Flash Fiction Contest First Place Winning Entry

First Place – BJ Condike “Seeing Pink”

I hate doctors.

They act as if they’re more important than everyone else. They get mad if you’re late for an appointment but they’re never on time themselves. You describe the source of your pain and they poke it and ask if it hurts. They stick their fingers in places where fingers should not go. They’re vague with diagnoses, and often get them wrong altogether. I griped to myself about these things as I waited for my 1:30 appointment with Dr. Parker. By 2:30 I was still waiting and knew my afternoon was shot. I’d have to call my boss and tell her I wouldn’t be in until tomorrow, putting me behind in my accounts. She disliked my frequent absences and groused about my being a hypochondriac.

I felt overdressed in the waiting room as the only one in a suitcoat and tie. But I had come from work, and it was our office dress code.

“The doctor will see you now, Mr. Thomas.”

After another wait, Dr. Parker strode into the examining room.

“So, how are we feeling today?”

We shook hands. Her hand was cold and thin like her demeanor.

“That’s what you’re here to tell me, right?”

Dr. Parker sat and put on a serious face.

“I have the results of your tests,” she said as she leafed through a file folder. “Your case is unusual. You presented with chronic complaints of periodic dizzy spells and of seeing spots before your eyes. Pink spots.” She looked up. “Are you still having those symptoms?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have dizzy spells and see pink spots. Almost every day. Not as much on weekends, but pretty much all the time.”

“Hmm.” She examined a sheet with columns of numbers. “The results of your blood work revealed the presence of blastoma cells. They’re not always a problem, but together with your symptoms they indicate a rare condition called Reichenfruiters Interplanetary Microblastoma.”

That’s not what she said, but it began with a German name, followed by a lot of syllables I couldn’t follow, and ended with “blastoma.”

“And…? What does that mean, exactly?”

“It’s serious, Mr. Thomas. The disease has progressed to where it’s untreatable. You have six months to live.”

The words didn’t register. I must have zoned out, because I heard her speaking again.

“Mr. Thomas? Mr. Thomas! Have you been listening to me?”

“What? No. Look, there must be some mistake. I’m only fifty-three. Except for the dizzy spells I feel fine. I go to the gym. I run half-marathons. I do yoga, for crying out loud!”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s no mistake.”

I paced around the small room. “This is wrong. I take vitamins! I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs. I’m a vegan! Why did I do all that if I was going to get sick anyway? This is not supposed to happen!”

“I wish things were different.”

“Wait! What if you’re wrong? How come I’ve never heard of this Reichen-whatever thing before?”

“Your condition is known as an orphan disease. It has so few cases that drug companies don’t study it. There’s no profit in curing orphan diseases. The government’s the same way.”

“I don’t believe this. You must be mistaken. I need a second opinion.”

She nodded. “You’re right. You do. I needed one also, so I reached out to two of the best-known experts in the field, and they’ve confirmed my diagnosis. Look at these.”

She handed me two pages with fancy letterheads. Both physicians confirmed Dr. Parker’s diagnosis.

“You’ll feel great right up until the end,” she said. “Then…” She shrugged and patted my shoulder.

I left the doctor’s office deflated and depressed. I was alone and without family and with no one to talk to. Even so, by the next day I had made decisions about my abbreviated future.

The first thing I did was visit my firm’s personnel department. I resigned without notice and cashed out my 401k. I wheedled my attorney’s secretary into arranging an immediate appointment with him. That afternoon I executed a durable power of attorney authorizing my accountant to manage my money for me until the end. I had the accountant put my bungalow on the market and told him to sell or donate all my possessions except for my phone and a few clothes.

The following day I visited a travel agent and booked a six-month trip around the world, first class. I also arranged and paid for my funeral.

On my trip I traveled to 86 countries on all seven continents. I viewed breathtaking vistas of cities and oceans and mountains. I broke from my old habits and gorged on exquisite cuisine and drank the finest wines.

On the way home and with two weeks left I stopped at Saville Row in London to buy the suit I’d be buried in. The tailor was a diminutive fellow named Wilson Reeves. He wore a conservative three-piece suit and had a pencil behind one ear and a tape measure draped around his neck.

“You selected a fine wool gabardine, Mr. Thomas,” he said. “Let me take your measure, and we’ll have this ready for you on Thursday as requested.”

I played mannequin as he stretched out his tape, calling the measurements out loud as an assistant wrote them in a tattered notebook.

“Waist, 34. Inseam 36.” He examined my midsection with a critical eye. “I’d say you carry left, is that correct?”

Only a tailor would notice. I simply nodded.

He continued. “Chest, 42. Neck seventeen. Arm 34—”

“Wait. I have a sixteen-inch neck, not seventeen.”

Wilson Reeves frowned and re-measured. “It’s seventeen, Mr. Thomas. You need a seventeen-inch neck.” “

But I’ve always worn a sixteen. I’ve been wearing a sixteen since college.”

“You can wear the smaller size if you like, but it’s not good for you. If you persist, you’ll develop periodic dizzy spells and see spots before your eyes. Pink spots.”

I hate doctors.