Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “The nurse will be right in to take some blood. When she’s done, you can get dressed and I’ll meet you in my office,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, but he’s already out the door. Any sense of calmness I felt leaves with him.

  ***

  First, they take blood. Lots of blood. The results aren’t readily available, so I have to schedule a second appointment for days later. The doctor rehashes the results, mixing together medical terms with lay terms so I only vaguely comprehend the words spewing from his mouth.

  RESULTS:

  CA-125 profile. Patient shows an elevated plasma level >35 u/ml @ 62 u/ml.

  BRCA-1 and BRCA-2 profile. Patient shows positive mutation in BRCA-2 gene.

  Because of these findings, they perform minor procedures to examine the fluid from my lungs and my abdomen. I hang around the waiting room for hours while they read the slides.

  RESULTS:

  Thoracentesis. Patient shows no cancer cells upon microscopic investigation.

  Paracentesis. Patient shows no cancer cells upon microscopic investigation.

  Since I’m still at the office, they decide to start probing immediately.

  Transvaginal ultrasound. Patient shows complex fluid-filled cyst on right ovary with spread to right fallopian tube. Abdominal swelling indicates ascites extending to the omentum.

  Pelvic ultrasound. Patient shows complex mass, ovarian tumor.

  Apparently this isn’t enough to confirm all my worst fears. Dr. Moss refers me to an oncologist for a “minor” operation. We schedule my surgery, a laparotomy, for three days later. It’s an inpatient procedure where they remove a section of the tumor and review the pathology. Lucky for me, the results will be available the same day.

  After the surgery, I wait and wait. I wait so long I think the doctor has forgotten about me. Finally, a nurse comes and leads me through the labyrinth of a hospital to the pathologist’s office. He says a lot of doctor lingo and big words, but what I hear loud and clear is CANCER. Although this in itself should send me into a panic, what the pathologist implies is so much worse: No more gymnastics.

  RESULTS:

  Pathology. Patient is classified as stage 2 ovarian cancer. Tumor is grade 2. Right ovary and fallopian tube are affected. Recommend hysterectomy and chemotherapy.

  I can’t remember ever missing a day of practice, and now I’m going on two consecutive weeks. Initially I tried to go back between appointments, but I was distracted and made to feel unnecessary. The gym was running smoothly without me, and I could tell my assistants were uncomfortable with me standing around and staring off into space, so unlike my normally bossy self. Concerned parents kept asking me how I was doing and I lied, afraid they would pull their kids out if they knew the alarming truth. So I decided to step back, officially handing the reins of Stick It Gymnasium over to Lauren and Scotty with a single phone call. Although I don’t own the gym itself, I’ve been the manager and head coach for years. It’s my responsibility to replace myself. I never told them I had cancer, but I suspect they figured out I wasn’t quitting because of a bad case of the flu.

  Now I’m back at the oncologist’s office for what feels like the billionth time in the last month. Dr. Moss has been replaced by Dr. Ireland, a severe woman who seems to make up for in brains what she lacks in warmth.

  “We have a couple of options in your situation,” she begins as soon as I sit. Hello, good to see you too. So much for bedside manner.

  “A complete hysterectomy is the most aggressive treatment. Previous testing does not indicate any metastasis—spreading—beyond your pelvic region. Theoretically, removing all of your reproductive organs would essentially cure you of the cancer. The procedure is called a total abdominal hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy.”

  I shake my head. I know what a hysterectomy is. The salphy-ooph part just means all the other stuff gets taken out, too.

  “Of course, then you would be infertile. There are also side effects of the surgery, such as hot flashes, weight gain, and fatigue. We would discuss these side effects in full if this was the option you chose.”

  Shake-shake-shake goes my head.

  “Since the tumor seems to be restricted to your right ovary and fallopian tube, there is a chance we can preserve your fertility and remove the cancer by performing what is called a unilateral salpingo-oophorectomy. This would be combined with an aggressive round of chemotherapy drugs. The chances of full recovery are great, but there is a slim chance that we will miss some of the cancer in a region outside the right pelvic area and the cancer could come back.”

  Shake-shake-shake goes my head.

  “The last option is to try to remove as much of the tumor as possible with another laparotomy. I don’t recommend this, since it’s very unlikely that we would be able to remove the entire mass. Even combined with chemotherapy, there is a great chance that the cancer will be recurrent and could ultimately result in a full hysterectomy anyway . . . or worse.”

  Or worse.

  “What are your thoughts, Karen? We want to make sure to pick the option that is right for you.”

  The right option. When I bought my Volkswagen, the dealer asked me what options I wanted. Leather? Sunroof? CD changer? Remove half your organs? How about all of your organs? Pump you full of drugs? Yes, please. All the above. I would like the fully loaded option.

  She studies me with her beady eyes, devoid of any makeup. Her black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon that’s shellacked in place with heavy-duty hairspray. Strangely enough, she might be pretty, but it’s like she’s trying hard to hide it. This annoys me for some reason.

  “I don’t know, none of them sound very good,” I say, unable to conceal my irritation. I’m not sure what she expects from me. None of these options makes me want to jump up and down with joy. “I don’t know if I want babies. I don’t have a husband, so I won’t be starting a family anytime soon. Down the road I thought I wanted that . . .” I swallow back the lump forming in the back of my throat. This is all too much. I’ve never thought that hard about babies. Until recently, I had a gym full of kids I cared about, but now I don’t even have that.

  “So, do you think a unilateral salpingo-oophorectomy, or USO, sounds like a good way to go?” She says the acronym likes it’s something to get excited about.

  “Sure, a UFO would be awesome,” I mock.

  “USO, a unilateral salpingo-oophorectomy,” she repeats, missing my sarcasm completely.

  “Sure.” I laugh at the absurdity of this conversation. We’re talking about which of my organs to remove like we’re picking what to have for lunch. “I’d also like the drugs. Chemotherapy sounds like a real trip,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  Dr. Ireland doesn’t even crack a smile. “Of course. Chemotherapy is part of the treatment plan with any USO surgery.” She’s so literal and precise. I know I should take comfort in her competency, but I’d feel better if she would at least acknowledge the difficulty of this conversation.

  We schedule a USO for next Tuesday. I refer to it again as a UFO, and she doesn’t take the bait. As I leave the office, I wish I’d arranged for a UFO. Getting the hell off this planet sounds pretty awesome right about now.

  15

  Wren

  Age 30

  July 2001

  “What have you done?” I ask. Jimmy leads me by my left hand as I use my right to hold on to the banister, and we climb the stairs. He was waiting by the back door when I got home, even though it was only three thirty in the afternoon and he normally works until six. That was the first surprise. Before I could even get into the kitchen, he’d made a makeshift blindfold out of a tie and secured it around my eyes, insisting on taking me to see surprise number two.

  “Stop trying to ruin it,” he says, holding my hand a little tighter as we reach the landing. I reach my other out toward the wall for support. Being blindfolded, even in my own house, is quite disconcerting.

  I laugh. “You know I hate surp
rises!” Every year Jimmy tries to surprise me for my birthday. More often than not I weasel the secret out of him. It’s become a joke between us, and it’s not limited to my birthday but happens on any day that involves a present, really. Poor Jim; he tries so hard to keep it to himself, but whether it’s his desire to please me or his excitement at giving me a present, he always tells.

  Somehow he’s managed to keep me in the dark this year. I figured he had something up his sleeve, since it’s my big three-oh, but he’s been uncharacteristically quiet. I’ve been adamant that I’d rather pretend this day doesn’t exist and continue to live as a twenty-nice year old for the rest of my life, but I assumed he’d prepare something spectacular anyway. That’s just the way he is. So I wasn’t all that shocked when he sneaked out of the house while I was still in the shower, eager to avoid my relentless questioning. For weeks I’ve been interrogating him to no avail. Over the past few days I let up in hopes of launching my final attack over breakfast this morning, but he sensed my plan. Fifteen years later and he’s finally onto my tricks.

  Letting go of my hand, he circles behind me so he can steer me by my shoulder. We turn left at the top of the stairs. I know my own house well enough to gather we aren’t heading toward our bedroom. Since the bathroom is directly at the top of the stairs, I deduce we are walking toward the spare bedroom.

  When we moved into this house shortly after getting married, we turned the smaller guest bedroom into an office. Over the years it’s acquired most of our extra stuff, so we’ve come to simply call it the “extra” room. Anything that doesn’t have a proper place elsewhere lives in that room. He stops me in the doorway.

  “Ta-da!” he exclaims, pulling the blindfold off.

  I blink, the bright afternoon sun through the windows blinding me momentarily. But then I blink again, unsure what I’m seeing. The extra room is completely transformed. The once-beige walls are now a buttery yellow, my favorite color. Blue ducks chase pink bunnies all along the perimeter of the ceiling. The ugly old venetian blinds that came with the house have been replaced with soft green drapes, pulled back so that light spills through the two big windows. Sunlight shines on a teddy bear perched on a wooden rocking chair. The cheap brown throw rug is gone, exchanged for a springy white rug, so soft it looks like a carpet of snow. In the corner of the room is a crib made out of honey-colored oak, filled with stuffed animals. A whimsical mobile hangs from the ceiling.

  I’m speechless.

  “You like?” Jimmy asks quietly, still holding my shoulders.

  I smile so hard my cheeks hurt and nod my head. “I love,” I answer, turning to face him. “It’s beautiful, absolutely perfect.” I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him.

  “Happy birthday,” he whispers in my ear, still holding me close.

  Pulling away, I look around at the carefully chosen decor and finishing touches. Daffodils sit in a vase on the bureau. A Winnie-the-Pooh painting hangs next to a picture of us on our honeymoon.

  “When did you do this?” I ask, both amazed and slightly confused. I’m certain the room didn’t look like this when I left for the gym this morning. When on earth did he manage this Cinderella makeover?

  Jimmy laughs and shakes his head. “Magic,” he answers, his eyes twinkling. “It only took one fairy godmother, a couple of elves, and poof, we have a nursery.”

  “Seriously, how did you do this without me knowing?” I punch him lightly on the arm. I feel duped. For all the surprises I’ve imagined—dinner with friends, a weekend away, a new purse—I could never have guessed this, even in my wildest dreams. There’s even a diaper-changing station with a bag of Huggies and baby wipes stacked on top. It looks like he started collecting baby paraphernalia the day we decided to start trying for a baby, way back in the fall.

  “You think you’re so sneaky,” he says. “But I finally got you this time. You have no idea how hard it was keeping this from you!” He laughs, walking over to the closet. He opens the door, revealing all the “extras” from the room. “I started to run out of time, so I figured this stuff could stay in here until the little guy needs to start hanging clothes.”

  “Little guy?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows. “Is this a little boy’s room?” I note a doll sitting on the dresser and a collection of horse figurines on a shelf.

  Jimmy grins. “You know I want little girls,” he says, taking my hand in his. He lifts it to his lips and kisses my wedding band. “But the lady at the baby store told me yellow is a neutral color, so it can work for either a boy or a girl.”

  “It also happens to be my favorite color,” I add.

  “Yes, and it’s your favorite color,” he agrees. “The lady also said I would jinx it if I painted it pastel pink, as I was originally intending.”

  “Ah yes, we don’t want to jinx anything,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “So, behold our yellow, gender-neutral room.”

  We both look around. The ducks may be blue, but they’re not fooling anyone. Jimmy laughs and shakes his head. “All right, it’s a girl’s room masquerading as a gender-neutral room, but it was the best I could do.”

  A framed picture of us on our wedding day sits front and center on the dresser. Picking it up, I touch the glass with a fingertip and pull it to my chest before gently placing it back beside the flowers. Looking at Jimmy, I’m filled with the same surge of love I felt that glorious fall day. Some days I cannot believe how lucky I am to have found him. Not many people find what we have, and so young in life.

  “It’s absolutely perfect,” I say. “Now we just need to work on filling the crib.”

  “Well, let’s put that blindfold back on and I’ll give you part two of your birthday present,” Jimmy says, smiling his most deliciously wicked smile.

  “Oh, I like being thirty,” I say, following him to the bedroom.

  16

  Karen

  Age 23

  May 1995

  My team qualified for the ’96 Olympics—thanks to me. My team won the gold—thanks to me. It was a team effort, of course. The other girls were awesome, don’t get me wrong. We were all great. After today’s qualifier, six of us and one alternate were chosen to represent the United States. By rights, I should be going to the Olympics, but fate isn’t on my side. The lucky alternate gets to take my place, my rightful place, on the team. It’s not fair.

  The floor is usually my second-strongest event. The vault is mine. I always take that one home. My weak spots are the bars and the beam, but I scored higher than normal on both today. One judge gave me a 9.8 on my beam routine, my highest ever. I was floating on air by the time I was called to the floor. Earlier in the day, the announcers had been introducing me as one of the oldest gymnasts competing. By the end of the afternoon, they’d given in to the buzz and changed “oldest” to “favorite.”

  The music started, and I was immediately in the zone. My entire routine was eighty seconds long, and I knew it like the back of my hand. Most gymnasts find a pattern that works and use it with minor variances over the years. I’d started tweaking this one while at Boston College. Usually I change the music but keep the tumbling sequence the same. It’s custom tailored to my strengths—power and grace. With the help of a choreographer, I’d designed a routine consisting of five passes—one more than required.

  Sprinkled between the tumbles were the requisite hops and leaps, an acro line, and both a forward and backward salto passage. Three more complicated sequences were interspersed, starting with the easiest and ending in the most difficult pass, my “dismount” from the floor. This pass started approximately sixty-six seconds into my routine and comprised a backhand spring into an aerial, finishing with a one-and-a-half twist, a 540-degree turn in the air.

  I heard it pop at around seventy-two seconds. By the time I landed the one-and-a-half twist and sailed through the final two-second dance passage, I might as well have been dragging a wooden leg behind me. Adrenaline kept me going. Right foot, left . . . left foot, right . . . point those toes
! The music stopped and the crowd cheered, their faces swimming before my teary stare. My teammates screamed on the sidelines, but I could barely see them. My vision was blurred, and stars circled in my periphery. Gordon was jumping up and down, pumping his fists toward the ceiling. The applause started to lessen and it was time to walk off the mat, but I was frozen. Stuck.

  By some miracle, Gordon realized something was wrong. He might be a shitty boyfriend, but he’s an amazing coach, a real killer. He’s in this to win and knows I’m vital to that equation. He raced to the center of the floor before panic settled in and lifted me into his arms, hugging me to his chest.

  “Your ankle?” he whispered in my ear, still smiling at the crowd.

  “Knee,” I whimpered back, trying not to cry. I winced and shifted my weight toward Gordon. Together we waved to the crowd, and they cheered with renewed vigor for the coach and student sharing a victorious moment.

  “You stuck it,” he said, his voice conveying a mixture of confusion and admiration.

  Gently dropping me back to the floor, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and supported me back to the sidelines, where we sat, awaiting my scores. Walking off the mat took all my strength. I couldn’t risk the judges knowing I was injured and jeopardize everything the team had worked so hard for.

  Judge 1: 9.9

  Judge 2: 9.9

  Judge 3: 9.8

  Judge 4: 10

  Amazing scores. Gold-medal-winning scores.

  “But you still have the vault,” he said to me, his white teeth glimmering in the camera lights.

  No freaking kidding.

  “Let me go early, before it starts to swell. I’ll wrap it,” I said. I was only thinking about the vault. The vault was my best routine, my ticket to the Olympics. It didn’t once occur to me that with my beam and floor scores, I could still make the team. The alternate could replace me in the vault and—as long as she didn’t completely fuck it up—the team would still qualify.