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?”
