Always.
I knew most of her hair had fallen out, but she wouldn’t let me see. She was too proud. I considered getting her a wig, but I didn’t know how to approach the issue without things getting weird.
A Coke can sat on the scratched wooden table at her side, smoke trailing out of the opening. “How many today?”
Dunk shrugged. “I saw her with at least five, but I think she snuck one more in the bathroom. She was in there for nearly forty minutes, without so much as a courtesy flush. She finally came out when I told her I was coming in if she didn’t.”
I found the pack of Marlboros crammed between her leg and the side of the chair. There were six left of the original twenty.
When she was first diagnosed with leukemia, I tried to get her to stop smoking altogether. Hiding her ashtrays didn’t work—I tried that years ago, and she always found another way to dispense of her ashes (like the Coke can, the window, or one of my shoes). When the chemo and radiation started, I took away her cigarettes, only to find new packs would mysteriously appear. I had no idea where she got them. I tore the apartment to pieces trying to find her hidden stash. She didn’t go out. They had to be here somewhere.
On our third or fourth visit, Dr. Pavia pulled me aside and told me considering how long she had smoked, getting her to quit might prove impossible. At this stage, quitting might actually do more harm than good. He said some patients demonstrated weight gain and heightened blood pressure when quitting. Weight gain would be a plus (she dropped nearly thirty pounds), but higher blood pressure would not. In many ways, the risks associated with quitting outweighed the benefits. He told me to continue trying, but not to fret if I couldn’t make it happen.
We had bigger problems.
The cancer had spread from her blood to her lymph nodes, spleen, liver, and began invading her central nervous system. The chemo and radiation slowed down the progress, but only a little.
Auntie Jo was losing this fight.
Then there was the pain.
“Did she take her pills?”
“Yeah, but they’re giving her tramadol. It’s working now, but barely. She’s already building up a tolerance. You need to let me get her something stronger.”
He didn’t come out and say it, but he meant heroin. Dunk brought it up a couple times before. He said when his uncle died from cancer, heroin and pot were far more effective than the oxycodone his doctor prescribed. Even better than the morphine they gave him toward the end.
“We can’t give her heroin.”
“Why not?”
“Because, it’s heroin.”
I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing—the fact that my best friend wanted to give my aunt illegal drugs or the fact that my best friend could so easily access and administer those illegal drugs. I knew he could, though. He probably had some on him right now. He’d never use these things himself, but selling them was another story, and he was good at it. He started with small stuff, pot mostly, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize how much money he could make simply by connecting the buyers and sellers. His dad had been out of work for over a year, with little interest in anything other than drinking. Dunk needed a way to pay the bills. Unfortunately, this was it. Two years ago, when he had gotten arrested for shoplifting, I hoped the scare would be enough to set him straight. Instead, the experience only made him more cautious.
“For a smart guy, you sure suck at coming up with a convincing argument. ‘Because’ is not gonna fly here,” Dunk said. “You want her to be comfortable, right?”
“Heroin is addicting.”
“So is oxy, morphine, tramadol, codeine, and all the other prescription crap they’re throwing at her.” He lowered his voice. “She might not have much time left, and if this plays out anything like my uncle, things are going to go south fast. Talk to her doctor. Tell him you can get some. See what he thinks.”
“I can’t ask her doctor about illegal drugs.”
“He can’t tell anyone if you do. It’s part of that doctor-patient thing. He’s bound by an oath.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“Ask him,” Dunk insisted. “I think you’ll be surprised by what he says.” He glanced up at the clock. “Christ, it’s four after six—you need to go!”
I frowned at the clock. “Shit. I wanted to change and clean up first.”
“No time for that, Romeo.”
“She probably won’t be there anyway.”
“Probably not,” Dunk replied. “But you gotta check, right? I get it.”
He reached behind his back and pulled out a snub-nosed .38, silver plated with a black handle, and handed it to me. He started carrying it about a year ago. His father’s old .38 was long gone. Dunk figured he pawned the gun like their stereo, but he couldn’t be sure. I never asked where he bought this one.
