When the doctors returned, they confessed that, although a decision had been determined, their means of arriving at said decision was quite simplistic and utterly devoid of calculation. The decision was literally pulled from a hat, producing a solution which read, "Chemotherapy," and to which they would adhere unless our wishes were opposed to it. At this point, the surgeons took their leave of us, and I voiced my farewells; they disappeared into the hallway, and the door slowly drifted back, to close silently and blot their retreating footsteps. It seemed strange that I should never see these men again when, for a month, they were daily visitors and trusted allies. We were now alone with Dr. E. and the silent, smiling observer. Dr. E. explained the situation which had formulated, defining chemotherapy as a means by which cancer was cured, sweeping any and all lingering cells from the body with a deadly blow. In my case, the treatment was viewed simply as a protective measure, a guarantee, that all cancerous cells were wiped out; given such a characteristic, especially when considering my previously mentioned uncertainty, it was already obvious to me that we would not refuse the proposal. As we sat motionless to hear the rest of the definition, I became aware of the observing doctor whose eyes were riveted to my face with an uncanny, relentless fascination, while his lips remained curled in an unwavering smile; it mattered little where I would place my eyes, his gaze feasted on my features, ingesting hungrily every emotion my countenance displayed. I listened half-heartedly to Dr. E.'s conversation; he explained that treatments would be paid through the research funding since my cancer was a rarity, and would therefore place my family under no financial burden. It was nice that my experimental therapy would be no cancer on my parent's bank account, I thought dimly; my concentration was withering under the infernal scrutiny of the observer's beaming eyes and steadfast smile, for there was no benevolence in that plaster-cast smile, only a keen desire to devour one's expressions; and I knew that he waited for a certain look, a show of anguish, an emotional outburst. Dr. E. continued. He was explaining the ways in which chemotherapy affected the patient. Something within me did not want to hear what would happen, yet my mind took it in; I would feel sick, nauseous, weak. I would be susceptible to infections and viruses... I would be afflicted with occasional aching... I would lose my hair... I could die. Tears, unbidden, welled up in my eyes so I tried furiously to will them away; I did not want to cry in front of those lidless eyes. It was rude, callous, to stare so unflinchingly as another's future was verbalized and deftly illustrated by a doctor who knew all of the hideous cruelties of which chemotherapy was capable.