Sloan-Kettering is a cancer hospital, but cancer had not entered my mind. I was still banking on the possibility of gallstones; I thought, at worst, Oliver might have to have his gallbladder removed. I remember the doctor entering the consulting room with a young medical fellow (he was from Italy, I think), and how nervous the young man looked. The doctor got right to it and told us that he had carefully reviewed the CAT scan and, although a confirmatory biopsy would have to be performed, he was ninety percent sure of the diagnosis and said he had some “tough” news. I remember that word, “tough.” He asked Oliver if he’d like to see the CAT scan. Oliver said yes, of course, and he flipped on the computer monitor. I got up and stood behind Oliver, who scooted his chair in close so he could see.
Later he told me that he knew instantly what the scan said. I did not, and I was stunned when the radiologist explained that what we were looking at was a recurrence of the uveal melanoma Oliver had had nine years earlier—a cancer arising from the pigment cells in his right eye; over time, it had metastasized to his liver, which was now “riddled like Swiss cheese” with tumors. He enlarged the image on the monitor, so the white spots—the tumors—looked as large as those made by a hole punch. In cases like this, with a possibility of the cancer spreading, and at Oliver’s age, the doctor said, neither a liver resection nor a liver transplant would be possible.
A liver transplant? I thought.
What has stuck with me so clearly is how calmly Oliver took this news. It was as if he was expecting it, as perhaps he was. He sort of tilted his head and stroked his beard and asked about the prognosis, and the doctor said, “Six to eighteen months.”
“And there’s no effective treatment?”
The doctor didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes. He explained what could be done, that everything possible would be done, an oncology team was already in place, he’d just gotten off the phone with a specialist, and so on, but Oliver cut him off. He said he was not interested in “prolonging life just for the sake of prolonging life.” Two of his brothers had died of cancer (different forms of cancer), and both had regretted undergoing horrid chemotherapy treatments that had done nothing but ruin their last months.
“I want to be able to write, think, read, swim, be with Billy, see friends, and maybe travel a bit, if possible.” Oliver added that he hoped not to be in “ghastly pain” or for his condition to become “humiliating,” and then he fell silent.
I looked over at the young fellow standing by the door; his brow was damp with sweat. My right hand reached for Oliver’s shoulder, my left hand to steady myself on his chair.
I’m sure we discussed details of the liver biopsy he would have at the hospital the following week. A nurse came in. We had to review some paperwork. But I don’t remember much else about the discussions that followed. Somehow I got us back down to the parking garage, and I drove us home. It was dark by then, and the traffic slow. Oliver made a few calls on the way, calmly relating the news to his close friend Orrin and to Kate. Only once did strong emotion come into his voice. To Kate, he said in no uncertain terms that he wanted his just-completed memoir to be published as soon as humanly possible; it had already been slated for the fall, nine months later, which he said “would be too late” for him to see. Kate said she would contact his publisher and his agent immediately. I remember holding Oliver’s hand when I could take mine from the wheel, and knowing, without saying so, that our life and his life and my life had all changed in ways I could and could not comprehend. I just drove.
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We had met with the doctor on a Thursday. The next day, we went swimming at noon, as we always did on Fridays, and then spent a quiet weekend together, taking walks, reading, listening to music, going to the open-air market at Abingdon Square, cooking, both of us trying to absorb the overwhelming news. Oliver consulted with a few colleagues, including the ophthalmologist who had treated his cancer years before; he had had a chance to look at the CAT scan, too. Recurrences such as this were considered extremely rare, yet the consensus seemed to be that the preliminary diagnosis was most likely correct and that treatment options were few.
On Saturday night, we got stoned—if only as a diversion from thinking the unthinkable. Oliver didn’t like to smoke weed; he preferred edible cannabis chocolates made by a friend of mine, Laura, a trained pastry chef. These were very delicious and very potent. He became extremely cheerful, hilarious, and animated.
“What are you seeing?” I asked at one point, as he lay on the couch.
“It would take a hundred pages a minute to tell you,” O said matter-of-factly.
A moment passed, then he reported with a gust of giggling, “I just had an astounding alteration of perception! I opened my eyes, and in place of my body all I could see was my feet—my comically large, flat human feet. They seemed very brightly colored!”
“What color?”
“Oh! Every color!”
We laughed a lot, laughter itself being something that Oliver felt was very good for one—stimulating pleasure-inducing neurochemicals—and, in turn, good for us as a couple. The effects of all this essentially harmless pleasantness wore off after a couple of hours, at which point we ran a bath, sharing the water in his giant tub, while listening to music and sipping our favorite liquor, Brennivin.