Gary’s niece, Erica, who was about ten years older than Brittany, was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer the same week Brittany was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Erica and Brittany had only met once, but through Facebook they were comparing notes on their journey.
Erica was teaching elementary school when she was diagnosed. She wrote to tell Brittany that they had found cancer in her lungs, as well. The two young women couldn’t have been any more different in their approach to their diagnoses, but they both thought the world of each other. Their long-distance relationship bloomed over their shared enemy.
Brittany and I confirmed our plans for our Alaska trip in May. We also wrote to several doctors at UCLA, Johns Hopkins, and the Mayo Clinic, sending them information from Brittany’s file and asking if they had a different approach they’d like to discuss. We offered to travel to each place for a second opinion. My plan was to fly home with Gary and to cover our responsibilities in Southern California, and also try to find some alternative therapies that would interest Brittany.
I struggled to care for my ninety-two-year-old father, who was ill with the flu. I asked our dear friend Pamela to think about leasing her town home so that she could eventually move in with us to help with my elderly father and care for the dogs while we were gone. Erica had a biopsy of her lungs, which confirmed adenocarcinoma, a cancer that forms in mucus-secreting glands throughout the body. Meanwhile, Gary’s brother was on a waiting list for a heart transplant. What else could possibly happen to one family?
I wrote an email to Carmen four days after our disastrous appointment with Dr. Berger, saying in part:
I’m striving to plan some trips with Brittany that we can have some fun on. During those times, I hope Dan will avail himself of the freedom he has after work and weekends to have some fun with his brothers and family. He desperately needs some time to think of something else for a while. I worry about Dan as well as Brittany. This is a HUGE blow to such a newly-wed couple. Gary and I love them both so much.
I believe that Brittany is very bright. Gary and I are realizing that she understood what she faced much better than any of the rest of us—from the start. She immediately skipped the “denial” phase and jumped to anger and planning. It left me in the dust of denial. I’m slowly understanding the limited options that she has—and thus I can embrace her desire to seek more dignified ways to die when that time comes.
I planned to fly back up to Britt’s because on March 26, she would get her first postop scan. Ten weeks postop, we avoided the subject, and our tension built.
Gary and I discussed the possibility of needing to take Brittany to Switzerland, which had a death with dignity act, if the tumor progressed rapidly and her wishes to qualify for legal residency in Oregon were thwarted. There were some pretty rigorous qualifications to meet in Oregon, and Brittany worried that with one bizarre move of the tumor, she would be left with no options. We felt that a backup plan to the backup plan was prudent. We were beginning to go through the motions of understanding her wish. Though neither of us was 100 percent there, we were forcing ourselves to take tangible steps forward in formulating her plans.
When I flew up for the MRI consult appointment, I took some of the most promising files from my box of documents on experimental treatments that Britt might pursue. No one had told us that if you hadn’t pursued chemo and radiation, clinical studies wouldn’t accept you. This was my box of false hope.
I prepared a lengthy list of questions about the MRI results. Since these scans were all we had, since we were in a “watch and wait” mode, I wanted to be sure that we got a thorough review from the MRI.
Most of the questions that I’d written down I didn’t even understand. I hoped that by asking and getting answers, I would be helping Brittany get more information about her tumor. My list included detailed questions about the information to be obtained from the MRIs, queries about astrocytoma growth indicators, and possible therapies outside of chemo and radiation.
The bad news was that Brittany’s oncologist at UCSF was on medical leave, and therefore a doctor whom she’d never met before would discuss the MRI with us. When the doctor came into the room, he made some light chitchat as he opened up the MRI files. However, his chatting came to an abrupt halt when the files had downloaded. He quickly excused himself to find a colleague to join him. “Fuck,” Brittany said. “This does not bode well.”
The doctor came back alone, looking stressed. He opened the files and pointed to an image of Brittany’s brain. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said.
I could see that the empty space that had been created was full of a brightly lit-up substance. My slow, uninformed, stubborn mind thought, Is that blood? Is her brain bleeding?
“The tumor has grown 20 percent larger in ten weeks,” the doctor said.
Pain knifed through my heart. It was so sharp and real that I gasped for air as tears stung my eyes.
This . . . I was not ready for.
I looked over at Brittany’s face. She maintained a cool mask of indifference. There were no tears in her eyes. I glanced down at my questions. There was a raging monster tumor in my daughter’s head, and none of these questions mattered. Death was coming for her.
As we walked out of the hospital, we passed a large glass window looking down on a busy street. I wanted to crack the thick, dirty glass with my boot. I wanted to jump and fall eight floors. The desire to do damage, to run away from life, to jump, the image calling to me of my body falling through space—I can recall that desire so clearly, I can taste it.
* * *
Brittany Diaz
On New Year’s Day, I was diagnosed with a fatal Grade 2 Astrocytoma Glioma brain tumor, spanning 3 lobes of my brain, crossing hemispheres. I spent weeks in the ICU/hospital supported by my wonderful family and close friends. I had a partial resection craniotomy at UCSF on Jan 10th. They removed a fist size chunk of my left frontal lobe, and I healed super fast. Felt great. Body is healthy, just my computer is sick. Now 2.5 months later post-op, it has changed to “High Grade” and I have been told I have roughly 1 year to live. I am so sorry Dan, my dear husband. So sorry that I am sick. For months, I kept this information to a very tight circle. I felt ready to share now but don’t worry, not too frequently. In the next few weeks, I will go to Mayo Clinic, UCLA, and OHSU to explore options and clinical trials but also to discuss palliative care and ways to die peacefully rather than painfully. Right now I feel physically great, suffering no seizures or deficits. This photo represents to me, the body’s amazing capacity for healing. There are many painful things on the horizon for me at just 29 years old, but it is important ot LIVE WELL, SEIZE THE DAY. The world is SO beautiful. So many beautiful places and people, kind hearts. If I can still make it to Alaska in May with my dear friend Maudie and my mom, Deborah, I will be there. You are both stars. LOVE TO ALL. Truly, just love.
* * *
On March 31, Brittany posted her diagnosis on Facebook. This was how Brittany told her wider network of friends where she was in life. Up until the MRI review, she’d kept the circle of people who knew about her brain tumor small. She had guarded her heart. I was shocked when I saw the posting and the photos. I don’t know why. My daughter had nothing to lose anymore.
Nothing at all.
Three
* * *
Epiphany
“I cannot live with myself any longer.” This was the thought that kept repeating itself in my mind. Then suddenly I became aware of what a peculiar thought it was. “Am I one or two? If I cannot live with myself there must be two of me: the ‘I’ and the ‘self’ that ‘I’ cannot live with. Maybe,” I thought, “only one of them is real.”
—Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now
16
First Love
Fall 2002—Summer 2004, Ages Seventeen to Nineteen
The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end.
—Benjamin Disraeli
My daughter and I often m
et for happy hour at the Italian restaurant down the stairs from Britt’s studio apartment. Britt wasn’t legally old enough to drink. However, she knew all the servers and they adored her. How could the funny, wicked smart, hot girl who ran up and down the stairs not be a favorite?
During these halcyon days, my heart quickened in anticipation of dinner with Britt, much as my heart had fluttered when picking her up from school when she was younger. Our conversations were lively and interesting. We no longer bickered and fought. We both loved science, and often discussed topics from her courses. I even allowed myself to think she might want to go into a science-related career. Brittany had stolen my favorite T-shirt, which said, “Talk nerdy to me.” I pretended that I was deeply offended and wanted it back, while secretly I smiled.
One evening I drove to meet her for dinner and found Britt sipping cabernet and nibbling an eggplant Parmesan appetizer. There was a gleaming glass of cabernet waiting for me. Gary and I didn’t nag her about wine, and had allowed Brittany to have a small glass with us at dinner. When she fixed us dinner in her little studio, we brought a bottle of wine to share with her. Part of me wanted to protest that she shouldn’t order alcohol in a public place, and the other part of me felt that she had demystified alcohol. She never, ever drove when she’d been drinking. She took a taxi. She didn’t drink to excess in front of me. She seemed to be developing a taste for good wine, savoring it, not just throwing it back in great gulps. I worried about a lot of things with Brittany, but alcohol wasn’t one of them.
Clearly, Brittany was thriving in an environment where she felt independent. Gary and I paid half her monthly rent; her biological father paid the other half and provided a car and car insurance. I provided health insurance and money for groceries and utilities. Brittany was taking a fifteen- to eighteen-unit load of University of California—approved courses each semester, and making straight As.
My rebellious daughter had blossomed. She looked healthy, strong, and happy. “I’m in a kickass study group,” she told me as she forked another piece of eggplant into her mouth. “We’re acing everything.”
“I guess it doesn’t hurt to have two guys in the group with crushes on you, either.”
Britt threw back her long, slender neck and let out a natural, uncontrived laugh. It sprang from a well inside, a source she’d nurtured and fed. A place of feeling motivated and self-assured. A place where laughter could just bubble up and spill all over the listener, bathing him or her in vicarious delight. Where laughter was liquid and bright.
It was the kind of laugh that people want to be the cause of; laughter that washed over people in the restaurant. They half-turned to see who’d expressed joy in such a charming way. Male customers’ eyes lingered on her silhouette, especially several men at a long table near us. Women smiled, perhaps remembering earlier times when they, too, had thrown their own heads back in unabashed laughter.
“I’ve let one guy down gently. I like him sooo much as a friend. But I’m dating the other one now. His name is Ellis.” Color rose to her cheeks, which she didn’t cover with heavy makeup anymore. “I really like him, Momma.”
I smiled. “Ellis, huh? So tell me about this Ellis.” I motioned for the waiter, and we ordered. Britt tilted the glass and watched the legs of the wine form on its side. “He’s older than me. He worked for a while after he graduated, and then he traveled around for a while.”
Trying to do the math, I was coming up with midtwenties.
“Ellis is premed.” Britt smiled.
“Well, Gary and I would be delighted to meet him. Are you and Ellis nerds, like Gary and me?”
“Oh my god, Mom. We so are. We talk about science all the time.”
We continued chatting until we finished our meal. I definitely wanted to meet this new guy whose name alone caused my daughter to blush.
During her two years at the community college, Ellis and Brittany were a hoot to watch. Ellis was tall, with a handsome boyish face. They were boisterous and roughhoused like siblings, but were clearly in love. First love, perhaps for both; a thing of beauty. Gary and I could see that they probably wouldn’t wind up at the same school, so it was bittersweet to watch. We worried about the physicality of their romping, feeling that Brittany was slugging Ellis a bit too hard. I didn’t think hitting of any kind, even in fun, was a good idea in a romantic relationship. I suggested to Britt that it wasn’t ladylike. But the two of them were like a comedy team popping out and walloping each other, scaring each other, grabbing each other. Perhaps worrying about Brittany had become my de facto position, those worry grooves so deeply embedded in my brain.
The two ate meals at our house quite a bit. Ellis was polite, kind, and funny. He and Gary got along very well. Conversation at dinner was spirited and fascinating. Brittany and Ellis explained to us that scientists had mapped all the genes of our species. They sparked conversation about stem cells and the possibility of curing debilitating diseases like Parkinson’s. My daughter spent her eighteenth year enjoying a playful yet cerebral relationship with Ellis.
In her second year at the community college, Brittany was in love and academically on fire. Life was good. She and Ellis were jogging in Dana Point, acing their classes at the college, and more in love than ever as Britt began contemplating transferring.
Brittany applied to seven of the ten UC campuses. UC Irvine offered her the Regents’ Scholarship, the most prestigious scholarship for transfer students entering from a California community college. It was a full ride with priority registration, travel abroad, and other benefits. She was delighted, and we visited the Irvine campus.
Britt was also accepted to Berkeley, the number one public university in the United States. It looked like she was going to accept the Irvine scholarship and stay close to Ellis while he finished up his premed work. However, we toured the Berkeley campus in the San Francisco Bay Area. How could she be accepted there and not even go look at the campus? I argued. I expected to see hippies, tie-dye, and lots of Birkenstocks. But what I saw was a dignified urban campus with some elegant old buildings. We took a serene stroll under the canopy of oaks, redwoods, and eucalyptus. At Berkeley, there seemed to be room for experimentation without ostracism. I saw lots of vintage clothing and some pretty interesting hair colors. Later, I laughed with Brittany about how strong my Texas stereotype of the hippie nation at Berkeley had been.
Gary and I discussed Brittany going to Berkeley (no scholarship) versus UC Irvine (full ride). I regretted not going to a better school. I did have great professors at Stephen F. Austin State University, who infused me with a passion for teaching. I got what I needed for my chosen profession, but I wanted more for my daughter. Don’t we all?
Berkeley was rated by U.S. News & World Report as the number one national public university. I couldn’t afford to give Brittany a private college education, but I could give her Berkeley. She could go there for two years and graduate with zero debt. This I could do. This was why I had worked so hard as a single mom.
In the beginning, I wanted it more than she did. But then we stumbled upon an apartment in a storybook-like complex with French Normandy—style towers and arched doorways and windows. The problem was that the rental began in summer, and she had already committed to volunteering on a women-owned banana farm in Costa Rica.
“Brittany, look at this place! It’s whimsical. It’s charming.” I scrambled out of the car. “It looks like little gnomes will come down the path any minute.”
“Hobbits, Momma, like The Lord of the Rings. This has to be housing for professors or something. It looks like a fairy-tale château. But Costa Rica’s not negotiable,” Brittany said. “I’ll just take the scholarship to UC Irvine and stay in my studio.”
“I’m not suggesting you give up Costa Rica. I’m asking what diploma do you want on the wall of your place of business one day? If you become a psychologist, or get your master’s and doctorate in another field altogether? I’m saying if this is the right school and this is the right apa
rtment, I’ll pay for it for the summer, even though you won’t be here.”
Brittany looked at me. “Really, Momma? Can we do this? What does Gary think?”
“Gary thinks that you should look at the two schools and choose based on where you want to go, not on whether you got a scholarship or not. He called Berkeley ‘public Ivy League.’ ”
“Are you kidding me?” Britt’s voice rose. “Harvard-educated Gary said that?”
“I’ve worked all of your life for you to be able to go to a great school. It’s why I worked so hard. So, I agree—it should be all about where you really want to go.”
Ultimately Brittany decided to take the apartment and attend Berkeley. She had made one of the biggest decisions of her life.
I thought it was the right decision—not in the fluttery-heart, nervous-stomach, God-help-me-if-I’m-wrong way that I’d accepted her decision to drop out of high school, but in a chest-puffing, lung-expanding proud momma way.
Ellis loaned Brittany his extreme, internal-frame backpack for her six-week trip to Costa Rica, and she stuffed it to the max. Gary and I shopped for a rain poncho, mosquito netting, and other supplies. I caught Brittany taking some of those items out and adding a large makeup bag. Gary and I couldn’t convince her that makeup was the last thing she would need on a banana farm in Costa Rica.
Wild and Precious Life Page 15