“That narcissist.” Charles shook his head when he spoke of the doctor. I had to agree—but Charles also had a way of giving everyone a diagnosis, as well as little self-awareness when he made accusations about others. These characteristics in Charles, which I saw only subliminally at the time, would become impossible to ignore as our life went on.
Now my mother was having headaches and nausea, and at times she wasn’t sure where she was. Lying in a bed in New York Hospital, awaiting a final diagnosis, she whispered to me, “I don’t know why they’re all wearing white; I can’t tell who the bride is.” The rare lung cancer that she had had metastasized to her brain and throughout her body. My mother was gone, her words and smiles hidden behind an impenetrable mask. I so wanted to tear through it, but, even if I had been able to, she really was lost to me.
Charles still wanted them to move to Maryland, but my mother would not even consider it now. She was dying. She did not want to leave her home. She did not want to leave New York. My father would have loved to come, but he knew that was not what my mother wanted.
When I first got together with Charles, a colleague said to my friend Allyson upon hearing that we were dating, “He is so controlling.” It was only later, when the blinders had been ripped off, that Allyson told me about this comment. For years, I needed to see it and not see it at the same time. I think it was then, though, for the first time in our relationship, that Charles and I started to argue, to fight. He became so insistent about my parents’ moving that he would badger me about it all the time, until I would scream, “Stop it! You can’t make someone do what they don’t want to do.” He had a hard time letting it go. Although the fights were only occasional at first and there were still good times mixed in, Charles always had to be right. He knew the truth, and he couldn’t stop harping on it, no matter what the issue.
“You’d get your reports written much more quickly if you dictated them,” he’d say.
“I know, but it doesn’t work for me. I need to see and feel what I’m writing; it’s just the way I process information and organize my thoughts. Thanks for the suggestion, though; I guess I could try it again.” Sometimes I might, sometimes not. But he wouldn’t give up on even something so simple; he would belabor the same points over and over again. I’d leave the room; he’d follow. Over time, it got worse and worse.
Charles had great ideas about what to do with the kids, but he did less and less with them. That was confusing because he acted as if he were involved, which in some way left me believing he was involved, too. Looking back, I know he was involved only from his armchair.
“I’m going to do art with Elli,” he would say. He did nothing. She and I built a dollhouse, including the furniture. He was an architect, but he didn’t do anything. He would go to Sam and Elli’s games, soccer and softball, and be terribly critical of the coaches, but never did he offer to coach or even practice with the kids, who were both very good athletes.
THE plans for our house addition continued, and our excitement about it grew. Then the neighbors from the development started harassing us, believing that we were running a psychiatric clinic on our property. We were not, and were completely within code to have a medical office as part of our home. The developer wanted our property because one of his lots was landlocked and accessible only through our land. He began stirring up trouble so that we would sell.
Then the numbers for the renovation came in. The cost was astronomical.
Charles was furious with the architect when he saw the budget. “We can’t afford this. How could Les have gotten us into this mess?”
“Charles, it’s not really Les’s fault. We kept adding things on and making it grander and grander. We can cut it back. I’m disappointed, too, but we don’t have to do all this.”
“We sure are going to take our time paying him.”
Charles never took any responsibility for things not going right. I was seeing that more and more.
“Charles, we can cut back on the project,” I kept repeating, to no avail. But Charles was now furious not only about the development but also about the architect and the entire project.
After a lot of discussion, we decided to look around and see what houses were available, though we were disappointed about the prospect of giving up on the fantasy of our dream house and we knew that finding something to match it would be difficult.
Tim, our realtor, and I started looking at houses, and as we drove through the valley, in an area much closer to town, I saw a home on St. John’s Lane that I fell in love with. The winding road and huge trees made it feel very much like a country property. The house had been built in 1753 and expanded, and now it was a lovely five-bedroom home with four working fireplaces and random-width pine floors. It was close to the road, because in 1753 the road had been a wagon trail. The floors slanted slightly, and the ceilings in the original part of the house were low; it had the kind of old-world charm that was immediately comforting and warm. Charles liked the house, too, and, after some negotiating on the price and finding new office space, we moved to St. John’s Lane in July 1993.
That New Year’s Eve, we received a telephone call. My father had had a heart attack and was in the hospital. By this time, my mother was terminal; two of her cousins were staying with her. On New Year’s Day, I drove to New York, saw my father and his doctors, and then brought my mother back to Maryland. Charles was wonderful. He went up to New York and, with some relatives, took apart my parents’ home, made all of the arrangements, and a week later brought my father back to our house in Maryland.
The temperature was frigid and the ground icy when my mother died on February 12, 1994. Elli had just had her sixth birthday, and Sammy was two-and-a-half years old. After the funeral, I had the urge to call her up and tell her all about it—who was there, what they said—and giggle, as we always had.
PART TWO
August 1998–July 1999
Chapter Eleven
THE FLOCK OF BIRDS WAS HEADED SOUTH.
“Momma, look—that little one, he’s so far behind the others.”
I pulled onto the shoulder of the country road so we could watch the drama unfolding in the sky.
“He’s really trying to catch up, Momma. Is he going to be left behind?”
“I don’t think so, Sammy.”
“What if a hawk or a turkey vulture gets him?”
“His momma will make sure he’s safe.”
The sweet and subtle shifts in the August light always seduced me toward September’s softness. Always. Not memories, just sensations: the cool afternoon breeze, the clear blue sky tinged with just a bit of northern gray, sounds becoming a bit more muted. Only now, years later, comes the realization that the gentleness is followed by a pervasive sense of dread.
We sat quietly, looking up into the pale blue afternoon sky, watching the lone bird working hard to reach the flock a long distance ahead. We just sat there and listened to the silence. We felt the cool, wistful breeze coming through the windows.
“Momma, look—I think he’s catching up to them!”
“Wow, I think he is, too. He sure is fast. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Momma, that’s the kind of thing that makes me want to cry happy tears.”
“Me, too, Sammy. We should remember that little bird, okay?”
I was glad that Sam would have memories that brought happy tears. I hoped Elli would, too.
Chapter Twelve
I DIDN’T WANT TO BE MAKING THIS LONG DRIVE INTO WASHington. In truth, I wasn’t that worried about the hardened area I felt on my breast. Hadn’t I had a mammogram and ultrasound six months earlier; hadn’t I seen the best breast surgeon in Baltimore because I’d thought I felt something? No, she wasn’t concerned—nothing was there! However, I was semi-aware that, in what seemed like the previous day or two, my nipple had retracted. It was hard to keep it in the recesses of my mind, but I did—I always did. My façade of strength and invulnerability were second nature to me. I laughed to mys
elf as I reflected on how most people saw me as someone who could handle anything. Charles certainly thought that about me.
Dr. Sager was a big, bearish kind of man, with a full beard. He was intelligent and yet warm and willing to talk to me as an equal. It was nice to see him again. But I can’t forget the look on his face when he started to do the breast exam and saw the retracted nipple. As I looked into his eyes, I could tell that there was no doubt, no question in his mind. Any doubt I had vanished when he spoke.
“Diane, you need to have a mammogram today. We could do it here, but I’d rather you had it done where they have your previous films. I’ll call them and arrange for them to see you this afternoon.”
My head was spinning, not quite attached to my body. The nurse chatted idly when he left the room. I didn’t even notice that I had never taken my feet out of the cold metal stirrups at the end of the table.
“Diane, they can see you this afternoon, but they can’t find your films. . . . Do you have them at home?” Dr. Sager’s voice came through a crack in the door.
“Damn. I guess I must. I can pick them up on the way there.”
Once in my car, I called to let them know that I would be late and that I had to go home to get the films.
“Just get here by three,” the receptionist said, clearly wanting to be helpful. “Dr. Braken is leaving early today because of Yom Kippur.”
I said I was sure I could make it. After that, I called Charles. I have no memory of what he said, but I know he didn’t offer to cancel patients or to be there with me. I think I was too numb, or dumb, to notice or even to ask. As with everything, I could do it on my own.
I don’t remember the drive back to Baltimore. I must have been in a daze. I know I went home and got the films and got to the radiologist’s office before three. I was escorted immediately to the dressing area. I was given one of those damn official blue plastic-paper gowns. I hated that thing. They must have taken twenty to thirty films—contorted positions, pain. I had become expert at making myself oblivious to discomfort. After each set of films, they sent me back into the dressing room. At least there was a wide range of magazines to distract me. I never even thought to call Charles as I sat there; I suppose I already knew that, despite being a physician, he was not particularly supportive in medical situations.
Finally, Dr. Braken was ready to see me. I could tell when she walked in that she was shaken. We knew each other. She had done my first ultrasound when I was pregnant with Sammy, with the quads. Moreover, I knew she identified with me. We were about the same age; Elli and her son were in the same fifth-grade class; Sammy was in the same first-grade class with her younger son; we belonged to the same synagogue.
“Diane, I want to do a needle biopsy. We don’t have to do it today, but since you’re here and it won’t take long, I think it’s best done now.”
It was an offer I could not refuse, as much as I wished to. The procedure was short, and Dr. Braken made casual conversation.
“You know, Diane, breast reconstruction is really great nowadays.”
Upon hearing those words, I knew it was bad.
She quickly caught herself and added, “Let’s not put the cart before the horse.”
But we both knew.
“It’s Tuesday, and I expect to have the results on Thursday morning,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as they come in.”
By the time I left her office, it was close to four-thirty. The sky was streaked with pink; the streets already had the hush that falls as a holiday approaches. Within me, hollowness resonated in that quiet silence, a cavernous sense of emptiness and aloneness.
On the way to pick up Elli and Sam, I called my analyst, Dr. Putman. Up until then, I had been pretty stoic, but as soon as I heard her voice, the gentle presence of it, the floodgates opened and I could no longer hold back my sobs. When I could finally catch my breath, I gasped, “If it turns out positive, and I know it will, if you tell me you think psychoanalysis will be too intense for me, it will be a death sentence for sure.”
We chatted for a few minutes more and then hung up. I blew my nose, fixed my makeup, and, feeling sufficiently composed, started up the long stone stairs and entered the school, the together mom, to pick up her children.
The halls were quiet as I made my way up to the gym. There was so much life on the walls of the building. Life. My kids loved this place, and so did I.
“Momma, where have you been?” Sammy yelled, as he saw me approach the entryway to the gym. He jumped up from the floor, where he and two other boys were sitting, working on a Lego project, ran full speed toward me, and threw his arms around me. Being enveloped in his hugs was a delicious respite.
“Let’s get Elli so we can head home. Do you know where she is?” I looked around and didn’t see her anywhere.
“She’s in the art room with Ally and Ezra. I’ll get her.” He was out the door before I could say a word. That was Sammy.
As I began to collect backpacks, sneakers, and sweatshirts, Sammy and Elli appeared.
“Mom, why’d we have to go to Extended Day today?” Elli asked as soon as she saw me.
I paused for just a second. “Oh, it was just one of those days that was filled with all kinds of adventures.” I winked at her as I spoke.
“Oh, you and your adventures! What did you do?” She tilted her head, her light eyes flashing, her smile impish. She was so cute, and persistent.
“Elli, I just had some appointments that I had to keep. I didn’t expect that they would take this long.” It wasn’t necessary to say anything to the kids just yet.
“Wait a minute—before we go, I have to show you this. Ally gave it to me. It’s so funny.” Elli stopped and as we all gathered around, she unzipped the front pocket of her backpack and pulled out a photo.
“This is Ally’s golden retriever, Bo.”
There in front of us was a picture of Bo, lying flat, front paws outstretched, a book in front of him. His eyes were downcast toward the book, as if he were reading, and over his head was draped a shawl.
“He looks like a rabbi praying!” Sammy shrieked, and we all burst out laughing.
He did indeed.
We would hang the picture on the refrigerator when we got home. Maybe Bo would watch over us. If nothing else, he would certainly keep us smiling.
THE sun was low when I pulled the Suburban into our driveway on St. John’s Lane. Charles had just opened the door and walked out onto the porch, greeting the kids and then me as they ran, and I walked, up the flagstone path. I fell into his arms as soon as he was within reach, feeling his protective warmth, appreciating my belief that I wasn’t alone. I just wanted to be where I was, with my husband and children, to feel ensconced in the safety of our home, which I loved so much.
Thursday, October 1, 1998, was unusually warm as I arrived for my session with Dr. Putman. Every fiber in my body was like a member of the militia on high alert, awaiting the results of the biopsy. As I walked down the steps to her office, I was acutely aware of everything around me. The soft breeze was uncomfortably prickly on my skin. The scent of the boxwoods that surrounded her office suddenly seemed nauseatingly like cat urine. I walked into her office, lay on the couch, and said nothing.
“Have you heard anything yet?” she asked after a long silence. Under other circumstances, she would not have spoken at all. I was glad she did. She would become the person who would bear witness to all that was to come.
A hollow-sounding emptiness echoed within my brain. “Not yet.” My voice sounded distant, as if it were not a part of me. It was oddly muted, detached, and ghostly. There was more silence.
“I have no doubt”—I paused—“what it’s going to be. . . .” And then the sobs came from somewhere so deep within me that I could feel them resonating through every thin, spidery vessel in my body. I did know what the truth was, and I felt that there was absolutely nothing that could be said. Dr. Putman’s just being there was more important than I could even have realized at
that moment.
I spent the session aching, feeling unbearable pain for myself, for Charles, and mostly for Elli and Sam. “They’re just too young to lose their mother; ten- and seven-year-olds should not be without a mother; I’m not ready to leave them.” Every word caught in my throat. At that moment, I was so overwhelmed with fear, there was no room for other possible outcomes. And when it was time to leave, it was hard to get up from the couch. After pulling myself together, I laughingly refused to go. But I did, and as I left, I already knew. I drove to my office, where the flashing light on my answering machine indicated that I had one message.
“Diane, this is Dr. Braken. I have the results. Give me a call, and tell the secretary to put you right through.”
I took a breath and made the call.
She got on immediately. Her voice was soft, calm, and practiced. “Diane, it’s cancer. Can you come in so we can talk about it?”
I canceled the rest of my workday and went to her office. The only thing I remember about the drive is the sensation of my toes tapping on the tops of my sandals. The streets of my life were passing before me. Other than that, I felt nothing.
I must have called Charles—Thursday was his day in Washington—but I have no memory of my conversation with him.
Dr. Braken and I spoke for quite a while. She was kind and supportive. I was calm, because I was in shock, and heard only bits and pieces of what she said.
“Diane, the first thing you’re going to need to do is to meet with a surgeon. I would suggest you meet with at least three. I’ll give you some names of both men and women, and you can see whom you’re most comfortable with,” she continued.
I sat looking out of the window, lost in the white, fluffy cloud patterns in the sky. A flock of birds, in perfect formation, was flying to warmth and comfort for the coming winter. I had to force myself to focus on the conversation. I knew that I didn’t want to quite be there, completely in the room. I finally found my voice and said, “Okay, but I don’t think it matters. I think it’s more important who the person is.”
Lost in the Reflecting Pool Page 9