Teddy #2
I march toward my car—not a soul in Palm Springs giving me a second glance for wearing a wig in the middle of the afternoon—and
see my own reflection in the window of my store. I survey my appearance and take stock of the situation I’m in.
“How would Lucy get herself out of this mess?” I ask myself, smoothing the loose ends of the wig. “There’s not a chocolate
anywhere in sight to shove in my mouth nor a grape to stomp in Palm Springs.”
My doctor looks like Doogie Howser, MD.
If you don’t know who that is, google it.
We didn’t have Google when I was young. We researched subjects using things called dictionaries and microfiche. We carted
heavy books around and had to turn pages and scour lines to discover truths.
We found locations—like the hospital I’m currently seated in wearing a paper robe with my flabby behind hanging out for Doogie
to probe—using folded maps, directions written on napkins and our own internal compasses.
We didn’t even have a hint Doogie might be gay—much less Boy George—until years later because no one even uttered that word
out loud. I mean, my father thought Liberace was just a showman. Paul Lynde was simply the hilarious “center square” on Hollywood Squares.
What I’m trying to say is, if you don’t know Doogie, it means I’m too damn old.
I watch Doogie’s mouth move.
To me right now, his voice sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher from the Peanuts holiday specials.
Wah-wah.
Again, google it, my dears.
I’m being “staged,” and not in the glamorous Broadway, Tony Award–winning way.
I have cancer.
Stage T3a to be exact, meaning my tumor has extended outside the prostate on one side but has not spread to my lymph nodes
or distant organs, my PSA is under 20, and I have a Gleason score of 7.
I should play the lotto today with those numbers.
So many numbers, so little time.
“In other words,” my doctor says to me, “after all our tests, this is the best possible outcome of a bad situation.”
My head snaps up.
“I thought I was dying,” I say. “You said at my last visit, and I quote, ‘This doesn’t look good.’”
“I’ve been told my bedside manner could use some work.”
My doctor is trying to make a joke to lessen the tension.
“Some work?” I ask. “I’ve spent the last few weeks digging a hole in my backyard for my own funeral. So, cut to the chase.
How long do I have to live?”
The doctor shakes his head and pulls his chair toward me. I guess he believes this gesture equates sympathy.
“I don’t look at your situation that way,” he says, voice calm as the desert air in the morning. “We have a number of treatment
options available, including external beam radiation therapy in conjunction with long-term androgen deprivation therapy.”
My doctor pauses.
“It sounds like—to make an obvious pun—there’s a big ‘but’ in there,” I say.
I pivot on the exam table and give my rear a little slap.
He doesn’t laugh.
“My suggestion would be to deal with this aggressively,” he says. “And as soon as possible.”
“Meaning?”
“A radical prostatectomy.”
“Is that a new pop group?”
“It involves the surgical removal of the prostate gland and a small amount of normal tissue surrounding it to—in the simplest
of terms—make sure we got it all,” he explains. “You’re fortunate that the cancer has not yet reached the seminal vesicles
or lymph nodes. Yet! Nearly eighty-five percent of patients who have this surgery are alive and doing well five years after surgery. Most of those
patients—like you—who die do so of causes other than prostate cancer.”
“And this is good news?” I ask.
“It actually is.”
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” I say. “And I rarely utter those words.”
“I have to be honest with you. The surgery is quite invasive, which makes it less popular than any other treatment options,”
he says. “It poses distinct complications, including risk of death following surgery, long-term sexual dysfunction and urinary
incontinence.”
“Is there at least a gift with purchase with this option?” I ask.
No laughter.
“However, this procedure would—I firmly believe—be the best option for your long-term health and survival.”
“You have just described the ultimate living nightmare for a gay man,” I say. I look my doctor in the eye. “Little chance
of sex again combined with an ever-present aroma of tinkle rather than a Tom Ford cologne. No, thank you. I think I’d rather
die.”
“Mr. Copeland, many women today who have the brCA1 or brCA2 mutation opt to have a bilateral mastectomy in order to survive,”
he says. “It reduces the risk of breast cancer by at least ninety-five percent for those who have this harmful variant. Most
patients would be grateful to have a surgical option that would allow them to live.”
I think of John.
I think of the havoc, stress, and financial and emotional burden his death placed on me. I think of the havoc my surgery and recovery would cause my family.
My mind turns to my mother. How quickly she went.
Wouldn’t that be for the best?
For me? For everyone?
I don’t even have any family left.
“I’d like to get you scheduled for surgery as soon as possible,” the doctor presses. He rolls back to his laptop and begins
to tap on it. “I can get you in for surgery in two weeks.”
“I need some time to think,” I say.
“You don’t have time to think.”
I plop into an uncomfortable chair by the exam table and pull on my socks and shoes. I glance up at my doctor.
“Then I think I want to die.”
“No one wants to die.”
“No one wants to live like this either.”
“But you’ll be alive.”
“But not living.”
He shakes his head at me.
“I’ll give you a chance to think for a second while you change.”
He leaves, but I can hear him standing outside the door. I stand, wiggle out of my paper robe and dress.
“I’m done changing!” I call.
He comes in.
“But still not changing my mind,” I finish.
“Mr. Copeland . . .” he starts.
“Listen, I’m an expert at this type of conversation,” I say, cutting him off. “We can go round and round all day long like
a merry-go-round.” I stop. “And to think I could survive playgrounds and bullies in the 1970s, but not old age.”
I pull on my wig.
Humor is my coping mechanism. It has always been my coping mechanism.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I say. “I’ll be in touch about what I decide.”
“Mr. Copeland?”
I stop at the door.
“My wife and I went to see your show a few years ago.”
I turn, my face etched in surprise. I have misjudged this man. Badly.
“You buried the lede,” I say.
“You have friends who will support you,” he continues. “On stage and in real life. You have a big family that loves you.”
“But they shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“That’s why we have friends,” the doctor says.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll think about what you’ve said. Oh, and, Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“What did you think of the show?”
“We loved it,” he says. “You know, my grandmother in Kansas died of COVID in her assisted living facility. She was all alone.
My grandfather had passed, and her children and grandchildren weren’t nearby. Her favorite TV show was The Golden Girls. I’d never seen it before, but I started Zooming her every weekend during COVID, and we watched it together as a way to not
be all alone. Even when she was dying—when she wasn’t conscious—I’d call, have the nurses turn on the show and we’d still
watch it together. And for a half hour, everything was okay.”
The doctor stands and takes a step toward me.
“You keep living, Mr. Copeland, to have moments just like that,” he continues. “You keep fighting to live, Mr. Copeland, not
just for yourself but for those who love and need you.”
I inhale sharply.
“Are you a sports fan?” he asks.
“Do I look like a sports fan?”
Finally, my doctor laughs.
“There’s an old saying in sports: The longer you stay in the game, the more chance you have to win.”
“Meaning?”
“You give up, and the game is over before it’s even been decided.”
He gives me a handful of pamphlets and a printout of his suggested next steps.
I nod and open the door.
“You will need to stop drinking if you decide to have the surgery,” he says. “Your blood work could be better.”
“You mean, my blood work could be a martini.”
I exit and walk down the long corridor toward the exit sign.
Behind me, the doctor calls, “I don’t think red is your color.”
“Now you’re funny?” I yell without turning back.