The young nurse comes out of the room, and moves quickly
past two people in the middle of a tense discussion by 
the door.  KATHLEEN FITZPATRICK-STEINBERG, days shy of turning 43,
impeccably groomed, well-heeled, goes at it with DR. TUCKMAN, 
a physician who's no match for her overly-controlling personality.
          ... Understand something, Dr... err...
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          ... Tuckman.
          Right.  My brother's an attorney.  
          We'll sue your ass, and this poor excuse 
          for a medical institution...
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          Mrs. Steinberg, we're doing 
          all we can.  Bottom line is...
He stops in mid-thought as ALBERT CONNORS, still boyish-looking
at 50, carrying a tupperware container, smiles politely as he 
passes by and enters the room.  Tuckman, lowering his voice, continues.
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          ... The bottom line is -- 
          your father's terminal.
Tuckman looks at her in disbelief.
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          Meaning his cancer's very advanced.
          All we can do is keep him comfortable.
          I see.  And a drug induced stupor 
          is your entire idea of "comfortable", 
          is that right?
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          At this point, there's nothing 
          else we can do for him.
Kathleen's having a hard time grasping this.  She fights 
becoming frantic.
          Well, that's not acceptable.
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          Excuse me?
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          Mrs. Stein...
               (cutting him off)
          ... No.  I've listened to all of 
          Tony Robbins' tapes.  What we need 
          here is a positive attitude.  
          Silk purse out of a sow's ear.  
          Lemons into lemonade.  I've heard 
          the testimonials, damnit!
Sensing her desperation, Tuckman's tone is compassionate as 
he shakes his head 'no'.
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          I'm sorry.
Kathleen stares at him in silence for what appears to be 
a moment of acceptance.  But it really isn't.
          Okay, how much?
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          I really couldn't say.  
          Predicting an exact moment of death 
          would be presumptuous on my...
               (impatiently cutting him off)
          ... Money.  How much money?
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          For what?
          To do something.  My husband 
          makes a fortune...
She digs into her purse, pulls out a pen and her check book.
          ... I'll cut you a check right now.
An OLDER NURSE wheels a bath cart past them and into the room.  
A distraught Tuckman pleads with Kathleen.
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          Mrs. Steinberg, you have to 
          listen to what I'm... 
Kathleen lights into him.
          ... No, you listen to me, you 
          self-inflated, bag of doom.  
          I didn't come all the way down 
          from New York to watch you quacks 
          throw up your hands and move on.  
          Moreover, I didn't pack a goddamn 
          thing to wear at a funeral.  
          What I did pack was a wardrobe 
          for bedside vigilance while Dad 
          recovers.  That's it.  Bright and 
          cheery separates.  Nothing black.  
          You understand what I'm saying?!
                  DR. TUCKMAN
          I think so.
She whips open the check book and clicks her pen emphatically.
          Fine.  So, name your price.
The dumb-struck doctor just stands there, at a loss for words.