MACK

Mack was a big guy, 82 years old and still had an air of strength. He has a big chest. His full head of hair was snowy white. His fingers, pudgy and long. If you looked at him, you would think he was the picture of perfect health. Until you heard his breath and cough and you could detect that he had some sort of lung disease. He coughed up fists full of phlegm.

Mack had been a chemist all his life. So when the doctor recommended chemo as a treatment plan for his lung cancer, he refused. He thought the cure was worse than the disease. So he looked for an alternative route and sought the help of the professionals at the Atkins Institute in Manhattan.

But there was one problem with this treatment plan. It was not covered under his insurance plan. So he had to dip in to his life savings to pay for it. This caused a huge dilemma for him. His wife was 89 and suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. He was taking care of her. And he needed to stay alive until he buried her so that he knew she would be well cared for right up to her sad, bitter end.
But if he was in treatment for too long, he was going to eat up all of his meager savings. And then both of them would be destitute. If he stopped treatment and died, he ran the risk of having her cared for by unloving strangers. The emotional aspects of this decision weighed heavier on him than the cancer did.

I drove Mack to treatment one cold, crisp day. We both lived in Stroudsburg, PA and it took about 2 hours each way. Treatment took about an hour. So it was an all-day event for Mack to receive this treatment. Mack had already completed nine treatments. This was to be his last treatment.

The Atkins institute was large, clean, crisp and buzzing with activities. Prior to taking Mack here, I had only heard of the Atkins diet, and I didn’t really know a whole lot about that. So I was taken by surprise to see this thriving institute that could help you lose weight and cure your cancer. As I was waiting in the lobby, I was drawn in to one conversation with a skinny old woman. She tells me that she is 92 and I don’t believe her. She looks to be about 70. But now she insists that she is 92. Then she rattles off important dated of the early 20th century to prove that she was alive and well during those times.

She tells me that she has practiced yoga all her life. And she can life her leg straight up in the air. She does look pretty good for her age. But I think her statement is a bit of an embellishment. I don’t tell her that but she must have read my facial gestures. Or others have doubted her in the past because she is insistent that she prove this to me.
She gets up, moves a few chairs out of the way and then gets down on the floor and stretches for a few minutes. People are coming and going around her. No one seems to be bothered and no one seems curious as to what this woman is doing on the floor. And I feel as if I am in the middle of my own little freak show.

She gets up, regulates her breathing and then stands completely still; she is focusing on the task at hand. And at that moment, her left leg goes up; completely straight as she bends her torso and stretches down to grab hold of her right foot. Her body is now one compete vertical line. She holds this position for five seconds and then straightens herself up, proud as a peacock. I clap and again, as I scan the building, I notice that no one had joined me in this admiration of this 92 year old woman.

Once she straightens herself up, she presents herself as being in a hurry. I almost get the feeling that she thinks I have detained her. She now seems ever so slightly annoyed with me. She gathers her things and runs off to the pharmacy where she buys what looks like hundreds of vitamin pills. She stuffs bottle after bottle in her bag. As she leaves the building, she waves goodbye.

I go in to the ladies room and once inside the stall, I try to see how high I can left my leg. There is plenty of room in the stall because I cannot lift my leg over a 20 degree angle. I am humiliated, even though no one can see my pathetic effort and minimal results.

I run across the street to a small deli and grab breakfast and a newspaper. Sitting at the counter, I get a perfect view of all the coming and goings of everyone. Business is bustling. Tables space is in high demand, so after 20 minutes, the waiters give you every indication that you have now overstayed your welcome. They do everything they can to encourage you to get the hell out to make room for the next customers.

I go back to the institute and find Mack coming out of the elevator. He is devastated. The treatment was not as successful as he had hoped. They want to do 20 more treatments. That will be several thousand more dollars, and he is in a panic. I can see him doing the math in his head. He is playing out all sorts of financial scenarios. He is thinking and rethinking his options. And there are no good conclusions.

We drive back to PA and he is not nearly as talkative as he was when we drive in this morning. His flow of conversation kept getting interrupted by his nagging dilemmas.
I drop him off at his house and start to confirm plans to pick him up in two weeks.

“I’ll call you” he tells me. “I have to think. I have a lot to think about”. At this point, he is really talking to himself, not to me.
I say goodbye and he waves to me as he steps inside his front door. Through my rear view mirror, I see the door close behind him.

I never see him again. He never called me.