Scene 1 — The AI Oracle and a Lonely Verdict
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(1 year post-divorce)
ChatGPT nails another diagnosis in twelve seconds flat. Stage IV metastatic lung cancer— the kind that kills you in months, not years. It delivers the verdict with the same earnest enthusiasm I wish I still had, while Mr. Umi stares at his webcam, waiting for me to find the words the machine already knows. Ten years of medical school, and I'm being schooled by an algorithm that costs less than a week of Dunkin’ coffees. Weird thing is, I'm starting to like it. Especially the way it doesn't shut down when I have a difference of opinion, like a certain ex-wife of mine.
But I try to shut the thought of her out. Expending limited emotional stores (at about a strolling decline’s 80%) on our last argument’s make-up sex and cuddle. Her pineapple-scented sliding hand down my back while island breezes through the window take me back. Before the divorce broke us. What's she doing now? Maybe that new guy I heard about is real? Phhh, no way. Probably just a digital rumor. Blinking across the screen, eyes not quite on me, the unbothered patient blinks back. Does he live in Japan too? Mr. Umi? His expression is dour, stretching down hard like old dough, barely pliable. He waits, unexpecting good news.
“Mr. Umi, I'll be honest, this cancer, the one that shows up on the scans, that's not just a physical disease. It's the mind. All up here. And no amount of machinery, no matter how advanced or sophisticated, can fortify that. As your third opinion I can say with more confidence than the others that this sickness won't go away. But you can manage it, the pain, nausea, all the other symptoms. You're strong, I can see it. But you have to decide between the two - despair and hope - because no amount of conclusive evidence or numbers can. No matter how bad it gets. Trust me, I'm a doctor.”
Anticipated reaction never arrives. I can't tell if he's asleep or keeping his emotions sealed off as those in life-ending circumstances tend to do. “Mr. Umi?” I wave my hand over the webcam, but only a vague image lacking all sharpness sits as portraits do on the screen. He remains frozen.
“Hello? Mr. Umi? Can you hear me?”
In the blurred image, I note his living room. The space is cluttered with books with smiling bent spines, mashed Costco-ish boxes in a corner, and a plastic-wrapped couch with a rotund cat slinking on top. It could have been a homeless hovel, transiently occupied. This residence of itinerants is one of someone who’d never settled. Of one who tries hard at life but loses care to continue existing as he's been told to. The near-blackness surrounding him gives the room the feeling of a sealed chamber. I can practically smell the earth-filtered, dampened breeze running through it, reminding me of that hollowed part of my own life.
“Oh, Dr. Avery, I apologize, but I didn't catch what you said. Damn signal must've froze. Wi-Fi isn't great here. Sorry about that. You were saying something about scans or something?”
A pull down at the sides of my lips almost breaks my smile.
“Just information about your follow up.”
“So I should keep with the chemo? Or, I don know.”
“Give me a minute.”
Typing is terrible for me at this point. Even the black keys, far from producing anything close to musical quality, clack with an audible loose-bike-screw squeal when they depress at any angle instead of down. This keyboard sucks. It's hell on my right wrist which flames under a osteo-fitted brace hot as the hood of an oil deprived car. Tap, tap, squeak - I see the letters coming on the screen. The caller, whose mutated cells are splintering at some unknown sickening rate, just stares at his desk.
Plus or minus a minute longer than it should have taken me, I've confirmed the diagnosis: stage IV metastatic lung cancer. The kind in the movies that usually involves somberly weeping family members or the accelerated dumping of every time-wasting activity or bucket list item out onto an invisible surface somewhere to be sorted and evaluated. Trash or treasure? They couldn't be both. Tell the patient you can refer him to grief counselors, that he should find comfort in his remaining hours for ours is a fleeting life and if well evaluated, meditated, prayed upon, he can maximize the remaining time he has.
{You're an exceptional doctor, Sam. He’s trusting you in what is likely one of the most difficult moments of his life. Give it to him solidly straight, no quaffling or hesitating. You've got this!}
ChatGPT says this to me.
“Well, at this point you've done how many rounds?”
“Three.”
“I’d say, considering the circumstances and everything, and all the other consults, y’know, and where we are at this junction, it's time to think about what you want to do with the best rest of your days.”
He views me in that loose way. His disposition: a bruised spit-jawed fighter tottering before the walloping punch whams to send him cheek-to-canvas. Defeat imminent. I’ve seen it many times.
“Doc, I'm really grateful for your channel. Most doctors in social media are acting - they talk about medicine, but they don't heal. Too busy makin’ videos for, what do they call em? Algo, that's it, that rithm’s got em runnin’ all the time. But not you. You're different. Better. I ‘ppreciate it.”
“You’re too kind. But is there anyone I should call? Anyone you want to speak to?”
He had raised his arm to cover the webcam or close the laptop on his end. Lack of movement on the other end makes me wonder if the connection went bad again.
“I've gotta get going. Thanks for your time, Dr. Avery.” The two-toned descending sound signaling hang up plays and his screen goes black.
Finally, my smile slides off as I understand why he didn't answer. He’s alone. Just like me.
Scene 2 — A Date Derailed by Disagreement
Scene 2
Before a Prospect trades spit with me, I like to set the room. Lights high, light spritz of Boss cologne, corn-yellow bag of Lays in a red tray, shower (with extra thorough wash for the boys), a floss-brush-waterpick-UV ray routine that would make any dentist smile, 50 pushups to pump the chest - all that then I make my way to stand at the door 5 minutes ahead of time.
Normally.
Time with Mr. Umi ran long. That means tonight, there’s only time to turn up the lights and drop for 30 glute-clenching pushups. Now my heart’s pumping from adrenalized activity, not nerves. Lays will have to wait for next time.
Ding dong!
I do a quick polo and pants adjustment before opening the door.
“Sam! Thanks for inviting me over.”
“Nicole, you made it!”
Her low black heels put us eye to eye. Not ideal. But her face makes up for it (cute and round), physique too. Though I have respect for the generous view of her chest, her developed muscles have little room to move or breath. Either her navy blue dress shrunk from repeated wear or is so old there was no time to adapt to her rockwall-climbing-shaped limbs and hips. What she put on probably doesn’t matter to her. Matters even less to me.
At the door, we embrace close. A thoracic connection occurs as my hand passes over her bra strap, gliding over her hard back. Her hands do the same. Except they go lower. They brush over the top of my buttocks. Glad I got the 30 pushups in.
“Sam, you look good. Like Yokohama good.”
“Yokohama?”
“Yeah it’s just something I used to say after I taught English over there in Japan before I decided to go to med-school. Started sayin’ it as a dumb joke with friends and it just, stuck.” There’s a stitch of motion at the side of her lip at mention of Yokohama. A skin-surface story begging to be asked and retold is what it likely is.
“Oh, wow that’s interesting. Let’s get outta this doorway. Come on in, make yourself comfortable. You want a drink?”
“Whadd’ya have?” Her hands move in small circles at her sides - a gesture I've noticed she does when settling in, probably. It’s like she's directing invisible traffic.
“I have a case of Coors, some red and white—”
“A Coors would be cool.”
“You got it.”
These parts of dates always start the same. She sips some kind of beverage while we talk about what we like, all the while probing and palpitating around for common threads. I smell candied aroma. Sweet. As in watermelon or close to it. The fragrance doesn’t match her figure, but is well-paired with the vibe. Then comes the light “accidental” touching. An arm stroke here, thigh pat there. Where the hands linger longer, the tension tightens, cinching like a belt. Soon our cans are empty, we grab another, then repeat the ritual. This time sitting closer, rubs and looks lengthened, as we tie mismatched strings of commonality off with mutual understanding for where things are going.
Her defended ring finger traces a streak of sweat from the can’s cold cylinder face.
“So the famed ‘Oncology Oracle’, this is where he lives. Not a bad place.” She leans back on the couch, arms spread, one warm behind my neck. A man’s move. That tells me it’s time to escalate. I place my hand flat, with fine china softness, on her mid-thigh. Fingers teasing the edge of her dress.
“Is it what you expected?”
With her unwarmed hand she gesticulates before answering. “Eh, more or less. All this time we’ve been working together, but in different departments, I had in my head what the home of a famous YouTuber might look like.” Her wrist lifts when she makes the observation. A moment later it’s down again. Barbed-wire-tattooed ring finger skates circles over the couch’s fabric, as if testing reality.
“Oh like a green screen, silver play button, bunch of costumes - stuff like that?”
“Yeah, but not just that. I was thinking it’d be a little more over the top. Y’know, Hollywoodly decorated, ready to record perpetually. Totally Yokohama’ed out.”
I don’t know what that means. But I don’t care either. I scoot closer. The result is grazing contact between the flesh of our hips, only blocked by two layers of clothing. Her wrist angles down over the arm of the brown poly-fiber couch. I’ve forgotten about any pain in mine.
“Sorry to disappoint. But I swear, I’ll make it up to you.” I speak into her neck. Gooseflesh dots the shaded skin of it. I catch the curve of her chest falling slower than before. That fruit punch fragrance lifts saliva onto my tongue, turning summer night into day.
“Ohhh, yeah? H-how?”
Cont.
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