Life, on the Line Grant Achatz (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📖

He was right, but not convincing. “I don’t know. Think about it. If it were negative, why wouldn’t they just tell me?”

“Who knows? Insurance reasons, the fact that she’s just a secretary, or maybe the doctor is just on the golf course today and she didn’t read the results. Speaking of which, I’m leaving for Michigan tonight to play in a tournament up there. I should cancel and come with you. What time is your appointment?”

“Nine thirty. But don’t come. I’ll give you a buzz from the office when I hear. We’re probably nervous over nothing.”

I headed up to Lost Dunes Golf Club in Bridgman, Michigan, the next morning.

I was going to go up a night early before the tournament and get in a round and relax in one of the cabins, but I decided to wait and see if Grant changed his mind and wanted me to come along to the appointment. When I didn’t hear from him, I figured he didn’t want me around, so I woke up at six, picked up a buddy of mine, and drove the two hours from Chicago to the course. It felt like an odd thing to do, but at the same time a doctor’s visit is a private thing and I could tell that while Grant was thankful for my help in getting the results quickly, he wanted to go on his own.

I told my friend Bruce that I would likely be distracted due to my concern over Grant’s situation. “Does he smoke?” he asked.

“No. Never had a cigarette ever, he claims.”

“He’s got something, but it’s not likely to be cancer. He’s like thirty years old or something, right?”

Lost Dunes is a small, gorgeous private club, and that weekend’s tournament was the annual member-guest event, which drew a field of 120 or so golfers. I was, to say the least, nervous and distracted. Despite the prohibition against cell phones, mine was on “vibrate” and was sitting in my pocket. There was nothing I could do but wait.

Our first competitors would be member Chris Morrow, a fine golfer and all-around great guy, and a guest of his visiting from Florida named Andy Fox, also a single-digit handicapper. As far as distractions went, this was my favorite one in the world—match-play golf.

I went over to say good morning and to introduce Bruce. Chris and I had met once or twice, but only in the context of events like this one. He shook my hand, then called Andy over to say hello.

I noticed right away that Andy had something wrong with his face, something missing. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but then he turned and I could tell that he was missing half of his jaw. He wore a goatee and spoke normally, so it wasn’t obvious. But it was definitely not all there. A scar traced down his esophagus on the same side, making his neck thinner than usual. My first thought was that he had been in a fire.

We chatted for a bit about the course and the impending match. Andy had a ton of energy and spoke in rapid-fire sentences. He was thin and fit and clearly in good shape for a guy in his forties. I felt instantly comfortable with him in a way that golfers who love the game and have played their whole lives do when they meet a passionate competitor. You see someone roll a putt and you can tell what kind of person he is.

“Hey, Andy. What happened to your face?” I asked. I said it in an offhanded way as I struck a putt, but I wasn’t worried about offending him. I could tell he was a confident person.

“Oh this?” he said with a smile. “Cancer. I should be dead. But I’m a ten-year survivor, and I’m about to kick your ass all over this golf course.”

Then it hit me.

The man standing in front of me on this course had the same cancer that Grant was about to be diagnosed with. I lost my composure and Andy could sense it right away. The coincidence was insane. I could only stare at the ground.

Andy put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Hey. Don’t worry. You didn’t offend me. I’ve been living with this for a long time now. Life is great.”

“Andy, it’s not that,” I said as I led him to a corner of the busy practice green. “My good friend had a biopsy a few days ago. He’s going to the doctor in about an hour to hear the results. I should be there with him.”

As I explained the situation to him, I could tell that he thought it didn’t sound great.

Our tee time was coming up. Chris and Bruce came over toward us and we headed toward the first tee. Andy must have told Chris about the situation because Chris’s mood grew sullen. I realized that Grant’s appointment started half an hour ago, but there was no message. I excused myself to duck into the trees to make a quick call, then dialed Grant’s number.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hey. Did they see you yet?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to the doctor now.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s cancer.”

Silence.

“What kind? What else?”

“I don’t know. He’s right here. You talk to him.” He sounded truly shaken.

The doctor introduced himself and then relayed the news to me: “It’s squamous cell carcinoma. It’s a serious cancer. At this point I don’t know any more than that. I’m referring him to a specialist, an ENT at Masonic who’s also an oncologist. He’ll be able to do the actual diagnosis.”

“Is this like skin cancer? Can you just remove the tumor in-office?”

“It’s impossible for me to tell with certainty. But I have to say that this seems serious. When he showed me his tongue, I knew. It was obvious. He needs to go right away.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Can you put Grant back on?”

Grant came to the phone and mocked a cheery “Helloooooo.”

“Well,