“Let me know after you call him,” Ellen laughed. “I gotta go and get ready for work.”
“Okay, hope it’s better than last night.”
Feeling hot and sticky from the warm day, Sara showered. Drying herself before a mirror, she examined the scars from the mastectomies that couldn’t be repaired cosmetically while the cancer cells still raged through her body and glowed in scans. For the first time since the horror began, she wondered if she would have that plastic surgery reparation. Ellen’s right. It’s pleasing to think of being with a man.
Chapter Two
Sara rummaged through her refrigerator to find something to eat before going to bed. She decided on a baked potato she’d picked at the night before. While adding a dollop of sour cream and popping the plate into the microwave, her dog sat staring. “How about lending me some of your appetite, Taz?” Tazzie raised a paw and barked. “You’re not going to let up till you get your treat.” Sara reached into the stash of dog cookies and threw one. “Good catch.” She grabbed her supper and they went to the bedroom.
An hour later, with her food barely touched, Sara sat in bed trying to finish the last chapter of the book she was reading. The sweltering spring weather, similar to a particular March evening two years ago when her symptoms first started, triggered memories.
She remembered waking around two in the morning, her nightgown drenched in perspiration. Why am I so hot? Sleeping, Taz showed no signs of panting from a heated night. It took a hefty dose of Benadryl to get Sara back to sleep.
A week passed and there was another episode of pre-dawn sweats, but this time her dog’s frantic sniffing and nudging at her right breast woke her. “Tazzie, stop!” The mammogram her doctor ordered had shown a suspicious calcification.
The day Ellen drove her to the breast surgeon, the bright bougainvillea along the roadside strangling other plants reminded her that aberrant cancer cells in her own body might be taking over. All around, the signs of spring with bees and birds busily pollinating made her think of women with new life growing in their wombs. It filled her with a deep sorrow that she might be facing her own mortality. Negative thinking relentlessly flooded her mind, like a hose that had sprung a leak. There’s a mass kept replaying.
How many times do I have to relive this? Blinking away tears, she moved her hand under the sheet into her nightie, to the rough wrinkles and edges of scar tissue that had failed to heal in normal time because of infection, delaying chemo and radiation treatment. Touching the place where her breasts were removed, parts of her body that had given pleasure, now felt only the pressure of her fingers.
Remembering the night before the surgery, crying to Ellen that the sleep medication wasn’t working, she tried to ease her fear; what she didn’t want to face was that she’d no longer be attractive or desirable to a man. Did Ben trigger this? I was feeling so good. Why does this keep coming back up?
Wanting to escape the mental pictures that refused to leave, she gazed at the page before her, trying to forget the trauma. Unable to stop the avalanche of thinking, she got up and put a load of laundry into the washing machine. The low rotating vibration against Sara’s body stirred sensations and she was once again reminded of Ben. As the wash swished in the sudsy water, she thought of how his eyes made her feel, the motion of his hand—slow and suggestive—gliding the pen over the form he filled out. She imagined his fingers on her body, moving gently between her legs with his lips on her neck. The meager tingles of arousal were a revival she welcomed.
Sara relished the idea of being with a man anew, but first things first; it was way too soon to know what would happen with the study. I’m so out of shape. I hope I get my strength back so I can exercise.
Prior to becoming ill, she was compulsive about walking miles with her dog, and when she could no longer do that, she took to her stationary bike. Of late, she was too lethargic to do much more than walk from room to room. She missed being outdoors among the hikers and bikers, people on horseback, and tourists coming to relax in beautiful Ojai, where she lived. Please give me energy, she spoke to the mysterious ethers. It’s all I ask. For now, she laughed.
Chapter Three
Sara found out about Ojai, the small California town nestled among oak, pepper and eucalyptus trees, while working in the emergency room. Having just come off a stint of twelve-hour shifts, she wanted to veg out. Knowing there would be way too many distractions at home to relax, she researched spas within driving distance and found one located in Ojai. It was seventy miles from where she lived and a twenty-minute drive to Ellen, who commuted into Los Angeles County where they both worked. After spending a week immersed in its lush natural beauty, on a fluke she met a realtor who offered to show her around.
She never regretted the spontaneous decision to move there ten years earlier when she purchased a 1950s ranch house and fixed it up. Painting the walls multicolors brought it alive, with art, pottery, and photos of family and friends making it a cozy nest. Large windows framed the abundant foliage, like living in a tree house. It was what she needed to put a divorce behind her and start a new life with renewed purpose.
The cancer diagnosis changed that, until the unexpected occurred—being accepted into the study and the buzz over meeting Ben. With attention riveted on his phone number, the rational cells in Sara’s brain ping-ponged back and forth. What would I say if I called him? Her mouth went dry, reminding her of telling her parents about the results from the biopsy.
Recollecting the two agitated days and sleepless nights staring hesitatingly at the telephone, detesting every aspect of the chaotic situation violently forced on her, she cringed. Knowing that her mother Rosalie was stoic with a rough-edge attitude and would handle it didn’t allay the gut-twisting nervousness that the news could endanger her father Irving’s health. He’d already had two heart attacks.
There was also her brother Jack, who she hoped wasn’t home to complicate things. She remembered being told by an aunt that ever since Sara was a baby, “Something was wrong with him.” When her brother first left home, she was so young she didn’t recall much about him. She knew from an early age that when he was around, the house grew silent and uncomfortable. Years later, she learned he was schizophrenic. The extra stress of Jack being there wasn’t needed.
When Sara finally got the courage to dial, Rosalie picked up. “Hello.”
Sara’s abdomen anxiously gurgled. “Hi mom. How’s dad”
A blunt laconic, “Today’s okay,” was nothing new. Neither was the long uninvolved pause, waiting for Sara to speak.
Trying to find a way to say it, “Mom…” Apprehensive to utter the words, fearful that she would then have to face them, Sara flushed hot as though she was running a fever. With disbelief pulsing through her veins, she quietly hoped she’d hear compassion, that everything would be okay, that maybe there had been a mistake. Anything encouraging that would lessen the shocking news she was about to tell her mother.
Rosalie grunted out a curt “What do you want?”
Her mother’s coldness lit Sara’s stomach on fire. Taking in a deep slow breath, “I have bad news…”
Rosalie came back with a razor-sharp “What?” When no instant response came from her daughter, she smacked her lips. “Oh for Christ’s sake, Sara, what’s the bad news now?”
Why do you have to be so damn difficult? Give me a break! She wanted to throw the phone down. “I don’t know how to say this.”
The line went silent.
Walking through the narrowest of doors her mother barely left open, she blurted out, “I have breast cancer.” Sick inside, she told her mother that the diagnosis was the worst kind of malignancy and it was in her nodes. What started in the right breast showed radiographic spread to the left, necessitating a double mastectomy, the sooner the better.
Rosalie gasped.
Feeling as if she’d diffused out of her body and was watching strangers discuss a horror film, Sara gripped the edge of a table to ground herself. Back to the
unthinkable reality she was slogging through as if pulled under by wet sand, her legs became heavy. Sinking lower and lower, she asked, “Where’s daddy?”
Rosalie blasted, “Irving, come here!”
Hearing the babbling between them as Rosalie told him the news, Sara felt like her head was going to explode. The room went in and out of focus with her father’s wheezing, echoing distress. “Dad, please don’t get worked up over this.”
“I’m fine, Sara…” Irving’s voice cracked. “And you will be too. You’ve got the best insurance and doctors—that’s what’s important. I have great faith in our medical system. It’s kept me alive, hasn’t it?”
Sara understood he talked to ease his pain. So did she, when she switched the topic from the diagnosis to the only thing that came to mind. “Any word from Jack?” She rubbed her temples in a circular motion to release her tension.
“No, not for six months now. His medication must be working.” He went on about current psych drugs and how they seem to be getting results.
“That’s good to hear. Dad, I need to get going now.”
Images of that exhausting brain-fogging conversation faded as Sara’s attention went back to Ben. Thinking about him lifted her spirits, compared with the jarring drain from her mother’s heart-piercing words. She wondered what his story was. Although he looked worried that day at Zimmerman’s, he didn’t look physically ill. It couldn’t be that bad. I wonder if he’s on a study.
Wanting to review the data from hers, she went to the computer to read up on it. Within seconds the information was before her. This looks too good to be… Oh man, they’re talking of a cure. Just then the phone rang.
“Hey. Perfect timing.”
“You sound perky,” said Ellen.
“I was just reading some of the other info Zimmerman told me to check into about the study. Lots of great results.”
“I know,” chirped Ellen, “I asked around.”
“And?”
“You really did get lucky.”
“Oh El, bless you! Exactly what I needed to hear. And from you.”
“Yeah, the truthsayer speaks,” Ellen laughed.
“That’s funny. Reminds me of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’”
“Speaking of no clothes, did you phone?”
“No!”
“Whoa, what’s with the backlash?”
“I’m sorry. It’s stupid to have so much attention on him but I can’t help myself.”
“I know. I know. Please, listen to me. I’m just playing around to lighten things up. I’m not judging. I want you to be happy, Sara.”
“I know you do, El. It’s just that…”
Ellen, hearing Sara’s long sigh said, “I know sex is a big deal for you. And why. I know how important it is for you to feel attractive and wanted. There’s nothing wrong with that. Absolutely nothing.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
“You know it’s totally okay to phone. It’s okay to fantasize over him. That’s a good thing. Focus on anything that helps your mood.”
“I really appreciate your saying that. I do wonder what his situation is.”
Chapter Four
Prior to his making the decision to go down to Southern California, Ben had a full battery of tests at Stanford, including scans and a biopsy. Normally calm, he lost his cool when he went before the Tumor Board. He was told that he had a 25 percent, one-year survival rate. Pushing back his cuticles to pacify his nerves, How the hell did I miss this? He tried to remember if there were symptoms that he’d overlooked, but there were none. By the time the first sign of indigestion appeared, his condition was too far-gone.
“It wasn’t your fault, Ben,” came from one of the doctors on the board. “That’s the problem with this type of cancer. When anything becomes apparent, it’s usually advanced.”
Ben took a hard swallow, “And you’re sure about it being pancreatic cancer?” He had hoped that it was a mistake. Even a less-aggressive cancer, like Lance Armstrong’s advanced testicular cancer that had a strong cure rate, would be better news than this.
“We sent the slides out to Yale for confirmation. It’s the best lab in the country.”
Another doctor interrupted. “Of course, with advances in research, there could be a breakthrough any time now.”
Ben slumped in a heated sweat. “Oh, my God.”
The oncologist sitting next to Ben put a hand on his shoulder. “There is some chemotherapy.”
“And what would that do? It’s just palliative. That’s what you told me, right?”
“That’s correct, Ben.”
“With the side effects.” He looked around at the group in lab coats for some sign, something else that could offer him hope. “What kind of choice is that?”
The female doctor responded empathetically, “Not an easy one, Ben.”
The room went silent for what seemed like forever until Ben spoke from a daze. “I need to be with this for now.”
There he was with Stanford’s finest, gathered to offer him his best fighting chance, and in his case there didn’t seem to be one.
After that gruesome meeting, Ben wanted to talk to his brother Michael, a surgeon, to see if there were other options that may have been overlooked. He arranged to meet him at the Palo Alto Creamery Fountain & Grill downtown.
Ben sat at the packed restaurant, watching Silicon Valley’s young twenty-to-thirty set, glued to their iPads and smart phones, when his phone buzzed. “What’s up, Mike? Where are you?”
“I just got out of surgery. I’ll clean up and be there in about fifteen minutes.” In the background blared the overhead speaker, summoning doctors to stations and nurses to pick up phones—the usual cacophony at Stanford Medical Center. “Go ahead and order. Get me a hot pastrami on toasted rye with coleslaw.”
Ben regretted that his days of eating that way were over. The diagnosis prompted him to consult a dietician as part of an attempt to regain his health. Aware that Steve Jobs extended his life with an alternate health program, including a vegetarian diet, motivated Ben to give it a try. Not to that extent, but he did agree to cut back on simple whites—white sugar, rice, and pasta—and avoid fried, high-fat food. When the nutritionist said, “You are what you eat, so eat healthy,” he knew that although it wasn’t a cure-all, it did make sense.
A woman carrying a tray with plates of food walked past and set them down on the table next to him. The aroma of grilled beef sent his stomach into spasms, pouring acid into his throat. He motioned the waitress over to his table, gave Michael’s order and his own. “I’ll have the veggie sandwich.” When she walked away he popped a couple of antacid tablets into his mouth.
Their meals arrived at the table just before Michael did. “Sorry about that.” He pulled the chair in, grabbed hold of his sandwich, and took a bite. “So how’d it go?”
“Not good.”
Michael took a spoonful of coleslaw and swallowed it down with a sip of water. “What did Bentley have to say?” referring to an oncological surgeon Michael knew on the board.
“That the prognosis is poor.” He paused to avoid sinking into how hopeless it all was. “You didn’t look at my chart?”
“It’s too close for me, Ben. But if you want me to…”
“No, no, you’re right. I don’t want to do that to you.”
Michael put down his sandwich and looked at Ben. “It’s not my area,” his voice was unsteady. “You don’t want to do the conventional chemo?”
“For what? A few added months along with those side effects. I don’t know what to do. I can’t believe there’s nothing else.”
“Well, there may be something,” Michael was hesitant. “I do know of someone doing advanced work using drugs that were prescribed for other cancers not yet approved for pancreatic that show promise. It’s not a sure thing but I trust the person involved. If I were you, I’d give it a shot.”
Ben looked up expectantly.
“Remember the other Michael,
my roommate from medical school?”
“Zimmerman?”
“Yes, he’s an oncologist doing studies at UCLA.”
“You have my attention.” Ben was not convinced. He wanted to grab onto something but needed data, not just words or attempts to make him feel better. His brother was a realist, a hard, cold-facts doctor, a surgeon, but he also knew that up till now Michael had not faced any close personal loss in his life. “Do you honestly think he can help me?”
“Yes,” Michael smiled. “And he’ll see you.” He explained to Ben that Zimmerman was doing his own tests, stretching the policy on safe moral research practices, but he was dealing with last-resort, no-other-hope patients, some of whom were very high profile with political connections. “Zimmerman is noted for testing FDA-approved cancer drugs on other cancers they weren’t sanctioned for. The guy has balls. He’s seeing results, Ben.”
“Seriously?” Synapses firing chemistry of hope crept back into Ben’s system. “That’s encouraging. Thanks, Mike.”
After that conversation, Ben decided to take a leave of absence from his job in the legal department at NASA to see Michael Zimmerman for a consultation.
Westwood, bordered by Bel Air and Beverly Hills, is the home of UCLA. Ben sat in his hotel room in Westwood Village, reflecting back on the lunch with his brother several weeks ago. The village was a suitable location because of its close proximity to UCLA’s medical school and hospital. He also wanted to stay in this upbeat place, filled with boutiques, restaurants, and theaters, to distract his mind from the recent doom and gloom. It was close to Zimmerman when he did rounds at UCLA, and only a forty-five-minute drive to his office in a densely populated agricultural city. Ben felt more at home around a college campus that reminded him of Palo Alto.
Relieved that his abdominal pain had lessened since Zimmerman started him on a trial drug, he began relaxing and got out to explore and enjoy the sights. After a walk in town, the red light on the phone was blinking. The message from his brother said, “How’s it going? I’m done for the day so give me a call.”
His Name was Ben Page 2