First Edition features new original works by Northern California Jewish writers. Appearing the first issue of each month, it includes a poem and an excerpt from a novel or short story.
Ten hours before Fred Klein killed a rich young woman and two days before he appeared on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle, he learned that he had high cholesterol.
Klein, noted Bay Area philanthropist, rarely went to doctors. In fact, he had not seen his primary care physician, Allison Jameson, in five years. It wasn’t that nothing was ever bugging him; if anything he was a bit of a hypochondriac. On his 72nd birthday, he consulted a urologist because he had to get out of bed to urinate three or four times a night. The doctor ruled out cancer and told him that he could make the problem go away. Klein refused all treatment. He, by no means, felt great, what with pain in his thumbs, age spots on his face and slowly deteriorating vision, but he figured that those were a result of having turned 75. His poker partners suggested an orthopedist, a dermatologist and an ophthalmologist but he opted against any and all. Each specialist had his office downtown and parking was too goddam expensive; he refused to take a bus, claimed he couldn’t afford a taxi and refused his young wife’s offer to drive him and sit with him, either in the waiting room or the examining room. Plus he was convinced that nothing good would come of seeing doctors for such minor ailments — in spite of his wealth, he was sure that they would run up big bills on blood tests and X-rays, and come up with nothing that would make him feel any better. Sure, he had Medicare and a supplement but, there was always more to it — he invariably had to write a check. “Screw it, I’m going to live to 90 and any more than that won’t do me or anybody else any good.”
A couple of weeks before Fred’s black-letter day, his wife, Jennifer, more than 30 years his junior, came home after a breast ultrasound with a red-letter report — there was nothing to worry about. All is well. Jennifer’s sister had died in her 40s from breast cancer so she was rightfully frightened that she was a victim-to-be. Jen’s annual mammogram suggested that maybe something sinister was growing in her ample left mammary gland; the ultrasound, the following day, proved it to be a simple cyst.
“Damn, I feel good! I don’t have cancer!” she exclaimed. “You know, Fred, you should go find out how you are. You haven’t had a physical since we were married.”
Not pointing out to his wife that she was no better off than she would be had she not had the breast test, he countered, “Maybe after the Super Bowl.” A fan of the new national pastime was he, but she had no sense whatever of the timing of the pro football season; he figured he could sell that as a reason to put off a trip to the internist.
She persisted. “Come on Hon. Do it for me. I didn’t marry you for the short term; I want you around for a while.”
“All right, but this is a one-time thing. Don’t expect me to go next year.”
“You gotta deal.”
The next afternoon, she interrupted his Netflix. “Did you call Dr. Jameson’s office?”
“Forgot all about it. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Huh-uh,” Jennifer growled. “I’ll call today.”
Half an hour later, as the sci-fi film neared its destructive climax, she returned to the TV room. “You’re on for next Tuesday, 9 AM. I made sure to get you her first appointment so you won’t go nuts waiting.” Klein was not a patient patient — once he’d walked out of an ENT office fifteen minutes after his scheduled appointment, even after being told the doctor was in the midst of a tonsillectomy gone bad and would be just a bit late.
“And, you’ve got to go to the lab Monday morning to get blood and urine tests. You can’t eat or drink anything after midnight on Sunday.”
“That’s a load of crap,” he snorted. “I can’t do a thing until I’ve had my coffee and bagel.”
The lab was on Sutter, across the street from the old Jewish hospital, now an annex of the University. For reasons beyond Klein’s understanding, all of the others waiting for their blood draws were Russian. He waited hungrily, surrounded by Slavs and their guttural tones, until his turn came. He had nearly left, but knew that Jennifer was waiting in the car out front and would not allow him at her side without a Bandaid in the crook of his arm. The pretty blond Russian phlebotomist-in-training, younger than Jen, tried three times to get blood from Fred’s deep veins, failing with each effort. Only after her weight-lifter of a boss tried once without luck and then succeeded on attempt #2, were the three test tubes filled with his hemoglobin and serum. He filled half of the plastic cup with urine and was embarrassed as he left the lavatory and walked through the waiting room, sample in hand. Five minutes later, Fred and Jen seated themselves at the last table at House of Bagels.
Dr. Larry Hill is a retired internist and oncologist who has served as a U.S. Embassy physician throughout Africa and Asia. He lives in San Francisco, where he volunteers in the medical field, including with the Seniors at Home program of Jewish Family and Children’s Services. This is an excerpt from his first published novel.