Me: Dad, I’ll wait out here. Good luck.
Tom: You two look a lot alike. I just noticed that.
Me: Yeah.
Tom: You can go back with him if ya want. Sit with him.
Me: Oh . . . I didn’t think I was allowed back.
Tom: Go on back if you like. He’s just in the lab.
Me: Oh . . . um . . . okay. Actually, maybe I’ll just wait out here, give him his privacy. Thanks, though. Maybe . . . maybe next time.
A Rose by Any Other Name
Rose: Hey, you.
Me: Hey. It’s so good to see you. How are you?
Rose: Great. Really good. This is the beginning of my third week of treatment. Can you believe it? It’s really flown by.
Me: How do you feel?
Rose: Fine. I really do. I’m still at work. I’ve been able to keep a full schedule. I haven’t slowed down a bit.
Me: And you haven’t noticed any change in your energy level?
Rose: Maybe slightly, but then I think it’s just my imagination. And—as you can see—I still have all of my hair. I noticed a little hair on my pillow yesterday when I woke up, and then a little more this morning, but for the most part, it seems to be holding steady. Where’s Amy? Is she around? I wanted to show her my full head of hair . . . and you said I’d need a wig.
Me: She went across the street to drop some stuff off. She should be back in a few minutes. You might run into her on your way down to the parking lot.
Rose: I’d wait for her to get back, but I’ve got a meeting in Hollywood and I just know the traffic’s going to be hor-rendous. Tell Amy I stopped by, will you?
Me: I will, definitely. I . . . um . . . wanted to tell you that actually, most women don’t usually start losing their hair until their third week of treatment.
Rose: My oncologist mentioned that, but I think I’d have noticed more of a change by now. I mean, it’s still so thick. See, I mean, if I pull on it, it really doesn’t come out—oh . . . well . . . wow . . . well, this is the most that’s come out so far. I mean . . . up until today . . .
Me: Judging from the look on her face, I think I just witnessed one of the most significantly horrifying moments in Rose’s life. The tan-colored Dooney & Bourke purse dangling from the index finger of her right hand seems to only slightly outweigh the fistful of “healthy, thick” hair in her left hand. I’m sure Amy would know the right thing to say to a woman who’s just realized her helmet of “healthy, thick” hair is on its way out, but, of course, Amy’s not around, so instead I must come up with some casually comforting words of wisdom to counteract the effects of the “healthy, thick” hair that’s staring back at me like a disturbingly “healthy, thick” rodent.
It’s . . . not that bad. You do have a lot of hair, so . . . I bet it will take you longer to . . . ah . . . lose all of it.
Rose:
Me: Would you like me to shave your head?
Rose: What? No! Why would I want you to shave my head?
Me: A lot of women find it less traumatic to wake up in the morning with short hairs on their pillow, as opposed to long.
Rose: Well, I’m not shaving my head. I might get a shorter cut or something, but I’m definitely not going to shave my head. You know what . . . I know what I’ll do. I’ll get my hair trimmed, and then in a couple of weeks—
Me: Rose, in a couple of weeks you won’t have any hair.
Rose:
Me:
Rose:
Me: I just want you to be prepared. I really have to say that shaving your head will make this process a lot easier.
Rose: I appreciate your opinion, but I think I’ll wait and see what happens.
Me:
Rose: I’ve gotta run.
Me: I’ll tell Amy you stopped by. It was good to see you.
Maybe she won’t lose any more of her hair. Maybe she’ll hold steady with the one bald spot. Maybe her unshakable determination is enough to keep her “healthy, thick” mane mostly in place. Maybe I’m wrong and she’s right and maybe she’ll become a miracle of science, write The Modern Woman’s Guide to Keeping Your Hair, go on tour, and get paid thousands upon thousands of dollars to tell her miraculous story of courage and fortitude to hordes of wide-eyed chemo patients. Maybe she’ll host “Good Hair Day L.A.” parties or start her own line of luxury shampoos, conditioners, and hair clips. Maybe she’ll march in anti–shaved head parades and chant things like, “My hair is here to stay,” and, “Long is strong,” while thrusting into the air a picture of a shaved head with a red line slashed diagonally across it.
But maybe—just maybe—her public-speaking career will end before it even begins. Because maybe Rose will wake up tomorrow morning to find a significant pile of hair lying in bed next to her, the dark stringy mass looking back at her as she fumbles for her alarm. And maybe, as she showers, washing her hair as usual, she’ll realize that the majority of the hair she thinks she is scrubbing clean is, in fact, no longer attached to her head and is instead tangled up in a sudsy ball, dangling from her wet, soapy fingers.
I think I’ll probably run into Rose again, though I doubt very seriously she’ll show her face in the Positive Appearance Center. I’ll most likely bump into her in the halls of the cancer floor or come across her and her tan Dooney & Bourke purse on my way down to the parking lot. It will be difficult to see her. No doubt it will break my heart. I won’t know what to say, and probably neither will she, but there will most certainly be an unspoken acknowledgment of her lack of hair. As much as she and/or I would like to believe in the contrary, by the end of this week, Rose will be mostly bald. She just doesn’t seem to want to know it yet.
Nothing Left to Stand On
Adam: How was work?
Me: It was good.
Adam: Everyone have both their ears today?
Me: As far as I could tell. I saw Rose again. I did meet a man without a shin, though.
Adam: What do you mean? How do you know he didn’t have a shin?
Me: Well, this guy came in looking for a skin graft kit, and we got talking, and it turned out he had a melanoma on his shin, like, nine years ago. He’s had six localized recurrences since then. He just had his seventh surgery. I asked to see his shin so I would know what size kit to give him. And when he lifted his pant—
Adam: I don’t want to hear this.
Me: It wasn’t bloody or anything. It was all bandaged—
Adam: Okay, okay, okay.
Me: It was pretty unbelievable. When he lifted his pant leg it looked like he had only bone below his knee. Like all the tissue had been—
Adam: I really, really don’t want to hear this.
Me: I know, but it wasn’t gross. I mean, it didn’t even look like a leg if you—
Adam: Ooo-kay. I’m good.
Me: You asked how my day was, so I’m telling you about my day. That was my day: talking to a man who is crippled because of a fucking mole. That was the day.
Adam: Well, don’t go if it depresses you. No one’s forcing you to go.
Me: What are you talking about? I like it. I like being there. I like talking to the people that come in. I’m meeting the most amazing people. I mean, with this guy today, we talked about Gregory and the vaccine and all his recent surgeries. And he told me about how he’s been able to deal with his life without the use of one of his legs. And it wasn’t gross or scary or anything. It was nice to be able to talk about that kind of stuff and not feel like I have to censor myself.
Adam: You feel like you have to censor yourself with me?
Me: Well, yeah, kinda. Yeah, because you never seem to want to hear the whole story. You always get grossed out.
Adam: Well, get better stories.
Me: I don’t have any. These are the stories I have.
Adam: Fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was upsetting you. Why didn’t you tell me it was bothering you, the fact that I allegedly never let you finish a story? Finish your story.
Me: No. You ruined it.
Adam: Come on. I’m listening. Finish it.
Me: I don’t want to.
Adam: Finish it. I want to hear it. I do. Seriously. Finish.
Me: I already did.
It may seem morbid that I like going and hearing patients’ stories. But as horribly shocking and painfully sad as most of the stories are, I still enjoy hearing the patients talk about their illness: their cancer, their side effects, their recovery, and sometimes even their death. I’m meeting people in the most vulnerable time of their lives. Many of them are confronting their own mortality—a few are still trying to accept their illness, some are struggling to make peace with it, others are looking to make peace with themselves, but all of them are willing to share. Share all of it with me. And it’s truly amazing. It’s inspiring. These people! I can’t believe these goddamned sick people! I am constantly amazed at their strength. They are so strong, so powerful. They’ve dealt with more pain and hurt and fear than they probably ever imagined they could.
And watching them tell me their stories, I experience something that can’t be explained to Adam. I’m connecting with them on a level deeper than an ordinary exchange between two strangers allows. And it’s that connection that Adam will never understand. And that connection is why I go. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe they’re healing me more than I’m healing them. But then again, maybe not. And then again, does it really matter?
Pen and Ink
I’m getting a tattoo. A sudden decision twelve years in the making. I’ve wanted a little somethin’-somethin’ since high school, but back in the day, the threat of disinheritance and possibly death at the hands of my father was enough to convince me otherwise. I’ll never forget the dinner at which my sister decided to play a joke on my dad and accidentally reveal a tattoo in the shape of a rose placed oh so discreetly on the upper part of her left breast. I have yet to see a person come so close to levitation as when my father spotted the monstrosity. He was on his feet in seconds flat, face boiling rose-red. To this day I’m fairly sure he would have strangled the last dying breath out of her had it not been for my mother screeching in abject terror, “It’s fake, Jon! For the love of God, it’s fake!”
So, since tenth grade, I’ve been biding my time. Waiting for that perfect moment when all is right with the world. The moment when the planets are aligned and my parents no longer pay my rent. The moment when the threat of disinheritance no longer carries the immeasurable weight or immense interest it used to. The only person I have to contend with now is Adam. Not that he objects to the idea; it’s just outside his comfort zone. Of course, nearly everything is outside his comfort zone, since that zone is basically 2.5 inches square, “To the left of the erasers and anything below the pencil sharpeners.” But deep down, in the darkest recesses of his melon (in a place he rarely admits exists), I think he kinda likes the idea of being married to a bad girl, a girl with a tattoo . . . or so I’ve convinced myself.
The big question now is, what design should I get? It needs to be something significant. Something that represents me. The new, older, wiser me. A picture or symbol that reflects not only who I am, but who I hope to become. Something I can look at for years to come and not get sick of. Something of the moment, but not too of the moment. Timeless and yet specific.
I have come to get a tattoo on this day, in this year, for a specific reason . . . why? What about me, in this particular moment, is different enough to push me to such a level of tattoo commitment? Why am I here? . . . okay, now I’m really freaking myself out.
Tattoo Guy: Uh, a flag’s good.
Me: Um, yeah . . . I don’t think a flag’s really me.
T.G.: Since 9/11 and all the fucking shit that’s gone down, seems like everyone wants a fucking flag—gotta be patriotic, man.
Me: Yeah . . . do you have any more samples of dragonflies?
T.G.: Nay. I can design something for you. What are you thinking, like, a dragonfly with flames on the wings or something?
Me: Um, no, probably not with flames . . . I’m looking for something small.
T.G.: Like, how small? The smaller you go, the less detail you’re gonna get.
Me: Oh.
T.G.: Where you think you want it?
Me: I was thinking about on my foot somewhere. I’m an actor, so I don’t want it anywhere too conspicuous.
T.G.: Foot’s not good. Tattoo won’t hold up. It’s gonna fade and look like shit.
Me: Oh.
T.G.: Upper arm is good.
Me: Yeah, no, I don’t think that would be a good idea . . . what to get, what to get? God, my hands are really sweating. Be brave. Be brave. If you chicken out now, you’re never coming back. Okay, focus. What about symbols? You have anything else I could look at?
T.G.: I got some Chinese and Japanese shit . . . here, look through this. You seen a cat around here?
Me: No, I don’t think so.
T.G.: You’d know it if you saw her. She’s got thumbs.
Me: What? What do you mean?
T.G.: Thumbs. You know, like, she’s got like regular paws and shit, but then she’s got thumbs.
Me: I may throw up. Just be brave. Be brave. Like human looking thumbs or . . .
T.G.: Nay, nay. Like cat thumbs. They’re all furry. You gotta see it. She grabs shit and everything.
Me: Opposable thumbs.
T.G.: You see anything you like?
Me: Oh . . . um . . . actually, I do like some of these Japanese characters. Could you do something in brown ink to make it look like henna?
T.G.: Yeah, it’s just gonna cost a little more ’cause I gotta custom-blend the color.
Me: That’s fine.
T.G.: It should prob’ly be, like, a brownish purple, ’cause you don’t want, like, a shit-brown color. Let me start mixing something up. You can see if you like it.
Me: Okay . . . and you’re sure these characters all mean what they say they mean?
T.G. : Oh, yeah. The page you’re lookin’ at is from Japan, so it should be pretty fucking right on.
Me: A word. One word that’s going to be with me, on me, for the rest of my life. Most of these characters, I can eliminate right off the bat. I’m sure as shit not gonna walk around for the rest of eternity with a diarrhea-brown tattoo meaning “Sexuality,” “Masculinity,” “Goddess,” or “Home.” “Friend,” “Foe,” “Fight,” and “Freedom” are also out. “Sun,” “Moon,” “Water,” and “Rain” do nothing for me . It’s gotta be something great. Something with more than one meaning . . . or . . . or something that could be interpreted in more than one way . . . oh my God, I’ve found it. Hey, yeah, I think I know what I want. This one. Seems fitting.
T.G.: Cool.
Me: Cool.
Positive Appearance Center: Free at Last
Me: Let me know if I can help you with—
Customer: Yes, please. I desperately need a comfortable bra. Do you sell cotton ones with no underwire?
Me: Are you talking about a mastectomy bra?
Customer: No. Well, yes, I guess. I don’t know. I need something that is as comfortable as humanly possible. See, I’m in the melanoma vaccine trial—
Me: My father’s in that trial.
Customer: Oh, so you know. I have all these ulcerations under my arms from the BCG. I’m sure your father has the same ones. And my bras rub the scabs off, so the ulcers never seem to get a chance to heal. These places are killing me, and I’ve already ruined a bunch of my bras trying to pull out the underwire, which you really can’t do, as it turns out. I haven’t been able to wear a bra for the last week—I kept meaning to come up here; I can’t believe it has taken me so long to get up here—and I need something for support. My breasts are too big to be unsupported. Look at these things. They’re awful. I’d go braless if I could, but they’re just so big. I really hate to do that.
Me: We definitely have something that will help you. Almost all of our bras are cotton, and you know what would be good? We have these super-super-soft sports bras. Al
l cotton, no thick elastic bands or anything. I’ll pull a couple off the racks and you can try them on. I think you’ll really like them. Our breast cancer patients love them.
Me: Okay, here you go. Try these on. See what you think. Yell if you need help with anything.
Customer: Actually . . . I still don’t have full mobility in my arm from when they removed lymph nodes. I hate to ask, but could you help me take off my shirt? I haven’t quite mastered the one-armed thing yet. Also, you’re going to have to help keep me from oozing on the bras. Most of my places are scabbed over, but I’m afraid if one of the bras rubs them the wrong way, they might start—
Me: Here, let me help you. That’s what I’m here for . . . let’s make this as easy on ourselves as possible. Let me unbutton your shirt for you . . . all righty, then. O-kay, one arm out . . . one to go . . . okay . . . good. You’re doing great . . . stay calm, stay calm. Don’t let her see you flinch. Oh, God, something’s oozing. Okay, focus. Breathe. It looks like someone took a lit cigarette and had a field day on her torso. Torture. It looks like some horrible form of antiquated torture. Oh, wait, one . . . let me get some gauze. And . . . here . . . you hold the gauze; one of your places is bleeding, and I’d hate for you to get blood on your shirt . . . okay . . . we’re making progress here . . .
Customer: I’m sorry for asking you to do this. I just hate that I can’t do it myself.
Me: No, no, don’t be silly. Not a problem . . . your . . . ulcers look pretty sore.
Customer: Well, it’s the bras that really make them hurt. At least your father doesn’t have to worry about that.
Me: Yeah . . . actually, he hasn’t gotten any ulcerations from the vaccine.
Customer: Oh. Really? Gosh, I just assumed everybody got them. They told me everyone gets them. Wow, he’s really lucky, then.
Me: Yeah. No, he’s had very few side effects. Which is fortunate since he commutes from Ohio.
Customer: I live in Michigan, but my husband and I decided to move out here temporarily until I finish the vaccine. I can’t believe your father has been able to do so much flying. I always feel really crappy after my shots.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 22