A Kick-Ass Fairy: A Memoir

by Linda Zercoe

  Hopefully, the mystery of my misery will be solved. I am hoping to see an improvement in my energy, my sense of well-being, my libido, my mood, my irritability, etc., etc. All this is to come from one half of a pill! Things are now pretty calm with Doug. It is amazing when we go out and spend the time—we have fun and get along fairly well. We went dancing this weekend and out for dinner.

  I’m pretty busy with Brad’s activities as a field trip mom, religion class assistant, den mother, and working in the classroom. Kim found out yesterday that she got the part in the show Little Shop of Horrors produced by a local musical theatre company. We are all so excited. However, it appears she has broken up with her boyfriend (good!). Yet she is grieving.

  It really feels like fall. I love fall. It rained this weekend. I still miss the East Coast colors.

  October 18

  We started planning the college fairs and trips with Kim. She thinks she would like to go to college for some sort of performing arts. Brad started guitar lessons and is playing club soccer. He is also taking a class at the Lawrence Hall of Science in Berkeley once a week. I’m now also involved in coaching Brad and some of his classmates for Destination Imagination, which is a worldwide competition later this year.

  I don’t know how people with four children do it. I feel like a logistics planner with a master schedule. Who has time to make dinner or rest? How did I ever work? Doug escapes to fish in the lakes and reservoirs of Northern California every chance he gets. I guess my R&R is a bikini wax. I don’t know why I’m whining when I sign my own self up for these things.

  November 11

  Last Saturday I found another lump. Upon further checking, I found a second one, one on each side. Needless to say, I have the well-honed vacillation between hysteria and “It’s nothing” syndrome.

  First thing Monday, I called my surgeon and scheduled an appointment. The best I could get was Nov. 17, eight days later. No such thing as frequent shopper benefits with this crowd!

  The bigger lump, the one on my left side, is near my sternum between two ribs. It seems to roll a little, so I thought, well, maybe it is a gland or fat. But when I went to see my plastic surgeon on Monday afternoon, he told me that you don’t typically get lymph nodes in that spot. He seemed gravely concerned, and that really frightened me. I was seeing him to discuss the final procedure of my reconstruction, the nipple construction and the tattooing of both sides. Now, we are on hold to see first what we are dealing with.

  We are into Kim’s college application process. She is anxious, hostile, and nasty—stress in a teen. She is rehearsing for her show Little Shop of Horrors scheduled to open Nov. 21. Brad varies between whining and hostility. Why are my children this way? Is this how I communicate? Do I resent having them? Do I not meet their needs? This behavior, I can tell you, is a real pain in the batoongies.

  Today was Veteran’s Day, so my lovely darlings were home from school. As den leader, I took Brad and 7 other boys (with 3 other moms to help) to the local paper to see how a newspaper is made. It was an interesting tour. Then we went to Burger King (I’m on liquids today). All this fun only for my son to say, “So, I don’t see what the big deal is. It was boring.”

  I gave up my career for this?

  I am managing to hang together for one reason—Gene, my new obsession. Gene is a ’50s era fashion/glamour doll. A few months earlier I was in town to buy someone a gift at a gift shop and my love affair with a doll began. As I was browsing, my head snapped to the right, and there in the lighted shelves stood Gene—not just one but many Gene dolls, all of them different.

  In her backstory, “Kathryn Gene Marshall” was born in 1923 in Cos Cob, Connecticut. At 17 she became a model for the Chambers Model Agency. As in every Hollywood fairy tale, she was discovered and quickly became a star of stage and screen. Her career spanned the decades of the 1940s and 1950s.

  A version of the doll came with an outfit for every screen role, premier, glamorous party—and of course attire for every aspect of her personal life.

  Some dolls came with different hair styles to go with their costumes; there were different colors and different unique costumes. All the dolls and costumes were limited editions. Each came with a booklet containing a detailed description of the attire down to the fabric and style along with the backstory of the outfit and Marshall’s role when she wore it.

  The clothing was magnificent, the fabrics glorious, the accessories detailed down to the size of a bead. I began collecting. It was hard not to want everything. I signed up for presales, requested the lowest numbers in the limited edition certifications. I snuck them home, delighted and feeling wicked at the same time.

  Slowly Gene started showing up around my house dressed in different outfits. She was in the living room, the bedroom, the foyer, the dining room. As the months went by, each room acquired multiple Genes, and I started to arrange them in scenes by theme—the Mexican Hacienda, Wild West, Classical Quartet Concert—complete with props and backdrops. Each month every scene would change, as would their outfits, sometimes related to the holidays that month. It could take days to make the monthly change, hunting, gathering, designing, creating this world of fantasy.

  This doll invasion did not escape my husband. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Playing?”

  The remainder of the year included, along with the normal holiday festivities, the scare of a triple-elevated cancer antigen, another abnormal Pap smear, the findings of a new fibroid, and an infected supraclavicular incision caused by the dissolvable sutures that had not dissolved after a recent hasty surgery to remove the lumps I had found. The lumps had turned out to be “normal” lymph nodes. To say that I was getting sick and tired of all of this would be an understatement. I was running low on hope. The future loomed bleak—time-bomb ovaries, problematic cervix, lumps growing here, there, and everywhere. I was getting more and more ready to get out that machete to clear out the underbrush to protect the forest.

  The new year started off with us hosting a small New Year’s Eve party—an appetizer and dessert buffet, dancing, and of course music, including that of the artist Prince to herald in 1999. Kim had follow-up voice auditions for the colleges she applied for. Not only did Kim pick the top six colleges with a musical theater major, including New York University, Oberlin, University of Michigan, and Indiana, but also she refused to apply to any schools that were not considered “most selective.” She needed to compete on grades, test scores, essays, and the audition as well. It was certainly an interesting process, similar to the reality show American Idol today—except that you don’t receive any feedback until you are accepted or rejected.

  In January I had a follow-up appointment with my gynecologist. After having been evaluated for genetic risk but still procrastinating on having the actual test, and having two grandmothers with ovarian cancer, my own funky fibroids, cystic ovaries, and weird Pap tests, I decided that the best thing to improve my chances of survival was to have it all removed. I rationalized that if I had a hysterectomy, I wouldn’t feel like the specter of death was looming over me all the time. I just wanted to get this whole cancer trip behind me and start to live again. Drastic times called for drastic measures.

  One morning, I made three phone calls. I scheduled surgery for a total hysterectomy including ovary removal for early March just as I would have made an appointment for a major service for the car, the expensive but unavoidable one. Then I called my parents to ask them to come to California to help with the kids. When they said yes, I phoned the airline and bought their tickets.

  February 5, 1999

  Well, I’m back in counseling. I guess that makes it the fifth start for individual (second for marriage), and that doesn’t include the Wellness Community. What’s interesting is that the therapy is not about cancer, grief, or work. All that does come up—but not as much as our relationship. Maybe the marriage is the scapegoat. I’m sticking with it this time to get to the bottom of this sit
uation once and for all. I hope to have major growth—for a change.

  My parents told me today they don’t want to get in the middle of anything. They don’t want to come next month for the surgery if we’re fighting; it stresses them out. I told them I guarantee nothing. I told my mother I will not be discussing this with her nor do I want her advice. She will have to trust that I am intelligent and have good judgment and that I know what is best for me. Besides my mother’s historic reasons for staying in this marriage were verbally abusive too, focusing on my flaws. Maybe that explains why I’ve put up with it for too long! Mom says:

  “You’re too sensitive.”

  “You blow everything out of proportion.”

  “You always need something to complain about.”

  “You’re never happy.”

  “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  And the best one yet: “What are you complaining about? He’s a professional, makes a good living, you do nice things, he doesn’t sleep around, he doesn’t drink or beat you—you should be happy.”

  Should I? Of course, I’m the failure because I’m not.

  February 10

  I feel a little hope. I found a note with a list of the things Doug is going to do to improve the situation:

  1. Read one book (self-help) every 45 days

  2. I will be kinder and gentler and stay in tune to my wife

  3. Spend 2–3 hours per week doing an activity that gives my wife pleasure

  February 22

  Things seem a little calmer right now. But I’m still depressed. My upcoming surgery is depressing. I feel sure it’s the right thing to do, but I don’t like it. I’m tired, very tired, and weary. Most of all I dread the recovery and the fact that it means that I’ll feel lousy physically, emotionally weary, and still have to juggle. I almost wish I could stay in the hospital for a couple of weeks, not have to deal with the whining, yelling, and the lack of engagement, interruptions.

  I need space, quiet and time—lots of it. I never come close to getting anywhere near what I need to process all of this. I have a fantasy of being in a white bedroom with white linens, no decorations. There is a large multipaned window with a chair for gazing outside. I sit in the chair to view the rain on the lush green lawn. I stay in that room, am fed meals, get clean linens, no visitors are allowed. There is time—just time to think, time to cry, and time to heal. I think it might be at an insane asylum.

  February 26

  Well, it’s official. I’ve been diagnosed as depressed, not clinically depressed but depression caused by “exogenous” forces. I believe much of what I feel is hormonal. Since when don’t I have the capacity to stand up and take on the challenges life brings my way? I started back on Wellbutrin. I’ve come full circle on the hysterectomy. I think I’ve been suffering from this hyster-thing in hysterectomy—namely hysteria. Doug was surprisingly supportive last night. I wonder what will happen. Will we look back and say God that was an awful time but look how much we have grown. I hope I live that long. I am going to do this. Breast cancer was the warning. What if I already have ovarian cancer? One day at a time.

  A letter came from Indiana U.—doesn’t look good from the size of it. Poor Kim. (Where is she anyway? She should be home.)

  The counselor says my Gene doll thing is very good for my peace of mind—a healthy escape. Yes, I know—a fantasy.

  March 1

  I feel a bit better. I would love to know, is it my cycle, increasing my hormones, starting on Wellbutrin? I even feel pretty good mentally considering that I’ve been up since 3:30 a.m.

  I think a big reason is that we had a relatively quiet weekend. Warriors game Friday, U.S.S. Hornet with Den 10 on Saturday, party Saturday night, errands, church, quiet Sunday—even though Doug griped, slammed, complained, and almost killed a cyclist rather than wait for him to be out of harm’s way.

  I noticed Doug has quite a temper and can get downright ugly at times—no patience. I feel good that I did not get sucked into his problem.

  March 4

  I have this eerie sense of calm about the upcoming surgery, although I’m not too fond of the surgeon. He has too big an ego and is another one that doesn’t listen. I have been saying the Rosary, especially focused on the mysteries. I am particularly attracted to the sorrowful mysteries, which focus on the passion (agony in the garden, scourging at the pillar, crowning with thorns, carrying the cross and the crucifixion). It helps me to have perspective. Also I was happy to receive anointing of the sick and reconciliation on Tuesday. It helps. I have to remember to stay focused on what is important.

  I pray that Doug does not make my recovery harder than it has to be, that he has empathy for my pain and that I don’t have ovarian cancer. God, I really want a break. I’m afraid. Poor grandmas.

  March 8

  We are home. It is over. No news is good news. The doctor says everything looked OK. He will call with the lab results. What’s taking so long? Things have been relatively quiet. Doug has been pretty good. I would define it as quiet strength, I guess. He hasn’t had a whole lot to say, and I certainly don’t feel connected, but at least it has not been brutal.

  My tummy is swollen and red. I seem to have feeling below, which Doug did ask me about today. I chuckled inside. I have enough gas to power a thousand ships.

  March 10

  I am sad. I feel loss. A part of me is gone. Gone is what gave rise to and housed my growing babies. All of a sudden I feel old, no longer a young woman but a mature one. Kim is going to be 18 in just a few days. I remember when I was pregnant with her. That person is still in my head. When will I feel connected? Maybe this is being connected. Maybe this is all there is.

  We found out yesterday that there were no signs of ovarian cancer. I don’t understand why I had this symplastic fibroid again. Why do I keep producing them? He said the pathology of my cervix was dysplasia. What a mess. How did I become such a mess? I need to slow down my life and enjoy more. Start looking away from trouble.

  I’m still very sore but it’s getting better and the swelling is getting smaller. I haven’t had any drastic hormonal upheaval yet. I do have pronounced hot waves though. It’s kind of like a feverish furnace and then it subsides. I feel mellow to melancholy. If this is as bad as it gets, then I think I’ll be OK.

  March 14

  Even though I was sore, I dragged the family, even Mom and Dad, to the Del Valle Dog Show in Pleasanton to see the papillons. After a papillon named Kirby won the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show and after doing research, I’ve decided that this is the type of dog I want. Of course when I told Doug, he said to get a “real” dog. But this dog will be for me. At the show I started talking with breeders about how to obtain a puppy. It sounds harder than adopting a baby. There are waiting lists. They won’t release females, or males for that matter, until they are big enough to decide whether the dog will be pet or show quality. Everyone in the family, except maybe Brad, thinks I’m crazy to want a dog. I don’t care what they think.

  For a few hours it was nice to escape into another world even if I felt like I was dragging around balls and chains. I think finding a puppy will be a fun long-term project.

  March 16

  I went through a few days last week with horrific hot flashes. I felt like if this was to continue in frequency, I’d hurl myself off the Golden Gate Bridge. We’re talking a furnace—gasoline poured on me and lit on fire, drenched, no escape. I upped my Estratest HS to an additional half pill. That seemed to do the trick.

  I’m still not sleeping even after taking Ambien (a sleeping pill) last night. My parents arrived last Friday night. I’m trying really hard not to be too cranky. I’m really trying hard to be accepting and ignore their little foibles. When the going gets tough, I go to my room (frequently).

  I am enjoying some of the time being with my parents. I know they really love me, but I realize they are getting old. My dad has been very sweet and helpful. He likes to have projects. Mom is helping, but
she has horrible rheumatoid arthritis pain now and complains about it all the time. I feel guilty.

  Kim turned 18. Wow. She is an adult now, her own person. We still have no news on colleges. It’s in God’s hands.

  March 17

  I discussed with my parents and Doug at dinner that I’d like to write a book. It’s amazing how consistently I am pooh-poohed. Well, once again, so much for having any expectation of support. They all agreed—why would anyone want to hear about my miserable problems, citing that everyone has problems. I’ll call it The Breast Cancer Chronicles. I’m starting next week, an hour or two a day. If nothing else it will be a history for my children. I’m really excited about going to the Breast Cancer Conference in May. I will be getting more involved.

  March 18

  How ironic that I had this surgery to save my life and now I just wish I was dead. I’m sick that I don’t have the courage to just blow my brains out. All I can think about the last two days is how I wish I was dead and all of the different ways to kill myself. I hate myself for having no guts.

  March 22

  Well, this horrible depression is decidedly my hormones or lack thereof. Fortunately or unfortunately—depends on the moment—I’m still here. I’ve never been so depressed. I’m so irritable, lashing out at everyone. I’m alienating my whole family.

  Mom and Dad left yesterday, and I feel guilty about their visit—and of course Doug has all these negative comments about my feelings and behaviors that just make me feel worse. Thank God for Clara. She came over last week and rescued me from myself. For three days she sat with me locked up in my room. She helped me to feel like my mental state wasn’t just the hormones but also dealing with having my parents here and them ignoring that anything was wrong. I couldn’t even be near them without feeling I would be mean, biting their heads off or saying something nasty. They are too old and needy themselves. They tried, but this was an extremely difficult situation.