Page 91 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Cherry,” Dr. Berger nodded. “Wise choice.”

He unwrapped his lollipop and stuffed it into his cheek. I followed his lead. If he was going to have a lollipop, I wouldn’t feel odd having one, too.

“Enzo,” Dr. Berger frowned, “you shouldn’t have your tumor.”

“I know,” I said around the lollipop in my mouth. “It’s just something I was unlucky enough to be born with.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m not making some philosophical statement here. People get sick, have tumors, die—it’s just how life is. You were supposed to have the tumor. That was just how you were meant to be born, I suppose. If we were being philosophical, I mean.”

“Okay?”

“What my meaning was is that your very first surgery should have solved your problem,” he said. “This is a highly operable meningioma. One of the best placements and sizes I’ve seen to be plucked right out.”

I stared at him, my tongue resting against the lollipop.

“You shouldn’t have this tumor now.”

“Then why do I?” I asked, suddenly angry. “Tell me why.”

Dr. Berger stared at me.

“I ask everyone ‘why’ all of the time,” I growled. “I’ve asked doctors and my parents, and even…fuck…God. No one will tell me why! I’m tired of being told this shouldn’t be but no one will give me one fucking reason why it is. And I’m so tired of asking why. Wondering why. I’m tired of asking a simple question and only becoming more exhausted.”

My sudden outburst was shocking to us both. Even though I am in control of my emotions and what comes out of my mouth, I hadn’t anticipated the frustration and anger that flowed forth. Immediately, I lowered my eyes, looking at the exam room floor as I folded my hands in my lap. The lollipop was still stuck in my cheek.

Dr. Berger waited a moment, then cautiously reached out and laid a hand on my knee.

“Because my profession has failed you,” he said. “It’s not the answer you want, I know. But that is the answer.”

I nodded, my eyes still down.

“It’s not a good answer, but it is the answer,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at anyone but your doctors,” he said softly. “But especially, don’t be mad at God. God had nothing to do with this.”

That…that surprised me. This man of medicine and science didn’t mock me for my belief in God. My head rose to meet his eyes.

“But I would like to atone for them,” Dr. Berger said. “I want to ask you to trust me to do one last surgery. I want to remove your meningioma for you.”

“Why should I trust you?” I asked.

It was a dumb question. I already trusted him.

“Because I will not agree to do this surgery unless I feel I have your trust,” he said.

That made perfect sense. I took a deep breath. Not because I had a decision to make, but because I knew I had to ask the thing that I’d never had the opportunity to ask as an adult with my own agency. An adult in full control of their own health care. Someone who got to make the decision that will, possibly, change their entire life.

“What could go wrong?”

Dr. Berger smiled. “The surgery has to be aborted and nothing changes for you. The surgery goes well and your tumor grows back—there’s a twenty-percent chance. The surgery doesn’t go well and cognitive and neurological function is lost. Brain damage. Death.”

I nodded slowly.

“Do you want to know what could go right?” he asked.

“Yes.”