That day, I scored a corner chair. I'd come for a heavy-metal detox to assist my recovery from Lyme disease. I usually had brain fog, but, after an EDTA drip, paragraphs flowed through my head. I worked as a teacher, lived with roommates, and couldn't afford the treatment, so I put it on credit cards and hoped that healing my brain would pay off.
The center's patients varied-Lyme, chronic fatigue, lupus, Alzheimer's, M.S., A.L.S., cancer-but we all followed Dr. M.'s dictates: avoid sugar, grains, gluten, dairy, alcohol, fruit, and overexcitement. Getting infusions stank. Still, we harbored hopes: having your favorite nurse stick you, or scoring Dr. M.'s special genmaicha tea.
Denise brought my I.V. stand. A man I'll call Hector, a middle-aged screenwriter, said, Denise, is Roberta coming today?
Denise shrugged.
She said she'd jam with me, Hector explained. I brought my guitar.
Roberta was sick, Denise told Hector gently. Also, seventysomething. If she came in, Hector should let her get her medicine.
Hector was underweight and allergic to most food. Still, his request was absurd, incredibly presumptuous. Jam with Roberta Flack? "Killing Me Softly," arguably the best singer alive?
I asked for genmaicha tea. Only two packets, Denise said, saved for-she whispered-Roberta.
This story is from the July 10 - 17, 2023 (Double Issue) edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the July 10 - 17, 2023 (Double Issue) edition of The New Yorker.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
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