I unfolded the first report.
The date stopped me.
Three weeks before my biopsy.
I read the findings.
Mass involving pancreatic tail.
Multiple hepatic lesions suspicious for metastatic disease.
Lymphadenopathy.
Recommended oncology consultation.
My medical vocabulary had improved over the past year. Cancer teaches a language nobody wants. Words like lesion and metastasis and margins stop belonging to television dramas and begin showing up beside your name.
I flipped to the next page.
Randall’s name.
His date of birth.
His patient number.
Another date.
Before my diagnosis.
Another.
Before he left.
Then I reached the record from the night he had packed his suitcases.
Not metaphorically that night.
The exact date.
The page was headed with an emergency department logo.
I sat down again.
“What is this?”
Wade’s face went gray.
“Read it.”
I did.
Severe abdominal pain.
Jaundice.
Dehydration.
Syncope.
There were notes about intravenous fluids and pain medication. A physician had recommended admission.
