The Life of Oliver
October, One month after arriving in Vancouver
After listening to the doctor’s explanation, Oliver Payne stared ahead and then said, “You mean, I’m going to die.”
Schlaenhagen’s head drooped slightly and he crossed his legs before sighing his answer. “Not for several years, but there are medications we can prescribe to make your life easier. For instance, we can begin a regime of …”
Payne cut him off.
“How long do I have?” Payne’s face was expressionless, taut.
The doctor shifted in his chair causing the cushions to squeak, introducing an air of ridiculousness to the moment. He said it slowly. “Longer than you would think, but your condition is unpredictable. Best case scenario, you may live twenty or twenty-five years, worst case, maybe five to seven.” He smiled and then added wryly, “I wouldn’t go out and order your casket yet. You have some living to do.”
Payne sat in silence for a minute. He thought about his plans, clicking them off in his mind like he was knocking off a grocery list. His schedule needn’t change…yet, at least. But thoughts of fleeting time passing him by before he had a chance to make up for the terrible crimes he had committed several years earlier gnawed at him. Not enough time. There will never be enough time.
His eyebrows tensed, his forehead furrowed, Schlaenhagen studied Payne. He saw a sixtyish man, a little portly with thinning wisps of hair struggling to cover the forefront of his head. He was nattily dressed in a stylish gray suit with vest, tie, lavender shirt, and handkerchief neatly folded and tucked in the breast pocket. He was intelligent, strong, and in good shape; indeed, his lab numbers for a man of his age were remarkable: cholesterol 142, blood pressure 123/65, and glucose under100. His impression was: this man will cope well!
Parkinson’s, what a shame, he thought.
Payne stood and gazed out the window. Rain, again. It had been a wet October in Vancouver, B.C. It seemed appropriate for the doctor’s pronouncement on his health.
