Grey Goose on the Rocks

“Grey Goose on the rocks, small ice, and three olives, please.” I turned to my friend Dave, who had already ordered a beer.

“So why are you not at work today?”

“It's a long story. Mind if we wait for the drinks and I'll tell you all about it?”

“No problem. Are you okay?”

“I think so, but remember that thing that I was having with my back?” Dave nodded.

“Well, the doctors aren't exactly sure if the numbness in my foot is caused by my back. I think they're full of shit.” Our drinks arrived. “Cheers!” We clicked our glasses, but before I could take a sip my phone rang. “Excuse me a second, I think this is the doctor calling. I have to take this.”

“Hi, doc. No, I can't hear you. I'm meeting a friend for a drink. Hold on a second, let me step outside...”

“Hello, Daniel. Can you hear me now?

“Yes, Dr. Adams. I can hear you fine,” I said as I crossed the threshold out of the cold, dark, air-conditioned bar to the warm sunny spring air of NYC in April. “Tell me good news,” I implored. I should have known something was wrong. Doctors never call you back on the same day of an MRI.

“So the good news is that you don't have MS.” My throat tightened, and I braced for the bad news that inevitably follows a setup like that. “The MRI showed that you have something called a cavernous malformation. We think that's what's causing the numbness on the left side of your body. I've already called the emergency room at the hospital. I need you to go home and pack a bag. You're going to be spending the night.”

“Whoa whoa whoa. Are you serious? The numbness is sciatica. You just told me I don't have MS.” I paused. “So, what is this cavernous mal what thing?”

“I can't fully explain that right now, but we need you to go to the hospital so that you can be observed overnight. You’ll be able to meet with a surgeon who will be able to tell you more about your condition.”

“Wait, what? A surgeon. A brain surgeon. What are we talking about? My wife just got on a plane to Chicago. I can’t go the hospital today. Can I just go on Friday, when she gets back?”

“No, the surgeon I want you to meet is only there tonight. You need to pack a bag and go to the hospital,” the doctor said in a stern voice.

“Okay.” I paused. “This is a lot to take in on a Wednesday afternoon.”

“I know it is, Daniel, but you need to go to the hospital. This doctor knows that you're coming and can assess the situation better than I can. He is the best surgeon for these types of situations.”

“You keep calling him a surgeon. Am I going to have brain surgery tonight?” I must have been yelling. The five or six people who were seated at the outdoor tables turned their heads and looked at me. I turned away from the crowd of bystanders and in a lower voice I said, “Do I have time to walk the dog?”

“Yes, But walk the dog, pack a bag, and head to the hospital. I've already called ahead. The receptionist at the emergency room is expecting you and the surgeon knows that you are spending the night.”

“Okay, what's the name of this thing again?” She said it one more time, but I couldn’t understand it any better this time around. I tapped the phone to end the call and walked back inside the bar.

“Dave.” I paused. “I’ve got to go to the hospital”

“What? What’s going on? What did the doctor say?

“The doc said there is something wrong with the MRI report and I have to go in for overnight observation. I’m meeting with a brain surgeon.” I paused. “Can you watch my dog? Can you watch Moxie?”

“Sure. Just let me chug this beer first.” I must have been outside a little while because his pint was already almost half-finished. He gulped the last eight ounces, I threw a twenty on the bar, and we walked back to my apartment.