The cancer patient racked them up and broke. Clackety-clack. Seven ball in the corner pocket. Five ball in the side.
Skip to next paragraph Enlarge This Image Katie Orlinsky for The New York Times
Joseph Marcianti knew when to fold ‘em; he was with his father, Joe Marcianti, and a friend, John Wiencek.
Light was seeping out of day. The long, brick-walled room was getting busy . People hooked to IVs in whispered conversation. Others working a jigsaw puzzle. Playing gin rummy. All of them caught in an unwelcome dance with mortality.
This is what passes for pleasure in a cancer hospital.
Paul Gugliotta always sought out the pool table. His game had sharpened beyond expectations. Since a diagnosis of lymphoma in June, Mr. Gugliotta, a chemical engineer from Long Island, had had two lengthy stays at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center on the Upper East Side. He chafed at being cooped up in his antiseptic room. He even fled the grounds several times, in violation of the rules, wandering down to the 59th Street Bridge and ordering a hot open-faced turkey sandwich at a nearby diner. Then one day he stumbled upon the recreation center, which can be reached from the hospital’s 15th floor, and it became his nesting ground.
It is something of a cancer patient’s corner bar, minus the booze. Mr. Gugliotta hung around and talked cancer, talked life. He sampled just about everything the center offered. Pottery, copper enameling, blackjack. He made a toolbox, a stained-glass thermometer. His wife, Francine, said, “I never thought I’d see him doing decoupage, but sure enough.”
Now, Mr. Gugliotta, 46, is a commuter, reporting every three weeks for chemotherapy. While the chemicals are mixed, a process that can make patients wait up to two hours, he repairs to the recreation center and begins methodically rocketing balls into pockets. He knows the good cue is stashed in the back. “It’s enjoyable here,” he said. “And it’s where you can talk about what’s inside you, because it’s inside everyone here.”
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