now. I ask if I can go in with him. He looks at Dad and nods.
The doctor’s named Santana. He says he’ll need to do a cystoscopic examination. Well, I know about this trick; it’s a very painful affair. I ask if it’s really necessary.
‘It’s absolutely essential. We can’t tell anything for sure until we look in the bladder.’
Dad’s so nervous he’s physically shaking. We go outside to wait for Sam; that’s the name of the black guy. Dad wants to know what’s going to happen.
‘Well, it’s not really much, Dad. They’re going to stick a thin little tube up the hole in the end of your penis. They use this to look around in there.’
‘You mean, up the hole I pee out of?’
‘That’s right. They have a tiny light on the end and they can look into your bladder and see what’s the matter.’
‘That must hurt, Johnny!’
‘It does hurt. But there’s no way around it, it has to be done.’
When Sam comes out, he tells us we should come tomorrow at eight o’clock. Dad isn’t supposed to eat anything from six o’clock this evening.
I take him straight home. He just can’t visit Mother in this state, and I’m afraid to leave him alone. He’s getting more anxious by the minute.
At home, he asks two or three times an hour when we’re going for the examination. He reads the simple instructions Sam gave him over and over. He’s terribly concerned about doing it right and, at the same time, frightened out of his mind.
Myself, I’m turning into a nervous wreck. I’ve been separated from my own life too long and I’m missing the daily support of Vron.
I call Marty and talk to her but it doesn’t help. I almost ask her to go visit Mother but that would probably be a catastrophe.
Soon as Dad knows he isn’t supposed to eat, he gets ravenously hungry. I don’t feel I should eat in front of him so I get hungry too. We’re like a pair of hungry wolves prowling around the house, peering into the refrigerator every ten minutes or so.
I dig him out early without any breakfast and we dash to the hospital. Sam’s waiting. He takes Dad away to prepare him. I go into Dr Santana’s office. There I explain how my father has a deep worry about cancer. I ask Santana to be careful explaining things if there’s anything seriously wrong. Santana’s reading X-rays but assures me he knows how to handle these things. I go back and sit in the waiting room; Sam and Dad pass through to the examination room. I ask Sam if I should stay with Dad through the examination, but he smiles nicely and says he doesn’t think it’ll be necessary. Dad’s more relaxed; despite his prejudices he’s put himself in Sam’s hands. He has to recognize Sam’s natural authority. He really has it, presence.
Dr Santana comes out after Sam’s taken Dad away. I ask what he thinks might be the trouble. He runs his hand through his hair.
‘Well, Mr Tremont, it could be any number of things but I most suspect small growths in his bladder. It’s a question of whether they’re malignant.’
‘Will you be able to tell after the cystoscopic?’
‘Not really, but I’ll know whether or not they should be taken out. The fact they’re bleeding is not a good sign.’
I say it once more.
‘Honestly, Dr Santana, whatever you do, please break it lightly. This is all a terrible experience for him. He’s a very modest man; just someone manipulating his penis is a big shock.’
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Tremont; we’re very careful, especially with older patients.’
He goes in with Dad. I sit there in the waiting room. I can hear Dad through the door. He’s trying to hold back but there are grunts of pain. A cystoscopic is no fun. After fifteen minutes or so, Sam and Santana come out; Sam motions and says I can go in the examination room.
Dad’s face is white-green. There are edges of tears in his eyes; he’s sitting on the side of a Gurney table.
‘Boy, Johnny, that really hurts.’
‘I know, Dad, I had it once.’
‘In the army?’
‘No, afterwards. I had it done in Germany when we were living there. I thought for sure those Germans were trying to get even with me.’
‘Well, John, I hope they don’t do this again; it’d kill me for sure.’
He’s pulling on his shorts and packing in his penis. It’s wrapped in a piece of gauze and there’s blood. I hand him each article of clothing as he gets dressed.
I’m buttoning his shirt when Dr Santana comes back in. He has a clipboard in his hand.
‘Well, Mr Tremont; we’ll have to look at that.’
Dad stares at Santana, then at me; his voice quavers.
‘What does he mean, Johnny; look? I thought he just looked.’
Dad turns toward the doctor.
‘I mean I’ll have to schedule you for surgery, Mr Tremont.’
I’m standing behind Dad, signaling like crazy; Santana’s ignoring me. Dad looks around for assurance and I try to smile. Christ, it’s hard to smile when you’re scared out of your mind. Santana goes on.
‘Yes, there are some small growths in there and we’ll need to excise them. We’ll go in through the penile canal the way we did today. We won’t do any real surgery. Don’t you worry, Mr Tremont; there’s nothing to it.’
Big deal. Not to worry. Dad’s already halfway worrying himself to death. He’s wilting; slipping into deep shock. This guy Santana must have skipped all his classes in ‘bedside manner’.
Santana smiles and leaves. Dad stands there, silent. He looks so damned vulnerable.
‘Does he mean I have cancer, Johnny? Growths. That sounds like cancer.’
I laugh as if this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.
‘Hell, no, Dad! Lots of people have growths all the time. He’ll just go in and snip these out to make sure.’
I’m thinking fast as I can, trying to calm him, reassure him, fool him, help him back on his feet.
‘These’re nothing but tiny cysts, Dad, the kind Mother’s had out lots of times. That’s why they call this a cystoscopic examination. If it were cancer, they wouldn’t let you out of here today; they’d cut you right open and operate.’
God, it’s pitiful watching him watch me; wanting to believe, afraid. I finish dressing him; his hands are too shaky to tie shoes.
We go into Santana’s office. Dad sits down and I stand in back of his chair. Santana is sitting at his desk, still looking at X-rays. I keep trying to catch his eye but can’t.
At last he looks up and says, ‘OK, Mr Tremont, I’ve scheduled you for the tenth of March; we should get at this soon as possible.’
That’s in about two weeks. Dad sits there, nodding his head. This is the boss talking to him again and whatever the boss says is right. Even though he’s scared to death, he’s shaking his head and smiling, putting his hand over his teeth; doing the whole thing.
I want to confront Santana about his blunt presentation, but even more, I have to get Dad out of there fast. I hate dashing off again without visiting Mom, but she’d see right through Dad. That’s all she needs.
So what do I do now? Mostly, I want to talk with Joan. But first I need to help Dad settle down. I take him home and pour us both a drink of the muscatel wine. I turn on one of those contest shows. Dad sits in his platform rocker, not looking at the TV.
‘Johnny, really; do you think