The MRI nurse introduces herself as Kelly and leads me back into the office. Nurse Kelly’s ruddy skin looks like it fries the second she steps into the sun. I wonder if she ever worries about skin cancer, if every time she doesn’t bother to reapply sunscreen she feels like she’s jumping off a cliff. Suddenly it strikes me that lots of people are walking around with genetic risk factors of various kinds. Maybe I’m lucky that mine is something I can actually do something about.
She hands me a gown and a key on one of those scrunchy wristbands. “You’ll need to remove everything except for your underwear, and make sure that nothing you’re wearing has any metal in it, including any piercings. The gown opens to the front. Place your clothes in the locker and secure it.”
The dressing room holds a bench and a full-length mirror. I slip off my stretchy T-shirt, unhook my bra, and slide out of my shorts. I examine myself for a moment. I stand as I did the other day in the bathroom, the day I found the lump. Weird how I can be an observer of myself, totally bare, without criticism or pride. This is just me.
I turn my back to the mirror and then twist my neck. I observe the dimple above my butt, the way my spine pokes through my back, the slight redness from where my bra pressed against my skin. I square off in front of the mirror again, pulling my hair back into a low ponytail. My breasts, round and full, not yet pulled downward by gravity or aging. Whether or not Saff would agree, they meet every standard of attractiveness I can think of.
But these things may kill me. They’re parasites embedded in my skin. They may hijack my body and consume me. I don’t care how attractive they are. In a weird, dissociative way, I want them off my body. I don’t think I’ll ever look at them in the same way again.
Once I’m gowned, Nurse Kelly takes charge of me again. We pass a technician station where a tech is typing. I hold onto the fabric of my gown so that I won’t accidentally flash him. He offers to hold the locker key for me before we head into the scanning room.
It’s freezing in here. Nurse Kelly has me lie down on a flat surface, directly in front of an enormous tube.
“I’m going in that?”
“Mostly. About two thirds of the way in, just to get you far enough to examine your breasts. First we’ll set up an IV for me to administer contrast. That’s a dye that will course through your blood stream and allow us to get better images. Let’s get that IV started now, and then I’ll help you set up.”
Seeing as how people get mostly naked to climb into these machines, one would think the room would be less frosty. I’ll have icicles forming on my nose before I know it.
Nurse Kelly pricks me twice. She says the vein on my left arm rolls, whatever that means—I think it’s just her excuse for stabbing me repeatedly. Maybe she has bad aim. So she moves to the vein on the right. I can’t look, but I feel the needle enter, and it must be right this time, because she tapes it there. “We’ll start the contrast in a bit. It might feel cold as it enters.”
I just nod, focusing all my energy on keeping my teeth from chattering.
“All right. I’m going to have you lie face down here.” Nurse Kelly gestures to a flat cot that has two holes. “I’ll help you place each breast through an opening.”
“Seriously?” So this MRI will be done on my stomach, with my breasts hanging through two holes. A joke would work well right now, but for the life of me, I can’t come up with one.
“Yep. This is how it’s done.” Nurse Kelly offers me a small smile. “It won’t be too bad. But here’s the trick: you have to be entirely still while this MRI is taking place. If you change position, or really move at all, it’ll take much longer.”
“How long will it take?”
“About a half hour, if we’re lucky.”
“I can’t move for a half hour?”
“Nope.” Again, the small smile. Apologetic but uncompromising.
I give up questioning her. Everything I ask just makes me feel worse. Nurse Kelly maneuvers my breasts into these holes. Her hands are so cold she may have had them shipped from Antarctica. Next she helps me adjust a face cushion and covers my ears with noise-blocking headphones. “It’ll be loud,” she warns me. “Just try to relax.”
She steps away. Then the platform moves backward, slowly, sliding me into the tube. Shifting, repositioning. The clicking and beating noises start, deafeningly loud. Thank god I have headphones. I focus on trying to find the pattern in the noises, and just when I think I have it, the constellation changes. I slide in farther, and suddenly I feel trapped. In a tube, strapped to an IV, unable to move for fear of screwing the whole thing up.
A voice comes in through speakers. “Okay, Cayenne, we’ll be administering the contrast at this time. You might feel a slight cold sensation.” Almost immediately, I do. My heartbeat triples, banging around in my chest, keeping time with the battering sounds of the machine. Sweat gathers along the cushion. The urge to readjust myself, to pull out the IV, nearly overwhelms me, because I know I can’t. I suck in a breath, trying to catch enough air, and force myself to think of something else.
Perhaps because of the anxious adrenaline surging through my veins, I picture my last jump with Axel. Hanging in midair, hand in hand with Axel at first, falling fast but in a frozen moment of time, losing my grasp on him, my heart surging. Crashing into Axel’s body, plunging deep into the water, and then losing him.
I shake, everything shakes, and it’s not from the machine. The physiological memory of those moments takes over, and I feel like I’m back there.
“Don’t forget to hold still in there,” the otherworldly voice says. “You’re shifting just slightly. Try to relax. It’ll go faster.”
How long will this take?
I grasp for a more relaxing image, and the day at the beach with Micah surfaces. The crashing waves, the salt in the air, the gentle breeze that ruffles my hair, the feeling of not being alone. I visualize the rhythm of the waves as they break and force my breaths to slow in time with them.
The surging of adrenaline dissipates.
When it’s over, Nurse Kelly slides the needle out of my arm, and Band-Aids a cotton ball against my skin. “Not bad.” She pats me. “You’ll get used to it.”
I guess I’ll have to.
✱✱✱
I’m actually starting to look forward to writing my journal entries. Everyone’s asleep, and I can use those quiet moments to sift through my scattered thoughts.
What’s in a life —Cayenne
I get it. I get that it can happen to me.
But how do I ride the middle on this? I know it can happen, and I know that I have to take precautions, but I don’t want to be paralyzed by fear that it WILL happen.
Because what kind of life is that?
I don’t want to miss out on the Minions’ lives. I want to be here for every school play and science fair. I don’t want to leave them the way Mom left me.
I don’t want to have regrets. No regrets that I didn’t do more to take care of this. But also no regrets that I did it too soon. That I limited my options in my life.
I’m not sure if this information is a curse or a blessing.
✱✱✱
The biopsy results come back negative. Benign cyst.
But it’s strange. I’m not as relieved as I thought I’d be. So . . . I dodged the bullet this time. What about the next one? I’m starting to understand why Tee did the preventative surgeries. She was tired of waiting around for bad news. I have a follow-up appointment with the specialist next month, and I’m compiling a list of questions.
In spite of my huffiness with Tee during our last heart-to-heart, now I kind of do want advice. So I offer to treat her to a chai latte. We sit with our hands wrapped around steaming mugs in the dark corner of a coffee shop.
“Have you ever felt like, no matter what you do, no matter how many precautions and preventative measures you take . . . you might still get cancer and it will all have been a waste?”
Tee nods slowly. “Sure. But ho
nestly, Cay, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. I could die in an earthquake. You know what I mean? Life and death can be completely random. So all I can do is try to give myself the best odds possible, based on what I know and what I’m able to control. That’s all any of us can expect of ourselves.”
“I think I need someone to tell me what to do,” I admit.
“Oh, Cayenne.” Tee places her hand on mine. Her skin has been warmed up by the tea mug, and it feels nice. “Usually, I’d say that’s music to my ears. Do you know how many times I wished you’d come to me? And at least be open to my advice or feedback? But in this particular situation, I can’t tell you what to do, or when to do it. I can only offer my own experience.”
I deflate. I really just want her to make an executive decision for me. Parents are supposed to be good at that. I think I know what I have to do, but I still have to figure out when. How long I wait. Should I have an MRI every year and set a reminder in my phone for when I’m thirty? Do I dare wait that long? I hate the question marks of life.
Tee squeezes my hand. “That’s why I want you to come with me to a BRCA support group. There’s such a range of risk management options. The women and men in this group have so many different perspectives. No one will tell you what to do. But after hearing all their views, I think you’ll have a better sense of your own.”
The idea of sitting in a support group circle talking earnestly about my cancer-related feelings makes me gag. I push away my chai, but leave my other hand in hers.
Tee must see the emotion in my face. “Here’s what I can tell you. That we can never be sure we’re making the right decision or choosing the right timing for something like this. All we can expect of ourselves is to do our best with the knowledge and tools we’re given. And then we have to let go of judging or second guessing ourselves. We have to make a decision and then find peace in it.”
Now that she’s given me an opening, I have to ask. “Are you at peace with your decision?”
“I am,” Tee responds quickly. “Now. If you’d asked me right after surgery, I might have had a different answer.” She simultaneously laughs and grimaces at the memory. “Sure, it hurt, and it takes time to heal, but this decision has brought me incredible peace of mind. I’m not sure I realized how heavily the fear of cancer weighed on me. For me, preventative surgery was so worth it. But clearly, my age and life situation are way different from yours. I can’t tell you what to do or predict how you’ll feel about it.”
I let out a long sigh that’s meant to be dramatic but actually gets a little shaky. “I guess I could go to one support group even though I’ll hate every second of it.”
Tee gives an approving grunt. “Coming from you, I’d say that’s enthusiasm. Saff and I will go too. We’re all in the same club—even if she doesn’t have the gene, she still has the family history. We’re in this together.” She extricates her hand from mine and pumps her fist in the air as she adds, “Silk family strong.”
“Corny.” I swat at her, but I’m smiling.
Chapter 40
On graduation day, in the midst of flying mortarboard hats, all I can think about is Mom. I miss her in a way I haven’t before. I wish she was here.
Still . . . Dad is in the audience, along with Saff and the Chowders. The school has limited seating, so Tee and Luke volunteered to stay home and let my grandparents come. Luke gave me a crushing hug today, something he hasn’t done in a long time. Typically, I’m not a big fan of crushing hugs, but this time it felt nice.
My classmates are jumping around, like graduating high school is this major accomplishment. Or maybe they’re all just looking forward to post-event parties. I try to get pulled into their excitement.
I’m saving my graduation hat for the Minions. For their preschool graduation last week, they made adorable caps out of cardboard, and now they’re obsessed with them. It’s funny how much I relish each of their milestones. It’s almost as if I experience those moments for myself and for Mom, as compensation for all my milestones she missed. My new phone screensaver is of the Minions, wearing their cardboard caps, with their arms slung around each other.
Tee, Luke, and the twins join us for a celebratory dinner that the Chowders insist on buying.
“I hear you’re dating Alicia Johnson’s son,” says Nonna before we’ve even ordered our food.
“You hear correctly,” I say with a smile. Micah and I are now an official item. But we’re both a little scared of ruining a lifelong friendship, so we’re taking it snail-pace slow. I actually love taking it slow with him. Each step feels new and fresh and worth waiting for. I can only compare it to being super hungry and then getting a favorite candy bar. I can either cram it into my mouth and barely taste it, or I can nibble it down and savor every bite. Micah is the savoring kind. And he makes me feel like I’m worth savoring too. There isn’t the lusty intensity I felt with Axel, but I don’t really miss that. And I definitely don’t miss agonizing over whether I should escalate things to please someone else when I know I’m not ready. To be honest, I feel like I’m at my best with Micah. Like I have multiple selves and he brings out the self I’m proud of.
“He’s always seemed like such a fine young man,” says Nonna.
“He’s an upgrade for Cayenne, for sure,” Saff chimes in. I roll my eyes, but thankfully the conversation moves on without any further allusions to Axel. Our relationship has had zero closure, except for him placing a cardboard box of my random possessions on my doorstep. All things I’ve left at his place or in his car over the last year.
As I’m stuffing my face with onion rings, Dad leans over and says, “So I’ve been thinking . . . the summer term at Coast starts in three weeks, right? And they let you apply online?”
“Yeah. I was going to work on my application tomorrow, actually.” I’ve decided to get my Gen Ed requirements out of the way at community college and then try to transfer to Cal in two years. Micah promises he’ll at least try to make friends before I get there.
He nods. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“No way!”
With a sheepish shrug, he explains that he’d like to get his associate’s degree and veterinary tech certification, so that he can work as an assistant in a vet’s office. He’s enjoying the pet care component of his housesitting business, and being a vet tech would have insurance, benefits, and consistent pay. With that kind of job he might finally be able to move into his own apartment.
“That’s awesome, Dad,” I say. It’s weird—I’ve stopped thinking of him as Ryan/Dad. Now he’s just Dad. “Wanna be application buddies tomorrow afternoon?”
I haven’t seen my father smile very often, but I love the way it softens his face. “Thought you’d never ask.”
✱✱✱
“Why is this so complicated?” Dad grumbles, hunching next to me at the Chowders’ computer.
“Maybe they figure if you can’t complete the application, they don’t want you in their school.” The application process really isn’t that hard, just time-consuming. I can’t believe I might be attending the same school as my dad.
“I need a break. Want a snack?” Dad suggests.
“Sure. Something salty.” He heads to the kitchen while I browse through my social media accounts. I roll through different posts, enjoying the distraction, until something snags my attention.
Axel has posted: “Today! The biggest rush of my life. It will top EVERYTHING.”
The next big jump. Pinnacle Peak. The one we were building toward this whole time. And although I was supposed to be right there by his side, now the thought of it makes me physically ill.
It’s not my business. But no matter how hard I try, I just can’t shake this feeling of obligation that I should help him. Or try to help him. Try to stop him. What if he hurts himself or even dies . . . and I’m the only one who knew he was planning to do this? The only one who could’ve talked him out of it?
I message him. Please don’t jump.
Hi
s reply is prompt. What do you care? Don’t you have a new boyfriend already?
I don’t want you to hurt yourself.
You’re a hypocrite. We’ve been doing this together.
I know. I regret it. Please listen to me now. It’s not worth it.
None of your business, Cayenne. Go complain to your boyfriend.
I must be groaning, because when Dad comes in with a bowl of pretzels, he asks, “What’s wrong?”
I tell him. That I can’t shake this feeling of responsibility. That I can’t bear knowing Axel’s out there doing something dangerous, and all by himself. It’s not like he has parents or siblings or even responsible friends who watch out for him. His roommate is practically a non-entity, and Axel wouldn’t listen to him anyway. There’s nobody I can go to for backup.
It’s strange—never in my life would I have thought I’d be asking Ryan-the-Reject for advice. But there’s something comforting about his checkered past. He knows the impact of things going bad. He understands regret. And he won’t pass judgment on me for the mistakes that led me to this moment, the choices that put me in this position.
“Go with your gut, Cayenne.” For once, Dad doesn’t hesitate. He slips right into the fatherly advice role like it fits him. “You gotta think ahead. You have no control over what he does, but you gotta be at peace with your part of it. If you think you need to go stop him, then you should. Because no matter what happens, you have to find peace within your own choices.”
✱✱✱
An hour later, five of us are winding along the road near the Bluffs. Micah, Saff, Fletcher, Dad and me. “Thanks for the moral support,” I tell them, not sure if my nausea is from the twisty path, the crowded car, or intrusive mental images of Axel splattered along the rocks. I hope we get there in time.
“I think what you need is physical support.” Saff sits to my right in the back seat. “Your ankle can’t be ready for a hike just yet.”
“I don’t have to climb up, we’ll just park and walk in on ground level by the water.” My ankle doesn’t hurt anymore, and the walking cast has been off for a while, but I’ve lost a ton of strength and mobility. I lean forward to direct Dad toward the best parking area.
How to Live on the Edge Page 23