10 Things to Do Before I Die by Daniel Ehrenhaft

on end With nightmarish head spins and vomiting. The gist seems to be that Ménière’s doesn’t kill you but that death might be preferable once you get it. And there’s something else: it almost never strikes anybody under the age of thirty.
    I lean back in the chair. Hmmm.
    Once again, the trusty Internet has raised a lot more questions than it has answered.
    Do I have this awful disease? Could I be one of those one-in-a-million victims in the under-thirty crowd? Or maybe even the first? Is it one of the “things” that the intern Wanted to “rule out”? Is that Why she needed parental consent for a … Whatever?
    Actually, I know Who can solve all these riddles. He’s the reason I Went to St. Vincent’s in the first place. I glance at my Watch. It’s already six-fifteen. He’s definitely home by now. He never gets home past six. He likes to have a beer and Watch the news. (He might not Want to admit it, but that is his “thing.”) Mark even joins him sometimes. He’s just a phone call away.
    I dial the number faster than I’ve ever dialed it before.

A Very Grim Confluence of Conversations
    “Hello?”
    “Hey, Mr. Singer. It’s—”
    “Burger! How are you?”
    “Well, actually …”
    “Your buddy Mark isn’t home right now. He’s out With Nikki.”
    “Yeah, I know. I Wanted to talk to you.”
    “Me?” Mr. Singer laughs. “Why? What did Mark do this time? Try to buy me a dog?”
    “No, um … I have a medical question.”
    He sighs. I can hear the TV in the background. I probably should have Waited until the news Was over. Oh, Well. It’s too late now. Besides, I’m desperate.
    “I’m not a doctor, Burger, remember?” Mr. Singer tells me. He’s told me this many times before, and We both know it. “I’m a hospital administrator.”
    “But you’ve given me good advice in the past,” I point out. (It’s true. When I Was twelve, he correctly diagnosed me With a stomach virus that my parents believed Was appendicitis.) “I Was just Wondering: Is it possible that I have Ménière’s disease?”
    “Ménière’s disease?” He laughs again and takes a swig of beer. “You know, Burger, I always pegged you as a clown but never as a hypochondriac. But in answer to your question, no. Well, yes, it’s possible, but very unlikely. What are your symptoms?”
    “I feel like the room is spinning. I have a Weird ache in my side. I have tinnitus.”
    “Tinnitus, huh?” He takes another long pull from the bottle. “Big Word.”
    “I looked it up.”
    “Hey, I’m sorry, Burger. I’ve just been sort of grouchy lately. I don’t mean to be supercilious.”
    Super-What? I eye the dictionary on the floor, but it’s too far away.
    “Let me ask you something,” he says. “Is the ringing louder in one ear?”
    “Yes! It’s louder in my right ear! The intern at St. Vincent’s asked me the exact same thing. Oh, congratulations on your new job there, by the Way.”
    “Thanks. But Wait, you say you Were at St. Vincent’s? And they didn’t tell you What Was Wrong?”
    “No, see, the intern Went to look for a doctor, and she told me to call my parents for consent, but I can’t call my parents—I mean, I can call them, but they can’t come give consent because they’re in Denver—so I just … um, I sort of left.”
    Silence.
    “Mr. Singer?”
    “I’m here. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound so grouchy anymore. “Listen, Ted, I think you should go back there.”
    Ted? I swallow. The Singers don’t call me Ted. Well, Mrs. Singer does, but she and Mr. Singer got divorced six years ago, and she moved to Florida—so I hardly ever see her. Mr. Singer calls me Burger. Like his son does. Ted is bad. Ted is a no-no. Mr. Singer Would only call me Ted if he knew something Was Wrong.
    “Why should I go back there?” I ask.
    “Hey, come on, don’t Worry!” he says With a big laugh. (That same fake laughter the intern gave me.) “Just go get checked out. I’m sure it’s nothing. And by the