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Daniel Arbino
Crater
You walk up to the desk to check in. By now the woman knows you. This is your eighth time there in the last ten days, and only because they’re closed on weekends. The first time she smiled at you differently. She must’ve thought that you were there visiting a family member and she said to herself that this guy, who is more or less my age and more or less attractive is sweet because he’s here on a weekday to visit with a loved one. The smile changed from one of intrigue to one of pity when she realized that you were the patient. And that’s the smile you receive every day now, with twelve more sessions to go. You give her your insurance card and correctly tell her your last name and birthdate. She asks how you are feeling and you answer that you are great, which is a half truth. That’s to say, if you keep telling yourself you’re great, maybe you’ll start to believe it. Or, maybe it will keep you from processing that you’re on your second bout of cancer before your thirty-second birthday and in the midst of twenty rounds of radiation.
She walks you back to the men’s locker room. Strip down to your boxes and socks and put on a navy blue gown. This is your special waiting room, specific to those patients receiving treatment. The room does not carry the disinfected smell characteristic of hospitals, not today anyway. This room smells of soiled gowns, both shit and piss, vomit, and chemicals. Not the type of chemicals that carry citrus scents, but the type of chemicals that burn into skin and create the fragrance of barbecued flesh. That’s the odor that, when mixed with your natural musk of oregano, is enough to make your dog avoid you when you return home. The room is too small for the air to dissipate and it never occurred to anyone to put a fan in there. Your breaths are short and shallow. Hold your hands to your nose so that your stomach doesn’t turn.
While you’re waiting to go to your private room, another man comes in there. He’s in his late forties and asks you what kind you have, like he’s talking about different flavors of ice cream.
“Acute lymphoma on the chest.”
“How many radiation sessions?”
Say twenty with shame, knowing that as far as cancer goes, you get off easy. In any other situation, this is good news, something to celebrate! Acute lymphoma, why they’ll just cut that right out of you. A little radiation to be on the safe side, that will flatten your scar into a pink crater, but in the great scheme of appearances, you’ll be fine. A little self-conscious when you are swimming, but a story to share. A happy story, you think. Radiation, twenty bouts, but badabing-badaboom, you’re as good as new! This isn’t that type of good news situation though. After all, no cancer patient likes a braggart and this could be your future.
He’s in for forty sessions. Stage Three, colon. He’s limping around with his ass hanging out of his gown. You don’t want to look, but you do anyway. It’s burnt red like one of those red-ass zoo apes. He lost thirty pounds and his appetite over the course of a month and that’s when he knew. But he’s optimistic. He was healthy before this, and healthier now. He tells you to drink green juices, go organic. Your body is the only one you get.
Another guy walks in. He’s in his seventies and in even worse shape. Your future future you, if you live that long. These two know each other and you realize quickly that there’s a fraternity within this shared experience. He asks your age, like everyone else does. “So young.” He sighs. No, you don’t drink or smoke. No you don’t do drugs, but there were those years you worked at a dry cleaner and had your head deep in a machine multiple times a day to pull out clothes.
Close your eyes. You’re not the support group type of guy. Think about your wife, who has a list of chores for you to do at home to keep you occupied. Think about her at her job, refusing to come to one of the twenty sessions. Even though it’s at 9 am, even though it’s less than a mile from her work. Don’t think about your mom, who is too sick to come visit you. Don’t speculate on the lump that they just found on her breast. No one will talk to you when your eyes are closed. You learned that being a wallflower in high school. Short, shallow breaths. Scattered thoughts about the burnt, dried out, itchy crater on your chest. Your nurse taps your shoulder. Tell her your last name and date of birth. It’s time for radiation.
About the Writer:
Daniel Arbino is the Jay I. Kislak Chair and Curator at the University of Miami. In addition to his academic essays on Caribbean and African diasporic literatures, he has published short fiction and poetry in the Santa Fe Writers Project, Divergencias, and Chiricu. In 2024, he published his first collection of poetry, Oumuamua, with Quillango Editores (Colombia).
Image: Hospital Ward by Edvard Munch (1863-1944). Oil on canvas. 31.4 x 54.9 inches. Uncertain date (between 1897 & 1899). Public domain.
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