The doctor’s office wasn’t far from the subway. It was in a building that looked like every other high rise from the outside. When you entered the office, it was bright, homey, and warm. There were plush comfy chairs, rather than the hard plastic associated with the sterility of a doctor’s office. The people here weren’t coming because they had some horrific, contagious cough they couldn’t get rid of. It was an oncologist’s office, and I could go around and lick the fingers of every patient and not get what they had. Their diseases could kill them, but no one else. So, the staff made the offices homey and comfortable. There were faux potted plants (many patients became sensitive to mold spores and dirt from real plants during their treatments) and an array of magazines lined the tables. Most of the mags focused on healthy eating and healthy lifestyles, though there were some celebrity gossip rags, as well.

In the corner of the room, sat my brother, Lynx. At 25, he’s two years younger than me. Everyone says we look alike. We’ve both got caramel skin, are slender and tall. Lynx is six feet even while I’m five feet, eight inches. We’ve both got brown eyes. His hair is thick and curly, and he tends to look more African-American to passersby. Naturally, my hair is wavy, but I tend to relax it so it’s straight, making people sometimes ask me if I’m Indian. Though, this happens most often when I go to the Indian market, and am speaking Hindi. My brother and I are technically mulatto, a black mother and an Indian father. Indian as in from India, as opposed to the horrible misnomer bestowed upon Natives by Christopher Columbus.

I crossed the room and plopped into a comfy chair next to Lynx, who turned and smiled at me optimistically. “Dr. Colandrea has a plan,” he told me. While his voice was upbeat, his eyes had an air of desolation.

I nodded, smiled, and lied big. “Of course, he does,” I said, trying to match his optimism. “He’s a fabulous doctor.” That part wasn’t the lie. Dr. Colandrea is fabulous, but I’ve read enough about recurring cancers to know that people usually die during the second bout. No matter how good the doctor’s plan was, the cancer returning was bad. But there was no way in hell I would show him what I was feeling. I learned that from my mother. Lynx first got cancer when he was 16, and they caught it early. The treatment had been chemotherapy, followed by a bone marrow transplant. That had killed the myeloma, and it had stayed gone for almost 10 years. These checkups had gotten to the point of feeling like just a pointless precaution. Lynx had even talked about skipping it. Damn this all to hell. I hated that this is happening. I hated that my mother was dead and not here to help, to be that rock-solid strength we’d come to count on when things got bad. The one that kept me from collapsing as all the insanity that was our lives at the time Lynx’s cancer unfolded and my father was carted off to jail. But a bullet in the chest, as she finished covering a neighborhood meeting took our mother from us. Akilah Neel, dead at 48. I was in college and if it hadn’t been for my friend, Lily, I would have fallen apart then, too.

I guess it was my turn to keep people from falling apart now. I scooped Lynx’s hand into mine. “I know Dr. Colandrea will have a good plan,” I said, my voice as reassuring as I could make it.

The nurse called us back shortly and we were ushered into Dr. Colandrea’s office. Lynx had texted me earlier to let me know that if I came straight over, the doctor would explain everything before he went home for the day. We were the last appointment. When we entered the office, we sat at a little table in the corner. There were four chairs at it. Lynx and I occupied two, and Dr. Colandrea sat across from us. The doctor, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and olive skin, always appeared firm, yet at the same time, calming. He seemed the kind of fellow you could just tell your problems to, and he would fix them. For so many, it was true. Unfortunately, there too many he couldn’t help. You just always hoped you weren’t one of those.

“Well, the good news is, you’re young and in good health other than the cancer.”

If that was the good news — you’re fine except you have cancer — I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the “but” that was coming next.

“Unfortunately, because you’ve had this cancer before, our treatment options are limited. Last time, they did chemo and a bone marrow transplant, which worked. We can’t do that again. The myeloma has seen that and will be ready to adapt. We need a new approach.”

He’d spoken to Lynx about his plan earlier, so he spoke mainly to me now, which was nice. Dr. Colandrea’s voice was competent and he always gave simple, clear explanations. It was one of the reasons I liked him. It was one of the reasons it was almost impossible to get in to see him. It had been fairly hard ten years ago, but my mom, no nonsense, indefatigable reporter that she was, dug around and found out the name of the booking nurse. She then called her and pleaded our case. We were in, and we’ve been in ever since.

“How likely are the new approaches to work?” I asked.

Dr. Colandrea eyed me squarely. “I think they all have a decent shot, but they have different benefits and drawbacks. The first option is good, but it’s got a major drawback. It’s a drug therapy, but it’s one that we prefer to do last, and usually if the person has had children already.”

I stared at him with the unasked question.

“It’s thalidomide,” he said.

My mouth popped open. That caused malformed babies, a wave of them in the 1960s with flippers instead of hands or feet.

“Yes, the thalidomide babies,” he said, reacting to my face. While people associate the birth defects with the drug being given to the mother, defects can occur if either parent is taking the drug, as thalidomide carries through to semen.” He turned to Lynx. “As we discussed earlier, since you’re so young and want a family, that may not be the best first option. Though, some people who want to go that route do freeze their sperm for later use. That is somewhat of a workaround.”

Lynx nodded.

“Next up, are a couple of new drug therapies that are similar to chemotherapy, but in some bodies, they can be a little too similar and aren’t as effective. I don’t recommend them when we’ve already had chemo successfully eradicate the disease before. If that doesn’t work, thalidomide is the best option afterward. But again, the thalidomide has its drawbacks. And it’s not temporary. This is a long-term, maintenance drug. Once you start it, you continue to take it, because when people stop, the myeloma tends to come back.”

Lynx grimaced at that.

“The third option,” I asked, trying to look third-time-is-the-charm positive.

“It’s a treatment that hasn’t been approved in the US, but is showing some success in Europe. It’s a monoclonal antibody therapy that works by inducing your immune system to pluck up and attack the cancer in new and effective ways. It essentially trains your body to defeat the cancer.”

Well, that sounded perfect. I smiled. “Then let’s do that,” I said, not looking at Lynx. It was his health, so obviously his opinion mattered most. But, the books on being a patient advocate noted that sometimes patients could feel timid or overwhelmed in the process. I just wanted to make a positive stand for him. Back when this first happened, my mother had bought or checked out from the library tons of books on caregiving and cancer and stuck them on her shelf. When she was gone, I would read them, too. I wanted to know how to help, and having knowledge always made me feel more prepared.

“Onyx,” Dr. Colandrea said to me, a touch of warning in his tone. “I want Lynx to think about what he wants to do. And there’s a drawback to the new procedure. First, you need to fly to France to get it done. Second, it won’t be covered by your insurance as it’s not approved here.”

Fuck. That was just the kicker this day needed. I could see Lynx’s face fall. “I have some money saved up,” I lied smoothly. I had $2,000 as my rainy-day fund and a school-matched 401k with all of $472 in it.

“It’s going to be around $125,000,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue as if he’d just said, “Eh, twenty bucks.”

I felt hollow in the pit of my stomach as I realized what I was going to have to do. I’d sworn off those people and that life. My mother had sworn us all off it after she realized what dad did exactly. She was too busy investigating other people’s frauds to be concerned it might be happening in her own home. But it became hard to ignore when she found a few million in diamonds hidden in their home. He’d confessed his true occupation, and that had been the end.

“Don’t worry about the money” I said, and Lynx stared at me. “Do you think that’s the best treatment?”

Dr. Colandrea nodded.

“Then tell us what we need to do to set it up,” I said.