She stared into her coffee cup. I felt speechless and drained, and for a long time, we were quiet.
“I’m sorry,” I finally whispered.
My words brought her back. “I’m not going to give up,” she said, her voice beginning to crack. “He’s such a good man. He’s sweet and he’s patient, and I love him so much. It’s just not fair. We haven’t even been married for two years.”
She looked at me and took a few deep breaths, trying to regain her composure.
“He needs to get out of here. Out of this hospital. All they can do here is interferon, and like I said, it’s not working as well as it should. He needs to go someplace like MD Anderson or the Mayo Clinic or Johns Hopkins. There’s cutting-edge research going on in those places. If interferon isn’t doing the job like it should, there might be another drug they can add—they’re always trying different combinations, even if they’re experimental. They’re doing biochemotherapy and clinical trials at other places. MD Anderson is even supposed to start testing a vaccine in November—not for prevention like most vaccines, but for treatment—and the preliminary data has shown good results. I want him to be part of that trial.”
“So go,” I urged.
She gave a short laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why? It sounds pretty clear to me. Once he’s out of here, you hop in the car and go.”
“Our insurance won’t pay for it,” she said. “Not now, anyway. He’s getting the appropriate standard of care—and believe it or not, the insurance company has been pretty responsive so far. They’ve paid for all the hospitalizations, all the interferon, and all the extras without hassle. They’ve even assigned me a personal caseworker, and believe me, she’s sympathetic to our plight. But there’s nothing she can do, since our doctor thinks it’s best that we give the interferon a little more time. No insurance company in the world will pay for experimental treatments. And no insurer will agree to pay for treatments outside the standard of care, especially if they’re in other states and are attempting new things on the off chance that they might work.”
“Sue them if you have to.”
“John, our insurer hasn’t batted an eyelash at all the costs for intensive care and extra hospitalizations, and the reality is that Tim is getting the appropriate treatment. The thing is, I can’t prove that Tim would get better in another place, receiving alternate treatments. I think it might help him, I hope it will help him, but no one knows for sure that it would.” She shook her head. “Anyway, even if I did sue and the insurance company ended up paying for everything I demanded, that would take time . . . and that’s what we don’t have.” She sighed. “My point is, it’s not just a money problem, it’s a time problem.”
“How much are you talking about?”
“A lot. And if Tim ends up in the hospital with an infection and in the intensive care unit—like he has before—I can’t even begin to guess. More than I could ever hope to pay, that’s for sure.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get the money,” she said. “I don’t have a choice. And the community’s been supportive. As soon as word about Tim got out, there was a segment on the local news and the newspaper did a story, and people all over town have promised to start collecting money. They set up a special bank account and everything. My parents helped. The place we worked helped. Parents of some of the kids we worked with helped. I’ve heard that they’ve even got jars out in a lot of the businesses.”
My mind flashed to the sight of the jar at the end of the bar in the pool hall, the day I arrived in Lenoir. I’d thrown in a couple of dollars, but suddenly it felt completely inadequate.
“Are you close?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, as if unwilling to think about it. “All this just started happening a little while ago, and since Tim had his treatment, I’ve been here and at the ranch. But we’re talking about a lot of money.” She pushed aside her cup of tea and offered a sad smile. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I mean, I can’t guarantee that any of those other places can even help him. All I can tell you is that if we stay, I know he’s not going to make it. He might not make it anyplace else, either, but at least there’s a chance . . . and right now, that’s all I have.”
She stopped, unable to continue, staring sightlessly at the stained tabletop.
“You want to know what’s crazy?” she asked finally. “You’re the only one I’ve told this to. Somehow, I know that you’re the only one who can possibly understand what I’m going through, without having to feel like I have to be careful about what I say.” She lifted her cup, then set it down again. “I know it’s unfair considering your dad. . . .”