They arrive ravenous. Snacks are devoured. Drinks are gulped down. The noise level is deafening. And the more chaotic the kitchen gets, the more neurotic I become. “Don’t worry,” Bergen says, “I’m on clean-up duty. You can just relax.” That’s easier said than done—my mind is racing, my muscles are tense, and my Cry Lady can’t stand kids. So I take Nellie for a walk, then retreat to our bedroom. Small doses; that’s my survival strategy. I pop in and out of the party—for homemade pizza, birthday cake, the opening of gifts, and the exodus of the boys—but mostly I hide away. And when the girls get ready for the sleepover, I crack open a brand-new pair of earplugs and climb into bed.
Miraculously, I get some sleep. In the morning, I tiptoe downstairs to the living room, which is strewn with mattresses and pillows and girls in pajamas—some sleeping, some whispering. Nellie is curled up beside a tangle of feet. One pair belongs to Naomi; the other pair belongs to one of her friends. Together, the girls stir beneath a blanket, then drift back to their dreams.
Compared with the racket last night, the house is incredibly quiet. So quiet I have space to think. Two thoughts pop into my head. I definitely prefer teenagers when they are asleep. Better yet, I prefer other people’s teenagers sleeping over at other people’s homes—not mine. Is that too much to ask? A wave of guilt washes over me. Poor Naomi. What kind of a stick-in-the-mud mother have I become? These kids are terrific. I should feel lucky that they feel comfortable enough to make themselves at home—raiding our refrigerator, dropping their clothes on the floor, yelling at the top of their lungs. And for a moment, I do. But then one of them farts. And another one starts laughing. And pretty soon all the girls are awake, transforming my quiet morning into a chaotic chorus of girls brushing their teeth, toilets flushing, cell phones ringing, music playing, and girls gossiping, while I silently repeat over and over in my head, “Go home. Everyone, go home.”
MUCH TO MY CHAGRIN, neurodegenerative diseases don’t dillydally—there’s always more damage to be done. The latest casualty is my left baby toe, oddly jutting out straight to the side. Every day this little piggy moves farther away from the little piggies living next door. I’m afraid if it moves any farther, it’s going to fall right off my foot. Losing a toe wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it could set a dangerous precedent. What if more toes jump ship? And my left foot falls off? And then other left-side parts depart? I feel my blood pressure rising while I’m catastrophizing. This paranoia has got to stop. Clearly, my imagination is progressing more quickly than the disease. So I take slow, deep breaths, in and out, until I’m feeling calm. Nothing is falling off or jumping ship—this little piggy is staying home.
GOOD HELP IS HARD TO FIND, unless you happen to live next door to Will and Helen, the most helpful neighbors in town. Pull up with a carload of groceries and poof!—Will magically appears to help carry everything inside. Find yourself in need of parenting advice and voilà!—Helen shares her time-tested techniques. Over the years, they’ve also walked Nellie, washed our car, collected our newspapers and mail, spotted Bergen on the ladder, helped build a trellis, rescued me when my car broke down, and offered a shoulder to cry on. Will, who happens to be a dentist, has also provided emergency dental examinations.
Giving them a helping hand is not easy. Usually they turn down our offers of assistance. And so we reciprocate with plates of homemade banana bread, cookies, lemon meringue pie, as well as a supply of homegrown kiwis and homemade jam. They always appreciate these offerings, even though their three teenage daughters (or their daughters’ boyfriends) sometimes get to the food first.
For obvious reasons, my baking—and their partaking—of these treats has temporarily stopped. I’m sure they understand—they know about my diagnosis. But what they don’t know, and I’m only just beginning to comprehend, is how much my identity and self-worth are wrapped up in cracking eggs, mixing in honey, oil, and flour, popping this concoction into the oven, and then sharing the results with family and friends. It’s as if, on an existential level, I bake; therefore I am. No wonder I’m feeling so lost and inconsequential—I haven’t baked anything in months.
BERGEN WAS RIGHT. Back when my biological cuckoo clock was ticking, every hour I would chime, “Let’s have a baby together.” And without missing a beat, Bergen would respond, “You mean, let’s have a teenager together.” Of course, that’s not what I meant, but that’s what we got, rather quickly. A teenager with all the typical bells and whistles—including acne and angst and attitude—and sexual desire.
Having been one horny teenager myself, albeit thirty years ago, I believe teen sexuality is natural, beautiful, and inevitable. That’s why there’s only one rule about sex in our house: no one is allowed to have more fun than Bergen and me. I realize this may put a damper on Naomi’s fun—considering that Parkinson’s has parked my libido—and my only interest in sex is putting a checkmark in the female gender box when filling out health forms. But a rule is a rule.
Meanwhile, I’m trying not to worry. My desire has ebbed and flowed all my life, depending on health and circumstances. For instance, after giving birth to Naomi, my sex drive drove off with the placenta. But it came back, eventually. Just as it has other times in my life. So I am hopeful, and so is Bergen, that it will return again, soon.
I’m also trying not to worry obsessively about Naomi. As unique as she is, she resembles both Bergen and me: she got his feet, my eyes, his smile, my shape, his sociability, my artistic disposition. And if she got all that, what if I have unwittingly passed on Parkinson’s? Even though the jury’s out on whether to blame coincidence or inheritance for my dad’s and my misfortune, I can’t help but feel genetically responsible for putting her future health at risk. I would do anything to protect her from succumbing to this disease. Unfortunately, there’s no vaccine or panacea to offer her. At least not yet.
So my worry continues and wanders about until it latches on to manageable risks. We give her vitamins and vegetables, math tutors and car rides. We give her a cell phone to keep her connected. And we give her plenty of eye-roll-inducing parental advice. Including my “one drop” talk. As in, all it takes is “one drop” to get a girl pregnant. And it can happen when “one drop” drops in the vicinity of a vagina. This was news to her, but since she had a boyfriend at the time, I thought she should know.
Yesterday, Naomi took her turn, sharing news she thought we should know. Personal news that took incredible courage to convey. We listened intently to her three-word proclamation that confirmed our hunch:
“I am bisexual.”
We marveled at how effortlessly these words slipped out of her mouth. Such honesty at age fourteen. And as we talked about her world and how she sees herself fitting in, everything and nothing had changed. And when I tucked her into bed that night, my worry turned to wonder.
IN THE MEANTIME, I’m keeping my rendezvous with Dr. Young. By my third appointment, I’m getting used to the drill—it’s like playing psychological Ping-Pong. He serves me a question; I fire back an answer. We volley back and forth until he knows how I’m feeling, sleeping, doing, coping, adjusting to the meds, and even how my family is. Clearly, Dr. Young is winning: he knows all about me, I know nothing about him. Except that he’s British, balding, and married. Suddenly, my competitive streak kicks in.
“That’s quite the collection you’ve got,” I say, pointing to a mess of tangled name tags hanging from a hook on his office door.
Dr. Young lets out a sigh of resignation. “Those are from all the conferences I’ve attended this year.”
“Do you enjoy going to these?”
“To be honest, I hate traveling. I don’t usually mind the conferences, though they can be boring. But it’s part of my job.”
We stare at the dozens of dangling, dejected name tags, each one bearing his credentials and conference location. And I think to myself, if you hate traveling so much, why on earth do you display these travel mementos, here, in your office, where you are forced to face them
every day at work? If you ask me, this behavior smacks of masochism. I bet it’s even listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: Self-Torture Travel Disorder. Poor Dr. Young. I think he may need professional help.
He turns his attention to his notes, glances at his watch, then asks the usual end-of-session question:
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
I hate this question. It always makes me feel guilty, as if he suspects that I’ve been intentionally withholding vital information and now is my chance to come clean. To spit it out. To reveal my deepest, darkest secret. Which I have absolutely no intention of sharing with him.
“Nope,” I say.
“Very well then. Let’s book you in for your next appointment. How does six weeks from now sound.”
“That would be fine.”
I mark the date in my calendar, and as we say good-bye it occurs to me—we all have our collections. Some of them dangle. Some of them don’t. But they all remind us of something—sometimes even the things we’d rather forget.
MY LEFT HAND is on hiatus; its fingers have turned to stone. They look like frozen french fries, ready to be cooked. The very sight of them makes my Cry Lady weep. “Farewell, manual dexterity,” she moans. I sympathize with her sorrow, but she’s overreacting—my right hand is still nimble fingered. I remind her of that and of how lucky I am—so far only the left side of my body is affected. It could be years before Parkinson’s migrates. Plus, I’m not taking any medication yet. This consoles my Cry Lady, for now, but I can tell that she’s still shaken up.
Compared with her, I’m adjusting remarkably well to the new and worsening me. It turns out, most activities I do can be done with one hand: emptying the dishwasher, working on the computer, doing the laundry, shampooing my hair. Even walking the dog. And when I need a helping hand with chores—chopping vegetables or folding towels—I just wave my tragic wand and poof!—Bergen turns into my sous chef, and Naomi my girl Friday. They are so loving and so loyal—they’d be crushed to find out that I am even thinking of asking our neighbor for help. But in the bathroom, I have heard the sound of one hand flossing, and it’s not pretty. Neither is the spell it has cast on my sexual fantasies.
It’s late at night. I’m lying in bed, sliding my tongue back and forth—slowly, smoothly—across my teeth. Bergen is next to me, sound asleep. My tongue stumbles on something stuck between my molars. A kernel of corn? A smidgen of chicken? I can’t be sure, but whatever it is, it must be removed. So I slither silently out of bed, creep down the stairs, and slip out the front door. My Victoria’s Secret nightgown flutters in the wind. Bursting with desire, I limp lasciviously across the street. A tiny gasp escapes my lips. There he is—my neighbor, Will, the dentist. I can feel my heart throbbing, and my knees go weak. We stand beneath the full moon and glittering stars, staring deeply into each other’s teeth, until finally I whisper, “Floss me, Will, floss me.” And he does.
5
Lost and Found
A MONTH HAS PASSED SINCE that first moonlit flossing. For a while, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. But now I have other things on my mind.
Today Nellie found a ten-dollar bill. It was folded in half, lounging on a patch of grass near the park. I’m not sure if it was the sweet smell of money or the stench of well-anointed grass, but when she caught a whiff she woofed, then launched into a sniffing frenzy. Sensing the inevitable, I limped into action and rescued the cash before Nellie had a chance to squat and squirt all over it.
This was the first time she found money. I wish she’d find more of it, instead of all those pointy sticks, food scraps, icky insects, and used tissues I dig out of her mouth. But who am I to talk? I can’t even remember the last time I came across a nickel, let alone a ten-dollar bill. But I did find something of significance the other day.
I wish it were something joyful, like my elusive G-spot, or something musical, like Naomi’s lost iPod. Instead, I’m afraid it’s rather dismal: two lumps in my right breast. The small one feels like a pebble—hard and round. The larger one feels formless and spongy. And even though they are practically neighbors, just inches apart, they have never been formally introduced. Being the hostess and all, I got the ball rolling by asking their names.
“I’m Little Lump,” chirped the small one, curled up by my sternum.
“And I’m Big Blob,” bellowed the other.
He had set up camp behind my nipple, in the shade of my areola. Compared with Little Lump, he was huge.
At first, I was worried that they wouldn’t get along. After all, one is timid; the other is aggressive. The last thing I needed was a bra-room brawl. So I read the riot act to each of them, in private, and they both assured me they won’t pick a fight. But Little Lump was still scared.
“Why should I trust him?” she asked.
“Because Blob’s your uncle,” I said.
Ever since my auntie Glenda died of breast cancer, I’ve kept close tabs on my tits. I’m always on the lookout for lumps or bumps and other ominous signs. By now, I know them inside out. So does Dr. Mintz. When you have breast tissue as lumpy as mine, medical exams and mammograms are essential for peace of mind. And that’s exactly why I’m here, again, in Dr. Mintz’s office. For peace of mind. While Dr. Mintz examines my breast lumps, I study the expression on his face. I’m looking for clues and cues: should I or shouldn’t I panic?
“It’s probably nothing,” he says, “but I’d like to get you in for a mammogram. Just to be sure.”
The tone of his voice pushes my panic button.
“Do you think it’s cancer?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he says. But what I hear is, “Maybe.”
When I get home, I tell Bergen about Little Lump and Big Blob. He stays calm and reassures me. “You know, there’s no point worrying, until we know what it is.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t want to tell Naomi.”
But I do call Lisa.
She says, “It’s good that you’re getting it checked out, Robbie, but it’s probably nothing to worry about.”
Sweet Lisa, the eternal optimist.
ONE DAY I save an earthworm. Not in any evangelical way—I only proselytize to praying mantises. I simply save this worm from imminent death. While taking Nellie for a walk, I spot the wiggling creature, smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. Baking in the hot sun.
“Look, Nellie,” I say.
She gives it a sniff, then watches me slip my hand into an empty poop bag and gingerly pick it up. I carry it away from the concrete, to a nearby garden, and place it in a shady patch of grass.
“Take care, little worm,” I whisper.
Then Nellie barks at it three times—sage advice that I translate for the benefit of that critter: “Location. Location. Location.”
This is the first time I have ever saved a worm. This must be what happens to people who spend too much time looking down at the ground. People like me who don’t have a job, who are clinically depressed, who do the Parkinson’s shuffle while walking a dog that loves to swallow sticks. People who know that one day they could be the wiggling creature—lying smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk, baking in the hot sun—in need of saving.
OVER THE YEARS, I’ve bartered my art for many things: photo sessions, dental work, toy boats, handmade dolls, clothing, hats, jewelry. But this is the first time I’ve bartered for therapy. When I arrive for my session with Theresa, I present her with a large rectangle wrapped in brown paper. Theresa smiles and says, “Is this my painting?”
“If you like it,” I say.
“I’m sure I will. May I see it?”
Together we unwrap the package, revealing a colorful collage of three childlike figures holding hands, next to a cat, on a tree-lined street. The sky is filled with swirling dots. The trees are overflowing with hundreds of tiny cutout painted leaves. The houses are simplified boxes with lace windows. I lean the framed artwork against the wall and say, “The title i
s Down the Street, Hand in Hand.”
“It’s beautiful. There is so much joy—I love it.”
“One reason I chose this one is because it has a lot of purple in it, and you wear a lot of purple. It’s also one of my ‘Dancers’ series. When you looked through my portfolio, you liked that style.”
“Thank you, Robyn. I can’t wait to find a place for it in my home.”
I curl up on the couch while Theresa sits down on her chair. We allow our breathing to synchronize, letting our shoulders relax and our heads roll slowly from side to side. And then Theresa gently asks, “How are you?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, pressing my right hand against my tightening chest. “I found two lumps in my breast. I’ve started picking up worms off the sidewalk. And I’m fantasizing about getting flossed by my neighbor.”
Theresa’s face turns serious. “Have you gone to your doctor about the lumps?”
“Yep. I’m booked for a mammogram and ultrasound soon. But I’m worried.”
We talk about the challenges of waiting—for the examinations and for the results. We explore the best- and worst-case scenarios, as I imagine how they might unfold. We review techniques to help me cope with my tendency to catastrophize. And when I’m all lumped out, we talk about my newfound affinity for worms and Will the dentist and my deteriorating manual dexterity—all within sight of my painting, leaning against the wall, reminding me that I haven’t painted in a very long time.
Soon after my session with Theresa, Bergen and Naomi abandon me to go on a road trip, up to Williams Lake, in northern British Columbia, to visit Bergen’s cousin and go to the Williams Lake Stampede and Rodeo. They left this morning, the first day of Naomi’s summer vacation. I was invited to join them. But we all knew I’d say no. Considering my low energy, and my daily nap and exercise routine, I decided to stay in my comfort zone—at home with Nellie. They’ll be gone for two weeks—long enough to soak up some traveling adventures and to get a much-needed break from me. I get the house to myself for a couple of days, and then the visitors arrive. First Ruthie. Then my dad.
Most of Me Page 8