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Authors: Claire Bidwell Smith
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of the distant mountain range that separates the city from the valley. The Hollywood sign is faintly visible in the background and palm trees dot the landscape.
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Iâve been living in LA for three months. The city feels like the opposite of New York, where I lived for the past four years. The palm trees, the wide-open boulevards, the ocean air, and hazy sunsets all play with my head. I miss Manhattan. I miss the sidewalks and the throngs of people. I miss my walk-up apartment in the East Village. I miss my bartending job and my magazine internship.
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It was a hard decision to leave New York. After my mother died I dropped out of my quaint Vermont college, with its white clapboard buildings and ruddy-cheeked students, and moved to Manhattan, where my first friend was the shirtless old man across the street who wore a pair of pearl earrings every day and had built a sixty-foot structure made of wood scraps in the community garden next door.
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It had taken the better part of four years to feel like I actually belonged in New York. Not to mention that I had just been asked to apply for a job at Time Out New York , the magazine where Iâd been interning during my final semester of college at the New School.
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I cried that afternoon, walking home along Second Street, through the East Village, past the vintage clothing shops and little cafés, knowing that I would have to turn down the job. I had promised my father that I would move to California when I graduated. Heâd been waiting patiently, storing up doctorsâ appointments for me to take him to, and planning day trips for just the two of us.
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But then the Big Fancy Magazine thing happened and suddenly the move didnât seem so bad.
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I think about this as I tap my high heel impatiently, waiting for the smoothie. I canât shake the gnawing feeling that taking this job was a mistake. I glance at my watch: 9:04 a.m. My father should just be arriving at the hospital for his third day of radiation treatment.
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A month after moving to LA, my father found out that his cancer was back. Ten years ago my mother discovered she had stage 4 colon cancer in the very same month that my father was diagnosed with his. He was forced to choose radiation over the more successful prostatectomy since my mother was the one who needed immediate surgery.
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The radiation has kept him cancer free for ten years, but last week, in the office of a tired-looking doctor at the VA hospital, we were informed that his tenure was up. We had been waiting patiently, tension building, as the doctor shuffled through a stack of files on his desk.
Â
My dad was wearing one of his favorite no-iron shirts from Robinsons-May, and the white hair around his ears tufted out, gracing his collar. My father had always looked old, but never more so than in that moment.
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Ah, here it is, the doctor finally said, pulling a file out from the stack.
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Hmm, let me see. Biopsy results, right?
Â
It was immediately clear that this guy had no recollection of my father. I watched the doctor scan the contents of the folder.
Â
Well, he said, I have some disappointing news.
Â
I felt a prickle in my spine. My father has had a small lump in his jaw and the biopsy was to determine if it was cancerous.
Â
The results do indeed show a malignancy, the doctor said. And itâs likely that the tumor in your mouth is a metastasis of the prostate cancer. Looks like it finally decided to spread. Impressive that you kept it off this long though.
Â
My body began to cave in on itself. My father let out a breath.
Â
So, what now? he asked through clenched teeth.
Â
Well, the doctor said, because of your age and other health concerns, your options are somewhat limited. More radiation is probably your best bet.
Â
I stopped paying attention. My whole body was tingling.
Â
In the car on the way to this appointment my father had tried to
Â
Iâve been living in LA for three months. The city feels like the opposite of New York, where I lived for the past four years. The palm trees, the wide-open boulevards, the ocean air, and hazy sunsets all play with my head. I miss Manhattan. I miss the sidewalks and the throngs of people. I miss my walk-up apartment in the East Village. I miss my bartending job and my magazine internship.
Â
It was a hard decision to leave New York. After my mother died I dropped out of my quaint Vermont college, with its white clapboard buildings and ruddy-cheeked students, and moved to Manhattan, where my first friend was the shirtless old man across the street who wore a pair of pearl earrings every day and had built a sixty-foot structure made of wood scraps in the community garden next door.
Â
It had taken the better part of four years to feel like I actually belonged in New York. Not to mention that I had just been asked to apply for a job at Time Out New York , the magazine where Iâd been interning during my final semester of college at the New School.
Â
I cried that afternoon, walking home along Second Street, through the East Village, past the vintage clothing shops and little cafés, knowing that I would have to turn down the job. I had promised my father that I would move to California when I graduated. Heâd been waiting patiently, storing up doctorsâ appointments for me to take him to, and planning day trips for just the two of us.
Â
But then the Big Fancy Magazine thing happened and suddenly the move didnât seem so bad.
Â
I think about this as I tap my high heel impatiently, waiting for the smoothie. I canât shake the gnawing feeling that taking this job was a mistake. I glance at my watch: 9:04 a.m. My father should just be arriving at the hospital for his third day of radiation treatment.
Â
A month after moving to LA, my father found out that his cancer was back. Ten years ago my mother discovered she had stage 4 colon cancer in the very same month that my father was diagnosed with his. He was forced to choose radiation over the more successful prostatectomy since my mother was the one who needed immediate surgery.
Â
The radiation has kept him cancer free for ten years, but last week, in the office of a tired-looking doctor at the VA hospital, we were informed that his tenure was up. We had been waiting patiently, tension building, as the doctor shuffled through a stack of files on his desk.
Â
My dad was wearing one of his favorite no-iron shirts from Robinsons-May, and the white hair around his ears tufted out, gracing his collar. My father had always looked old, but never more so than in that moment.
Â
Ah, here it is, the doctor finally said, pulling a file out from the stack.
Â
Hmm, let me see. Biopsy results, right?
Â
It was immediately clear that this guy had no recollection of my father. I watched the doctor scan the contents of the folder.
Â
Well, he said, I have some disappointing news.
Â
I felt a prickle in my spine. My father has had a small lump in his jaw and the biopsy was to determine if it was cancerous.
Â
The results do indeed show a malignancy, the doctor said. And itâs likely that the tumor in your mouth is a metastasis of the prostate cancer. Looks like it finally decided to spread. Impressive that you kept it off this long though.
Â
My body began to cave in on itself. My father let out a breath.
Â
So, what now? he asked through clenched teeth.
Â
Well, the doctor said, because of your age and other health concerns, your options are somewhat limited. More radiation is probably your best bet.
Â
I stopped paying attention. My whole body was tingling.
Â
In the car on the way to this appointment my father had tried to
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