Stoner

But his efforts, meager as they were, tired him more than he had expected, so that by Christmas vacation he was nearly exhausted. He told himself that he was, indeed, getting old, and that he would have to let up if he were to do a good job the rest of the year. During the ten days of Christmas vacation he rested, as if he might hoard his strength; and when he returned for the last weeks of the semester he worked with a vigor and energy that surprised him. The issue of his retirement seemed settled, and he did not bother to think of it again.

Late in February the tiredness came over him again, and he could not seem to shake it off; he spent a great deal of his time at home and did much of his paper work propped on the day bed in his little back room. In March he became aware of a dull general pain in his legs and arms; he told himself that he was tired, that he would be better when the warm spring days came, that he needed rest. By April the pain had become localized in the lower part of his body; occasionally he missed a class, and he found that it took most of his strength merely to walk from class to class. In early May the pain became intense, and he could no longer think of it as a minor nuisance. He made an appointment with a doctor at the University infirmary.

There were tests and examinations and questions, the import of which Stoner only vaguely understood. He was given a special diet, some pills for the pain, and was told to come back at the beginning of the next week for consultation, when the results of the tests would be completed and put together. He felt better, though the tiredness remained.

His doctor was a young man named Jamison, who had explained to Stoner that he was working for the University for a few years before he went into private practice. He had a pink, round face, wore rimless glasses, and had a kind of nervous awkwardness of manner that Stoner trusted.

Stoner was a few minutes early for his appointment, but the receptionist told him to go right in. He went down the long narrow hall of the infirmary to the little cubicle where Jamison had his office.

Jamison was waiting for him, and it was clear to Stoner that he had been waiting for some time; folders and X-rays and notes were laid out neatly on his desk. Jamison stood up, smiled abruptly and nervously, and extended his hand toward a chair in front of his desk.

"Professor Stoner," he said. "Sit down, sit down."

Stoner sat.

Jamison frowned at the display on his desk, smoothed a sheet of paper, and let himself down on his chair. "Well," he said, "there's some sort of obstruction in the lower intestinal tract, that's clear. Not much shows up on the X-rays, but that isn't unusual. Oh, a little cloudiness; but that doesn't necessarily mean anything." He turned his chair, set an X-ray in a frame, switched on a light, and pointed vaguely. Stoner looked, but he could see nothing. Jamison switched off the light and turned back to his desk. He became very businesslike. "Your blood count's down pretty low, but there doesn't seem to be any infection there; your sedimentation is subnormal and your blood pressure's down. There is some internal swelling that doesn't seem quite right, you've lost quite a bit of weight, and--well, with the symptoms you've shown and from what I can tell from these"--he waved at his desk--"I'd say there's only one thing to do." He smiled fixedly and said with strained jocularity, "We've just got to go in there and see what we can find out."

Stoner nodded. "It's cancer then."

"Well," Jamison said, "that's a pretty big word. It can mean a lot of things. I'm pretty sure there's a tumor there, but--well, we can't be absolutely sure of anything until we go in there and look around."

"How long have I had it?"

"Oh, there's no way of telling that. But it feels like--well, it's pretty large; it's been there some time."

Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said, "How long would you estimate I have?"

Jamison said distractedly, "Oh, now, look, Mr. Stoner." He attempted a laugh. "We mustn't jump to conclusions. Why, there's always a chance--there's a chance it's only a tumor, non-malignant, you know. Or--or it could be a lot of things. We just can't know for sure until we--"

"Yes," Stoner said. "When would you want to operate?"

"As soon as possible," Jamison said relievedly. "Within the next two or three days."

"That soon," Stoner said, almost absently. Then he looked at Jamison steadily. "Let me ask you a few questions, Doctor. I must tell you that I want you to answer them frankly."

Jamison nodded.

"If it is only a tumor--non-malignant, as you say--would a couple of weeks make any great difference?"

"Well," Jamison said reluctantly, "there would be the pain; and--no, not a great deal of difference, I suppose."

"Good," Stoner said. "And if it is as bad as you think it is--would a couple of weeks make a great difference then?"

After a long while Jamison said, almost bitterly, "No, I suppose not."