Two Lousy Days
Two Lousy Days
Philip and his mother immediately liked Dr. Weissgarten, the young female oncologist who at first explained the experimental Taxol study and then helped process the paperwork for his mother’s treatment at the Norris Cancer Center—part of the large University of Southern California campus in East Lost Angeles.
“We’ve had good success in our clinic with the drug,” Dr. Weissgarten told them. “It’s in the experimental stage right now, but I think it can help you.” She went on to talk about the specifics of the contract Philip’s mother would sign and their need to travel south to USC for the monthly infusions of the drug. “You check into the hospital on Friday morning for the treatment, stay the night, and then check out on Saturday morning.”
Philip looked encouraged. Mother, somewhat less. “Will I lose my hair?”
“Unfortunately,” the doctor said, “yes.”
“s**t!”
“I agree.” The doctor flashed his mother what seemed to Philip a forced professional smile from someone eager to move on. Wasn’t time of the essence?
“Sounds good.” Philip looked over at his mother who nodded her head. “Two days a month. We’ll go down to L.A. together, okay, Mom?”
“Depends on your meaning of good.” Then she asked Philip about his job.
“I’ll work it out. Part-timers are always eager to make some extra money.”
Dr. Weissgarten looked from one to the other. “Are we set to go then?”
Philip nodded his head. Mother smiled and pushed the paperwork she’d signed toward the doctor.
“Great,” Dr. Weissgarten said. “We should begin right away. I’ll schedule your first treatment for the end of this month.”
Philip took the doctor’s hand and held it a moment.
“And good luck,” the doctor said. “To you both.”
* * * *
Five months later and the day before his mother’s fifth Taxol treatment, Philip tried unsuccessfully to parallel park in front of her apartment complex. Unfortunately he’d never mastered the art. Finally he gave up, circled around, and parked a few blocks away under a streetlamp. At least his car would be parked in a safe neighborhood.
Mother met Philip at her front door. He picked up her small suitcase and waited while she gathered together her purse and coat and then switched the TV volume to low; she always kept it on when she was away—anything to deter a possible burglar who might be lurking in the hallway. They were both unaware of the news bulletin flashing across the screen.
Special Report. A TV reporter spoke into a mic while an upturned vehicle burned out of control in the background. Men and women with raised fists pushed and shoved their way into view. A banner ran below the screen: Rodney King Verdict Sparks Rioting.
In the carport, Philip stowed Mother’s bag in the trunk along with his, then went over and opened the passenger door. “Here ya go.”
“Tell me something,” she said. “Why are we taking my car to the airport?”
“Let’s not argue, Mom, okay? I’ve parked mine a few blocks away. Too far to walk. It’s locked and safe.”
“Good for you.” She told him—and not too sweetly either—that she hated leaving her Ford Pinto parked with a million others in a deserted airport lot.
“Two days,” Philip said. “What can possibly happen in two lousy days?”
“Lots of lousy things,” she said.
