The Cookie Cure

by Susan Stachler

  I don’t know what else I thought she’d ask us, but it didn’t seem like a good sign that the conversation was already over. She took the samples, the price list we had come up with, and a write-up on our business. She stood up and thanked us for stopping by. Trying to gauge her thoughts, I noticed she was smiling as she added, “We’ll look forward to trying the gingersnaps. I have to submit this to corporate before I can get back to you. I’ll let you know.”

  We walked about twenty-five feet from her office, then I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “I think we did well. Mom, you were good.”

  “I think she liked it,” Mom said. “We’ll see. I hope she at least considers us for this store.”

  I was dreaming bigger than that. “Mom, if she chooses us for this store, then why not give us a try in all five stores in her region?”

  A couple of days passed with no word from Sharon. We hadn’t told anyone we were meeting with Nordstrom, so if she turned us down, no one would know the difference. But three days after our meeting, an email landed in our inbox while I was on the office computer. I gasped and turned around to call for Mom, but she was upstairs in the kitchen. The floor between the shop and the office was thick concrete, so she couldn’t hear me. I grabbed the broom that I kept next to the computer and tapped the ceiling as hard as I could with the handle—our signal for “come here.”

  The door opened and I spun around. “Mom! We got an email from Nordstrom.” I couldn’t tell her what it said; she had to see it with her own eyes. Not one store. Not five stores. One hundred ten stores. We were approved to sell to all of Nordstrom’s espresso bars throughout the country.

  Our crazy idea had paid off. Mom and I were ecstatic. We had tried and tried, and that time, it worked. That was our first major sale. The name recognition alone made us happy. Then the orders started coming in. Each store ordered separately, and because the coffee bars are small, without much retail space, they could only take two cases at a time. That added up to just 144 cookies per order. But this was huge—the exposure put us on the map!

  Dear Sue,

  Carey and Susan thought it was nutty of me to make them take a wheelchair on their shopping trip when Susan was sick. I got that. But I couldn’t forget what happened to you decades ago on our own shopping trip.

  You’d recently been released from the hospital, following an emergency tracheotomy surgery. Your cancer had advanced to the point where your throat had closed, and you had spent some time in the ICU. You wanted me to go shopping with you at Pier 1. I would have gone anywhere with you, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. You weren’t well enough to drive, so I did. We went to check out candles, incense, beaded wall dividers, and all the latest bohemian trends. While there, you started coughing uncontrollably, and your face turned red, as you could not catch your breath. Terrified you would stop breathing, I looked around, wondering if I’d need to call for help again. You calmly went to a quiet spot in the store and pulled the center tube out of your neck in order to clear your air passage. You carried on like it was no big deal. I held my breath until I knew you were okay. How did you do that? You made it seem normal.

  When I suggested that we should go home, you said, “No, I’m fine. Besides, I’m not done shopping yet.” So, Sue, I couldn’t let the girls go without the wheelchair, just in case something happened. Or maybe I couldn’t let them go without me.

  Changing the subject, I have to tell you: Susan tricked me into making our first corporate call for Susansnaps. After she handed me the phone number, I thought, I have to call? Why me? It probably wouldn’t surprise you that Susan continued, “Mom, you’re good at talking.” Well, she sort of had me there. I’m not sure if I’m any good at it, but I’ve certainly done my share. At the time, I remember thinking that I wasn’t going to say no to Susan—just like I couldn’t say no to going to Pier 1 with you. Next thing I knew, I was talking to a buyer for an elegant department store’s coffee café. I couldn’t really believe what I was doing, talking about a cookie with your and Susan’s shared name.

  12

  You Want Me to Do What?

  Not long after we landed the Nordstrom sale, Mom and I decided to donate some cookie gifts to a benefit for cancer research. We figured it would be a small way for us to give back and, perhaps, attract a few new customers in the process. The American Cancer Society’s Hope Fashion Show, held annually in Atlanta, was coming up soon. We’d learned about this lovely fund-raiser the year before, when a friend of Mom’s invited us to attend, to get out of the house for a few hours during Dad’s chemo. Held at the Ritz-Carlton, it was a delightful event featuring a luncheon, drinks, merriment, raffles, a guest speaker, and a fashion show with models who had survived cancer. Looking for ways to grow our business, I thought, This will be great. There will be five hundred of Atlanta’s fanciest ladies packed in one room. A captive audience. I said to Mom, “We know the snaps are good. Once the attendees take a bite, hopefully they’ll want more.” We were elated at the thought of Susansnaps making their grand gala debut.

  One day, as the event approached, Mom and I had baked a few batches of cookies and shipped some orders, which was a full day’s work for me, as I still became exhausted after three or four hours on my feet. After we’d finished up for the afternoon, I headed into the house to turn on the TV, while Mom went to the office to check voicemail. I was lying on the couch next to Carey, waiting for Oprah to come on at four o’clock, just like we did every day. Mom came around the corner and plopped down in the chair beside us with a sigh.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Not a thing,” she replied. “We heard back from the organizer of the fashion show, and they’re thrilled to have our donation. She wanted to know if we could provide fifty gift boxes to use as part of the centerpieces.”

  “That’s great! But you seem kind of upset. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  “No. The woman I spoke to was really nice.” Despite her cheerful words, it was obvious that something was going on. She hadn’t even glanced at the TV and sat there fidgeting, twirling her wedding ring around and around. Then she said, “The coordinators read about you, sweetie. On the back of the box we left them. They thought it would be nice to have you model. She asked if you would.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “You want me to do what?” I asked, hoping I hadn’t heard her clearly. I thought back to last year’s fashion show. I had just about clapped my hands off during the standing ovation at the end, cheering for the survivors striding up and down, showing off a variety of outfits and styles.

  “They want you to be one of the models,” Mom repeated.

  “Mom, are you serious right now? No. I’m not doing that. Did you already tell them I would? What did you say?”

  “I would never answer for you. I told her I would call her back after I’d checked with you.”

  I felt my face flush. My thoughts started to race. They want me to be a cancer-survivor model? To sashay along an airport-length runway in the middle of a ballroom with hundreds of people staring at me? Has Mom lost her mind? No way. Absolutely not. I don’t want to be paraded around so people can feel sorry for me.

  I knew why they wanted me on that runway; I’d done fund-raising events before. A tagline like “Young girl just out of treatment takes the runway” sells, and the women who organized this event were in the business of bringing in big bucks for life-saving research. I was all for that, and it was flattering that they thought I could help. But it was too soon.

  I could still barely get my head around being sick in the first place, and now they wanted me to step out as a cancer survivor? I’d spent the last year wanting to be seen and treated simply as Susan, who had just happened to get sick. I didn’t want to be different, singled out, or treated specially in any way. How could I step on a runway and publicly announce, Look at me—the cancer girl! when I couldn’t even say it to myself?


  Part of me felt guilty for getting upset. I was lucky enough to get cancer during a time when treatment existed that could cure me. Aunt Sue was diagnosed in the sixties, before men had even landed on the moon. I was far more fortunate, and I was acutely aware of that, but that didn’t mean any of this had been easy.

  Mom was waiting patiently for my response. Reluctantly, I said, “Mom, really? I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll call back and thank them and let them know that you will not be able to help this time.”

  Did she have to use those words? She knew I would hear, You won’t help, and you’re letting people down. Sometime between hanging up the phone with the event coordinator and coming to ask me about being a model, Mom had already decided this was a great idea. That’s classic Mom—once she makes up her mind, there’s no turning back. Why didn’t she just ask me to do this for her? Realizing that she really wanted me to be a model, I started to reconsider.

  I couldn’t tell her no. I had depended on her, and the last eleven months had been exhausting for both of us. So, although I wasn’t happy about it, I told her I would join the other survivors as a model at the event.

  A few weeks later, as we drove to the fashion show, I started yawning, my way of settling my nerves. It wasn’t working. All I could think was, What’s going to happen when I step on that runway? Why did I agree to do this? As we pulled up to the elegant entrance of the Ritz-Carlton, my palms were pooling with sweat. Anxiously, I asked, “Mom, can you please move around the valet line and self-park?” I wasn’t sure if it was motion sickness or a bad case of the jitters, but I needed to stop and sit still for a moment. Looking down and fiddling with my fingers, I tried to convince myself it would be okay. You agreed to do this. You won’t disappoint anyone. It’ll be over soon.

  Exuding enough confidence for both of us, Mom led the way to the check-in table in the hotel lobby. As the woman manning the table searched for our names and a welcome packet, Mom leaned forward and said quietly, “My daughter, Susan, is one of your models.”

  The woman smiled and said, “We’re so happy to have you. The other survivors are down the hall to the right. We’ve provided a complimentary hair stylist and makeup artist for your special day.”

  Instantly self-conscious, I reached to tuck my long blond hair behind my ears, out of habit, but instead my fingers ran along the short brown curls that had started to grow back since my treatments had ended. I’d been poked, prodded, and pulled so much out of necessity by the medical community that the thought of having my hair and makeup done was too much. I whispered in Mom’s ear, “I don’t think I can have anyone touch me.”

  Mom looked at me and patted my arm. She turned to the woman and bailed me out, saying, “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful, but I think we’re all set. What time would you like us in the dressing room?”

  I was ready to do this thing, but she told us the fashion show wasn’t going to begin for an hour and a half. Sensing that I was uneasy, Mom said, “Let’s go see what’s in the silent auction. Maybe we’ll bid on something?”

  We perused the items for the silent auction, wandering around among women dressed to the nines—some in classy pantsuits, others in floral dresses with coordinating hats, a few in sequined casino wear. It was almost impossible not to get caught up in the hubbub. The air filled with chatter and gaiety as the ladies hugged one another, catching up with old friends. Waiters clad in bow ties and tuxes popped up with silver trays, asking, “Pink punch? White wine or champagne?” Some poor volunteer tried to make an announcement over the loudspeaker, but her voice was totally lost in the hullabaloo. The lobby began to spin. Focus, Susan. Focus.

  Just before my thoughts began to race out of control, Mom winked at me and said quietly, “Look over there.”

  “Where?” I asked. “Which way?”

  Mom started pivoting on one foot, trying to look nonchalant. “Just a minute. Don’t look yet.”

  I didn’t know what I was about to see, but I was already amused by Mom’s silly antics. “What is it?” I asked, not daring to look around.

  Standing directly in front of me now, Mom said, “You’ll see! Look over my left shoulder. You can’t miss it.”

  There, in clear view, was Scarlett O’Hara herself. A woman standing near one of the silent-auction tables was wearing a gown and a hat that looked like they had come straight from the opening scene of Gone with the Wind.

  “Wow, that’s fancy all right!” I said. “I guess we missed the memo?”

  Trying not to laugh, Mom said, “I hope she bought two seats. Her hat is huge!”

  Thank goodness for that magnificent hat. It kindly provided my mom and me with a moment of entertainment that helped me keep my nerves in check. A few minutes later, Mom moved toward a wall and ran her finger down the seam of the wallpaper. “I couldn’t tell if this was paint or wallpaper,” she said. “What do you think of it?”

  “The paper or the color? I like wallpaper.”

  As Mom verbally redecorated the lobby, I felt at ease. We share this odd but wonderful ability to get lost in creative visions, reveling in colors, patterns, and designs. It’s a unique way for us to escape, and Mom was using it to distract me. Hanging on her every word as she transformed the space around us, I felt like we were the only two people in the room. Then I saw her glance at her watch, and my heart skipped a beat. “I think it’s time we head back,” she said.

  With each step we took down the hallway toward the stage, my apprehension grew. My heart began pounding again, my palms sweating. I tried to calm myself down: You can do this. But as soon as I saw the dressing room, I wasn’t so sure. Mom stopped at the doorway, like a proud mother dropping off her kindergartener for the first day of school, but I walked right past the door, so that she had to walk briskly to catch up to me.

  Something was throwing me off. It wasn’t nerves about walking down the runway or wearing a silly outfit—it was something else. I’d gotten good at moving through life as a patient, but that was over now. I didn’t know where I fit in anymore. Many of the women at the event were breast cancer survivors; I was a bit of an oddball having Hodgkin’s. The vast majority of them were also decades older than me. In many ways, my life was so different from theirs. I had never had a career, I wasn’t married, and I lived at my parents’ house, in my childhood bedroom. I didn’t even have a car. My life had not gone the way I planned. My claim to fame was that I had sat in a recliner, watched the clouds go by, been brought to the brink of death and back, and come out the other side, all before I turned twenty-three. Being at the fashion show made me notice this in a way I hadn’t before. And I felt broken.

  Being there, out in public, I felt like my fragile state was terribly exposed. As I had grown weaker, Mom had become stronger for me. She’d been my warrior, my shield, my advocate. I hadn’t realized how much I counted on her. We had done all of this together. But now, I was going to have to go out on that stage alone.

  I moved to the end of the hallway to find some privacy, trying to pull myself together and feeling frustrated that I was cracking in public. Calmly, Mom came up behind me and asked, “What is it, honey?”

  My heart sank. This was supposed to be Mom’s day. I didn’t want her to think I was mad at her for bringing me here. I knew I could do this. It all just seemed to be happening so fast. One minute I had been an ordinary college student, the next I was undergoing treatment for cancer, and now I was at an over-the-top gala about to step onto a runway. First a girl, then a sick girl, now a survivor?

  I closed my eyes for a second, trying to block out my overwhelming feelings. I turned to Mom but couldn’t look her in the eye, knowing that if I did, the tears would start flowing and probably not stop. “Do any of these people know why they’re here?” I asked. I paused to gather my thoughts, then continued in a flurry. “There are patients right now, right this minute, who are horribly sic
k.”

  “Honey, I know,” Mom said. “You’re right—there are. You have every right to be upset. I know this looks like one big party, but they’re trying to help.”

  She was right, of course. But it was hard to see past the fancy decorations and expensive clothes. All that was going through my head were pictures, images, faces of patients we’d met during my treatment. I was aching for all those people, and for the first time, I really understood that I had been one of those people… But I wasn’t anymore. For months, I’d been harboring this feeling of survivor’s guilt, and it was magnified that day. I asked myself, Why me? Not, Why did I get cancer? But, Why did I survive? Some of my chemo and radiation buddies weren’t going to make it. But, for some reason, I had. Aunt Sue had died, and twenty-seven years later, I had lived. Not a day went by that I didn’t think about that.

  Trembling from emotional overload, I said, “This isn’t easy.”

  Mom grasped my hand tightly and simply said, “I know.”

  Finally, I was able to say the words that had been swirling around inside me. “Mom, I will never be the same.” That’s what was nagging at me, making me feel uncomfortable and nervous. I finally had to admit my cancer had changed me forever.

  Before Mom could say anything else, a volunteer made her way over to us. Flinging her arms around me, she said, “Oh dear! Are you nervous? You’ll be a great model.” Still squeezing me, she looked at Mom, adding, “We’re going to take good care of her. Feel free to go ahead and take your seat.” Talk about bad timing.

  My tears stopped as I tried to pull away from her awkward side-armpit embrace. With a coolness and poise I knew only came from masking her own fears, Mom said pointedly, “Susan’s fine. We’re okay. I’m not ready to go to my seat quite yet, but thank you.” I think the volunteer got the hint, because she backed away.