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Authors: Rafael Yglesias
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dosage,” Enrique said. “It’s called Epotholide, by the way. They stopped taking Epotholide because not only didn’t it help their cancer but it took away all pleasure. Anhedonia, I think, is the term for the inability to feel any pleasure.”
“Anhedonia,” the great man’s fellow repeated and wrote it down.
“Yes,” Enrique confirmed and added, apparently just chatting, “You know, it’s funny but that was the original title for Annie Hall. Woody Allen wanted to call it Anhedonia. Guess what? They didn’t think that would sell tickets.”
Margaret took Enrique’s pass of the ball. She smiled apologetically at the Iraqi and said, “My husband is in the movie business.”
That, of course, got the attention of the doctor’s entourage. “Really, what do you do?” the fellow asked, and both medical students turned Enrique’s way as if he had the answers to next week’s test.
“I’m a screenwriter.” Enrique shrugged as if it were embarrassing.
“He has a movie shooting right now,” Margaret said. “They’re in Toronto, but they’re coming to New York soon, right?”
“Yeah, they’ll be shooting down the block from here in three weeks,” Enrique mumbled to the floor.
Margaret got as far as impressing them with the cast before the Iraqi interrupted. “Enough chitchat,” he said to his team and then demanded of Margaret, “How do you know they only wanted you to fill out the last cohort?”
“I asked,” Margaret said and released her loud and quickly retracted report of a laugh. “If you ask, they have to tell you.”
The still frowning doctor turned on his heel and addressed Enrique. “You told her to ask?”
“No,” Enrique said. “She read the disclosure documents and figured out to ask.”
“You asked?” He whipped his head back to Margaret with an unexpected smile, a dawning of pleasure and illumination in his dark-eyed face. He regarded her with an attitude of admiration, long enough for Margaret, apparently unnerved by his look, to release another staccato laugh. “You are a smart woman,” he declared at last.
Margaret beamed. “And I am a cooperative patient. I really am. I will be very obedient. I promise. I will do everything you tell me to.”
“Good,” he said with a comical and self-knowing nod of satisfaction. “You hear that?” he turned to his entourage. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“I will be obedient,” Margaret continued, “but only if what you want me to do might actually help me.”
His lean face broadened into a wide grin. “You will obey me if you agree with me, is that it?”
“Exactly,” Margaret said, and the whole room laughed, with gratitude that somehow suffering and death had been mocked.
That was Margaret and Enrique’s last tag team cancer triumph, their final seduction of a succession of healers. Having charmed her new doctor, Margaret abruptly excused herself to use the bathroom. She retched up the bile that had accumulated and the water she’d drunk during the past three hours. The sound could be heard clearly through the thin door of the examination room by the senior doctor and his team. The group paused their medical cross talk about how to proceed with her case to listen to the eerie lack of struggle as she vomited; Enrique knew, from two months of observation, that she was bent over, mouth open, fluid coming out like a fountain, apparently gallons of it. The Iraqi asked Enrique, “How often does she have to do that?”
“Every four hours. Her stomach doesn’t empty at all. Here’s the report.” Enrique passed him the results of a grueling test a previous gastroenterologist had insisted she endure to prove that her vomiting every four hours wasn’t a hypersensitive reaction to chemotherapy nausea. They fed her scrambled eggs that had been irradiated to make them visible on a CT, and then ran her through the scanner every hour to see whether any of it had left her stomach. After four and a half hours,
“Anhedonia,” the great man’s fellow repeated and wrote it down.
“Yes,” Enrique confirmed and added, apparently just chatting, “You know, it’s funny but that was the original title for Annie Hall. Woody Allen wanted to call it Anhedonia. Guess what? They didn’t think that would sell tickets.”
Margaret took Enrique’s pass of the ball. She smiled apologetically at the Iraqi and said, “My husband is in the movie business.”
That, of course, got the attention of the doctor’s entourage. “Really, what do you do?” the fellow asked, and both medical students turned Enrique’s way as if he had the answers to next week’s test.
“I’m a screenwriter.” Enrique shrugged as if it were embarrassing.
“He has a movie shooting right now,” Margaret said. “They’re in Toronto, but they’re coming to New York soon, right?”
“Yeah, they’ll be shooting down the block from here in three weeks,” Enrique mumbled to the floor.
Margaret got as far as impressing them with the cast before the Iraqi interrupted. “Enough chitchat,” he said to his team and then demanded of Margaret, “How do you know they only wanted you to fill out the last cohort?”
“I asked,” Margaret said and released her loud and quickly retracted report of a laugh. “If you ask, they have to tell you.”
The still frowning doctor turned on his heel and addressed Enrique. “You told her to ask?”
“No,” Enrique said. “She read the disclosure documents and figured out to ask.”
“You asked?” He whipped his head back to Margaret with an unexpected smile, a dawning of pleasure and illumination in his dark-eyed face. He regarded her with an attitude of admiration, long enough for Margaret, apparently unnerved by his look, to release another staccato laugh. “You are a smart woman,” he declared at last.
Margaret beamed. “And I am a cooperative patient. I really am. I will be very obedient. I promise. I will do everything you tell me to.”
“Good,” he said with a comical and self-knowing nod of satisfaction. “You hear that?” he turned to his entourage. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“I will be obedient,” Margaret continued, “but only if what you want me to do might actually help me.”
His lean face broadened into a wide grin. “You will obey me if you agree with me, is that it?”
“Exactly,” Margaret said, and the whole room laughed, with gratitude that somehow suffering and death had been mocked.
That was Margaret and Enrique’s last tag team cancer triumph, their final seduction of a succession of healers. Having charmed her new doctor, Margaret abruptly excused herself to use the bathroom. She retched up the bile that had accumulated and the water she’d drunk during the past three hours. The sound could be heard clearly through the thin door of the examination room by the senior doctor and his team. The group paused their medical cross talk about how to proceed with her case to listen to the eerie lack of struggle as she vomited; Enrique knew, from two months of observation, that she was bent over, mouth open, fluid coming out like a fountain, apparently gallons of it. The Iraqi asked Enrique, “How often does she have to do that?”
“Every four hours. Her stomach doesn’t empty at all. Here’s the report.” Enrique passed him the results of a grueling test a previous gastroenterologist had insisted she endure to prove that her vomiting every four hours wasn’t a hypersensitive reaction to chemotherapy nausea. They fed her scrambled eggs that had been irradiated to make them visible on a CT, and then ran her through the scanner every hour to see whether any of it had left her stomach. After four and a half hours,
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