I smiled at him. Somehow Dr. Haraf always made me smile despite the horror I faced. His humor always spoke to me directly. He referred to the radiation machine as his Fry Daddy and talked about eating beef tongue as he prodded my own tongue, feeling for any remnants of a tumor. “Feels good,” he said. “I can feel one tiny spot in the back, but it’s likely just scar tissue. When Blair cuts you open in a month she’ll know for sure. But it looks good.”

I had gone through countless hours of chemo over the past four months, and then faced down radiation twice a day for six weeks. I spent the majority of that time pulling fourteen-hour days at Alinea, acting as normally as was possible. And yet I still didn’t know if it was all worth it. Did it work? Was the cancer gone?

Indications were promising, and all of the doctors agreed that the tumor seemed to have vanished based on physical exams and CT scans. But they cautiously warned that the scans were only accurate to one millimeter. That was about a thousand cells, and any one of those could be malignant and eventually a cause for reoccurrence: one would grow to two, then four, then millions. The biopsy would give a good indication of the primary tumor site, but that would be a whole month from now. The drugs and radiation would continue to do their job for another two weeks, and after that my tissue would need time to heal before surgery. No judgment could be made until then.

My health started improving incrementally. Slowly, without noticing any day-to-day improvement, my body began to heal. Week to week, I would notice small changes. I flew to Heather’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving and cooked a giant, traditional feast. I even managed to get down some mashed potatoes after dousing them heavily with gravy. But I still couldn’t taste a thing, and each meal increased my panic that this might be a permanent condition. I seasoned the food by memory and by feeling the salt between my fingers.

By early December I was back in the Alinea kitchen at almost full speed. Surprisingly, my energy was increasing despite the fact that I was still not eating much in the way of solid food. I often texted Heather at 8:30 A.M., when I was heading in to work early to shoot pictures of the Alinea book and create new dishes. It felt amazing to be back. We scheduled the Alinea holiday party for the first week in December so I could attend prior to my surgery. I even had a head covered with fuzzy hair.

Dr. Blair explained that the team wanted her to perform a selective neck dissection to remove the majority of the lymph node chain on my left side and a more limited excision of the nodes on my right. This would increase the chances of eradicating any remaining cancerous tissue. The surgery was scheduled for December 13, 2007, exactly five months to the day after I found out I had cancer.

During a phone conversation a few days before the surgery, I asked Dr. Blair about recovery time and reminded her of my plans to fly to Washington with Heather for Christmas, then celebrate my recovery in St. Barts shortly thereafter while Alinea was on its winter break.

“Okay, then,” she said. “I guess we’re not going to staple you shut—those will set off the metal detectors in the airport for sure. I’ll stitch you up as pretty as I can. You do realize, however, that you will be incredibly swollen and sore. And there will be a drain tube hanging out of the back of your neck, by the way.”

Dr. Blair went on to explain that she was going to be as gentle as possible, but that the surgery would have its own set of side effects. Most notably would be giant chipmunk cheeks and a swollen neck from the lack of natural “drainage” that the lymph system normally facilitates. “We’re taking that plumbing out, so it will take a while for the fluids to find a new route. In the meantime, it’ll build up a bit, and that’s why we have to insert the drain tube. If all goes well, we can remove it in about five days, but your movement will be very limited.”

She spoke nonchalantly about what sounded like a transformation from E.T. to Frankenstein Chef. Just when I was beginning to feel more