I Hope Not

THE IDEA seemed kind of iffy to me from the get-go. Not only was it a call-in radio show—a format that always, somehow, turns disastrous on me—but I would be on the show with a Harvard medical school professor who'd just written a book about the role hope plays in dealing with illness and disability. That, in fact, was going to be the theme of the entire show: hope and illness.

When my pal Grinch heard about this, his first question was the logical one: "Where in the world according to Garp did you ever become some kind of authority on 'hope'?"

I assumed that's why I was asked to participate in the first place—I was going to be the Bad Example.

To be honest, I wasn't too thrilled to once again find myself playing the role of "The Cripple" in another one of these things, but there I was. My own damnable fault. I'd talked myself into that corner, and would do what I could.

As expected, things didn't go well from the start. Before things started, even. The day before, I told myself repeatedly that I had to be as straight as possible when the show rolled around. I didn't want to end up looking like some kind of idiot compared with this Harvard guy.

There's no better way to utterly doom any chance I may have of being straight than to remind myself that I need to be straight. And sure enough, Morgan and I sat at the bar from the early afternoon well into the evening, ensuring that I would wake with one of those hangovers that was certain to fuck me up all the day long.

Despite my pounding, scratchy head and my rolling guts, I made sure that I was at my desk, waiting patiently by the phone, when the show's producer told me he would call.

The phone didn't ring when it was supposed to. It's been my experience that these people always call within a few minutes of when they say they will, so I waited five minutes. Then 10. Finally, when the show was apparently getting under way down in Pennsylvania, I called the producer's number. I got an answering machine.

Oh well, I thought, after leaving a confused message and hanging up. Then I went back to work.

Five minutes later—10 minutes into the show—my phone finally rang.

Because I was late, however, they were keeping me on hold until the first station break. I did get to listen to what was going on.

The Harvard medical professor was describing case histories of various cancer patients he'd dealt with, and the different ways they'd approached their diseases.

My mind began to wander. He was an interesting fellow, I'm not denying that. Articulate, too. But I was entering the third stage of hangover recovery, when the mind can't really focus on anything. I knew I had to listen to what this guy was saying, I had to forget about the head and the stomach, or I'd be doomed later. Still, apart from the specifics, I thought I was pretty well prepared—when I had my chance to talk with him, I'd tell him just what I thought of "hope."

"Hope can sometimes be very cruel," I heard a voice say.

Yes, it sure can, I thought. Then I realized that the voice I'd just heard wasn't my own.

"If I'd been given any hope after this had happened," the voice continued, "it would've killed me."

I was hearing the show's host. The show's host, who was doing my bit before I had a chance to say it myself! Worst of all, the Harvard doctor agreed with him completely, even citing a few clear and relevant case histories.

It was 20 minutes into the show, I hadn't been introduced yet and already the one tiny, shimmering bit of lucidity I was able to dredge up in my fuzzy and hungover brain had been shot to shit.

Well goddamn it.

Then I heard the producer's voice in my ear, letting me know they were about to put me on the air. It would be just me and the host; the Harvard guy was taking a break.

"But," I wanted to scream, "he just said everything I was going to say!"

Before I could say even that, however, there I was. I was unable to concentrate on what the host was saying; I hadn't been listening that carefully to the conversation, and I had nothing left to say.

"Ummm…" I began.

Once I did start talking, I slurred and stuttered. I couldn't even ask the Harvard guy to cover for me, given that he was nowhere to be found.

After rattling off a laundry list of my physical deformities, the host said, "So tell me more about this 'premature brain atrophy.' It sounds curious—what is that?"

"Oh. Ummm…well, see… I—I just kind of found out about that myself, from my neurologist. He didn't go into too much detail, except to say that my, umm, my brain was shrinking."

(And faster all the time, it seems).

"And what sort of effect might this have on you? What are the symptoms?"

"I'm, ummm, afraid I really don't know, sir. My guess is I'll probably get stupider."

I don't remember a whole lot of what I said after that—but I do remember clearly the second or third time I used the word "cripple." Normally this would be no big deal for me—it's a word I use regularly in reference to various pigeonholes in which I find myself. But it struck me then, that second or third time it came out of my mouth during the broadcast, because only at that point did I remember that the host—a very kind man who was doing his best with what little I was giving him—was a quadriplegic.

Awww, shit, I thought, as my head slowly dropped to my desk.

"So is there much room for hope in your life?" he asked, returning to the central topic of the day.

His timing couldn't have been more perfect; I think my reply was something along the lines of, "Ummm, I don't put much stock in that, no sir. Not right now."

A few short minutes later—we hadn't even hit the "call-in" segment of the show yet—the host said, "Well, it's been a real pleasure to have you on the show today…"

Before I knew it, I'd been disconnected. First time that's ever happened. I couldn't even listen to the rest of the show.

Of course, maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. These things always seem much worse in retrospect. Maybe that was all the time they had allotted for me, and maybe my repeated use of the word "cripple" had nothing to do with it. And maybe if I end up on a radio show while hungover in the future, I should just come out at the beginning and admit it, in the hopes that the host will take pity on me.