I saw her point, and promised to try to learn to be more open. But she was a new mother, radiant, full of joy. I debated on how long to let her be happy before telling her I might die. I decided on two days. I probably would have put it off longer, but the biopsy to determine the nature of the tumor was scheduled in two days, on the twenty-eighth. It would have been hard to fabricate an explanation of why part of my hair was shaved off and I had a stitched-up surgical incision, and I figured she needed at least a day to get used to the idea.
I sat with Kate on the couch, asked her to prepare herself, and took her hand. “The results from the MRI came back,” I said, “and I have a brain tumor.”
Her face fell and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. She tried to speak and faltered. When she managed it, her voice cracked. “How bad?”
I explained the situation as best I understood it, as Jari had explained it to me, and told her that I would have a biopsy the day after tomorrow and it would give us the answer to that question.
I said the best case scenario was that I had a meningioma, a tumor that originates in the meninges, the thin membranes that cover the brain and spinal cord. If so, it could be removed by a craniotomy and, with luck, I might suffer no permanent consequences at all and be back home in three days, maybe even be back to work in a couple weeks. I would require no chemo or radiation therapy, no nothing. It could, however, possibly cause problems with my speech or balance, weakness, even paralysis. Physical therapy could hopefully remedy these problems, if needed, and with luck I could be back to normal, or close to it, in only a few months.
The worst-case scenario was that I had a Grade IV, rapidly growing and malignant tumor. If so, not much could be done, and I would have only a short time to live. Maybe only weeks. There were other possibilities with varying degrees or severity and requiring different treatments, and Jari hadn’t explained them all to me, because the list was long. But those were the two extremes.
Kate took the news like a trouper, managed to stay calm. She started to cry a little but didn’t break down. “How are you holding up?” she asked.
I had an awful migraine. After suffering from a near constant severe headache for a year, I was worn down, tired. Prolonged pain had sapped my strength and had left me in a permanent state of lethargy. Still, I’d continued working. “OK,” I said. “I’m more worried about you having to deal with this than anything.”
“Aren’t you scared?” she asked.
Another consequence of prolonged severe pain is that the desire to end it supersedes everything else. “Not really,” I said. “I just want this to be over.”
She took me in her arms and held me for a while. There was nothing else to say.
Some time passed. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” I said. I didn’t like bringing this up then, because I didn’t think she would like it, and I felt like I was using the possibility of my death as a way of manipulating her into getting my way. But I wasn’t. I wanted to honor her wishes and not hold this back from her, and I had to give Jyri an answer about the black-ops unit now. He insisted on it. He said yes, I could possibly die, but he had faith that removing the tumor would be no bigger a deal than pulling a tick out of a hound’s ear.
When our desires conflict, if possible, I try to put Kate’s happiness ahead of my own. I promised myself I wouldn’t let work interfere with our relationship again. I’m a romantic at heart. I told Kate that the national chief of police, Jyri Ivalo, had given me a job offer, and asked me to run a clandestine unit. It would use illegal methods to fight crime. I compared it to J. Edgar Hoover’s COINTELPRO program, but more benign. Most of the illegal activity would be technological surveillance that violated privacy laws, and using that information to take cash, drugs, firearms, etc., from criminals, relieving them of the tools they need to ply their trades and using their money to fund our operation.
I told her what Jyri said about truly helping people, saving young women from being forced into slavery and prostitution. I told her I thought I could make a difference, save some of these girls from having their lives turned into hell on earth.
Kate shifted closer, pressed her body against mine. “Are you asking my permission?”
“Yes,” I said, “I am, because I’ll break laws and it’s risky. And because if we’re going to live in this country, I think I have to. During the Filippov investigation, I gathered a lot of dirt on people in positions of power. I know too much. If I refuse, they’ll find a way to discredit and destroy me, to protect themselves. In a way, they’re offering to let me join their boys’ club. If you don’t want me to take the job, we should leave Finland and move to America. I want you to make the decision.”
“Do you want this?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I do. I feel that for the first time in my life, I have a chance to do something that makes a true difference. Most likely, I’ll never have another opportunity like this again. But I don’t have to make a difference. If you want me to turn it down, I will, without hard feelings or regrets.”
She sat for what seemed like a long time, quiet. I watched her, admiring. Kate is a lovely woman. A classic beauty. Pregnancy had almost no effect on her figure, other than that her breasts were larger. She remained slim. Her long cinnamon hair hung loose. Her dove-gray eyes were far away, lost in thought.
“Take the job,” she said, “but I want you to go on sick leave starting today.”
“OK,” I said, “but I want to play around a little bit starting up my new project, getting it functional, just to give myself something to do.”
She nodded agreement, and at that moment, without realizing it, I became a dirty cop.
2
On Thursday morning, I had the biopsy. Jari used his superpowers as a highly respected neurologist and had the test results ramrodded through. I got an appointment with the surgeon who would remove my tumor the very next day. He was going to tell me whether I would live or die.
I insisted that Kate come with me and listen while the surgeon gave me the prognosis. I wanted her to have no doubts that, if the news was bad, I hadn’t soft-pedaled it to spare her. It was January twenty-eighth, a bitter minus eighteen outside. The city sheathed in ice, snow banked up high by plows along every roadway.
I found, to my surprise, that I was calm. The possibility of death didn’t frighten me as I thought it might. However, Kate’s nerves were a shambles. She shook, could barely speak. Waiting outside the surgeon’s office, she gripped the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles turned bloodless white.
The surgeon was businesslike. The news was good. I had a meningioma, about three by four centimeters, in my frontal lobe. He embellished on what Jari had told me about meningiomas.
It might have been growing there for as long as fifteen years. It had probably been affecting my memory, concentration, cognition, and possibly my behavior all this time, without me noticing because it happened so slowly, and of course, I had nothing to compare it to. As brain tumors go, he said, I was lucky. I had an outstanding chance of survival, and a very good chance of going on to lead a normal life afterward. As Jari said, there would be no follow-up treatments. He would cut it out, and that would be it. I’d go back to my life as if it never happened. He asked about the frequency and duration of the headaches. I told him constant and described the severity. “You have an excellent headache,” he said, and smiled. His idea of a joke.