When the day finally came that Dr. Chen called him with the MRI results, he was on his way back to the car after a short trip into the town center. His senses were so clear that day, as if everything was for the last time. November with its bare branches and soft drizzle, the smell of wet leaves, heavy leaden clouds, birds migrating south in great skeins across the gray sky. He noticed an Opel with dirty windows, an old man in an electric wheelchair whirring along the pavement, a teenager on a bike. He saw all these things with crystal clarity. He sprinted back to the car, let Frank into the back, and then settled in the driver’s seat. He put the phone to his ear, aware of his accelerating heartbeat.
“We’ve found something,” Dr. Chen said. “Are you sitting down?”
The words vibrated in the air. Her voice was remarkably neutral, which immediately made him nervous. That’s not what you were supposed to say, he thought. You were supposed to say everything is fine, that I’m perfectly healthy and that life will go on. You were supposed to say it was nothing more than a misunderstanding, and that it is all over now. That I can breathe out again.
“What kind of something?” he asked in a thin voice. He, the detective inspector who normally spoke in a clear bass, was whispering like a girl.
“Acusticus neurinoma,” Chen replied. As if the diagnosis was the most natural thing in the world.
“I see,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t speak Latin. What is that in everyday language?”
“I know,” she apologized. “I was just quoting from the letter from the hospital. An acoustic tumor is a benign tumor and is generally located in the inner ear. It presses against the vestibular, or balance nerve, which is why you get so dizzy. Have you noticed any hearing loss?”
He had to think for a moment. Yes, maybe, a little in the right ear, but his anxiety about the dizziness had overshadowed it.
“A tumor,” he hesitated. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, no, everything should be fine,” Chen reassured him. “It is in all likelihood benign. But it won’t be smooth sailing. You see, it’s not going to be easy to remove it as it’s in the inner ear, which is very delicate. In other words, it’s hard to get to it.”
“Do I have to have an operation?” he asked in alarm.
The electric wheelchair was approaching his car. The old man didn’t even bother to look at him; he was obviously on an urgent mission.
“Yes, you will have to have an operation — if you don’t want to go through life with your head spinning like a drunkard, that is,” she explained. “It is absolutely possible to remove it. In fact, there are several different ways in which it can be done. But it is a complex operation, so it’s not easy. The surgeon will have to decide which method is best for you, so I’ll get back to you.”
“But tell me one thing,” he said feebly. “Will I need an anesthetic?”
“My dear man,” Chen said with a laugh, “we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Of course you’ll be under general anesthetic, so don’t you worry.”
He thought about it and tried to calm himself. He looked at Frank in the mirror; he was lying peacefully with his head on his paws, blissfully unaware of how serious this was. You superficial little mutt, he mumbled to himself, as he held the cell phone tight in his sweaty hand.
“We could use what is called a gamma knife,” Chen continued. “In which case, we go in through the auditory canal and remove the tumor from there. It is the cleanest method, if you like. Then there is another more invasive method where we go in just under the temporal bone using a scalpel and remove it from there. Both methods are very successful, so we just need to determine which is best for you. We often leave the tumors where they are, believe it or not. But as it is bothering you, we must do something; don’t you agree? I’m afraid you will have to be prepared to be added to the waiting list. The system works well, but it is often slow.”
She paused. He could hear her breathing, fast and easy. The electric wheelchair had now cleared the car and the old man whirred on, eyes straight ahead on his steady course. The windshield was covered in small drops of condensation.
“But you must be a busy man, Detective Inspector, so I will try to bump you up the list,” she said.
The relief flooded through him, making him feel warm and light. I’ve got a few years left, he thought, how wonderful!
“So I’ll be hearing from the hospital then?”
“Yes, you’ll get a letter. And otherwise, you’re fit as a fiddle. All the tests were good. And there is no doubt that you will be living on this earth for a while yet.”
Then she said goodbye and he sat quietly in the car for some time. He couldn’t seem to get moving again. His pulse was back to normal and his breathing was slow and steady. Benign, she’d said, benign. What a relief! More left of life, after all. It was almost too good to be true. Then thoughts started to crowd his mind once again, just as the old man in the wheelchair disappeared around the corner. A cure was within reach. But first, they would have to stick a knife in his ear.