Most of Me

by Robyn Michele Levy

  When Ruthie arrives, she is in demand. She has friends all over the world, many of them right here in Vancouver. We all want a piece of her, so she is parceling out her time judiciously. Today is my day.

  She arrives bearing gifts, and I welcome her with tears. Nellie starts licking her pedicured toes.

  “You call this a dog?” Ruthie laughs, leaning down to rub her belly.

  “I know—she’s a crouton compared with your pooch.”

  Maya. The massive Great Dane.

  “How is Maya doing?” I ask.

  “Getting old. She has arthritis. She’s staying with friends, the ones who always look after her while I’m away.”

  Good friends, no doubt. Because Ruthie is away a lot. She loves to travel. And she looks the part: exotic, voluptuous, comfortable in her sun-kissed skin. I feel like a gargoyle in the presence of a goddess.

  I’ve known her since high school, where we became instant friends. Together we pursued typical teenage obsessions: sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, and moving out of our parents’ homes. But I quickly learned there was nothing typical about Ruthie—she was an overachiever. At sixteen, while I was still planning my escape, she had her own apartment and a full-time job and had boldly upgraded from boys to men. At eighteen, while I was still living at home, she was traveling overseas. When Ruthie returned home, seven years later, the world had penetrated her heart. She was fulfilled and ready to settle down, for a while. She started a small business—a mobile juice bar—that grew into a chain of vegetarian restaurants called Fresh. While she had been traveling, I had finally made several escapes—from my parents’ house, from university, from Toronto. I was by then living in Vancouver, establishing my art career. In so many ways, our lives had changed, are still changing. But our sisterly love has remained constant.

  “What’s up with you?” she asks. “Lisa mentioned you’re getting some tests.”

  “I’m scheduled for a mammogram next week. I found two lumps. What if it’s cancer? What’ll I do?” Tears stream down my face.

  “You’ll fight. That’s what you’ll do. Right? You’ll fight.”

  But I’m not so sure. Part of me thinks breast cancer would be a blessing, a morbid means of escape from Parkinson’s.

  “What would you do?” I ask her.

  And without hesitation, Ruthie says, “Whatever it takes to beat it.”

  She stares at me with those green eyes, then she issues her command: “You’ll fight. And we’ll be there to help you.”

  My tears come and go for the rest of the day. While we walk Nellie. While we go out for lunch. While we drink tea and talk about her travels, her man, her miscarriage. And before you know it, our visit is over—time flies when you’re having phlegm. I wipe my nose; we hug good-bye; I escort her to the door. Then the gargoyle blows the goddess a kiss, and she drives off in her rental car.

  MY DAD TRAVELS light but always packs dozens of jokes and one-liners. Never newish, mostly Jewish, borrowed from the best: Henny Youngman, Groucho Marx, Jackie Mason, Rodney Dangerfield, Woody Allen. I’ve heard them all a million times, but I don’t mind hearing them again. I know that the more jokes he cracks, the happier he is. When we get home from the airport, I can tell he is no longer depressed.

  “Are you tired?” I ask.

  “I was born tired,” he replies.

  When he’s settled in the guest room, I ask, “Are you comfortable?”

  “I make a living,” he quips.

  When he winces while getting up from the couch, I ask, “Are you all right?”

  “I told my doctor my back hurts whenever I stand up, so the doctor told me, ‘Then don’t stand up,’” he laughs. He’s seventy years old and still remembers them all.

  This is the first time in years that my dad has visited me on his own, without my mom. She stayed in Toronto, to help look after my brother’s and sister’s kids. She likes to be where the action is—and it sure isn’t here. Left to our own devices, my dad and I devolve: we are two peas in a Parkinson’s pod. Moving in slow motion. Lounging on the couch. Reading the newspaper. Taking midday naps. We’re both perfectly content to hang out at home. And when we do venture out, it’s to walk the dog or buy groceries or go out for dinner.

  “I feel like I’m on holiday,” my dad confesses after waking up from a snooze. He is so easy to please.

  I have arranged a special surprise for him. It’s opalescent blue and seats two. It pulls up to the curb—curvaceous, flirtatious—be still my beeping horn.

  “Hop in!” says Will the dentist. “I’ll take you for a spin.”

  My dad is smitten. He loves Jaguars, and this one is vintage: a 1967 convertible. He slides into the passenger seat. Will’s nimble fingers grip the wheel. Then the purring engine lets out a roar, and off they drive into the sunset.

  Will’s wife, Helen, is standing beside me. She’s so happy to wave them off.

  “That’s one less car ride for me. I wish your dad would stick around so that I wouldn’t have to be Will’s only sidekick.”

  Then she smiles and says, “You should get Will to take you for a ride.”

  The thought had crossed my mind, but only if he can floss and drive at the same time. “Maybe I will, one of these days.”

  My dad flies home this afternoon. There’s only one thing left to do. So I set up my mini-disc recorder and microphone and begin. Over the years, he’s told me his stories, the details of his life, but I have forgotten key facts and mixed up dates and even remembered things that never happened. This is my chance to set the record straight. I ask him about his childhood, the jobs he had as a kid, his business, the charitable work he’s done.

  I want to remember my father. I want something to remind me of him—something quintessential and sentimental—if he dies before I do. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and there’s only one thing that fits the bill. I work up the courage to make my request:

  “Can you bequeath your hairbrush to me?”

  He lets out a laugh and gives me that “you can’t be serious” look. But I assure him that I am dead serious. This hairbrush is an heirloom; it’s half a century old and is as bald as his head. He paid five bucks for it when he was nineteen. Back then, they were both young and invincible, brimming with bristles, oblivious to the perils of male-pattern baldness and repetitive use. And while my dad had the means to buy a new hairbrush every day, he remained loyal and devoted to this one.

  “Well, I could even leave it for you today, if it means that much to you. Nobody else has ever asked for it.”

  This doesn’t surprise me. “No, I just want you to will it to me,” I reply.

  “Consider it done,” he says.

  IT’S QUIET WITHOUT my dad in the house. But I’m not lonely or alone—I’ve got Nellie to keep me company. And Little Lump and Big Blob. It turns out that these two are quite mischievous. Yesterday during my mammogram, they played hide and seek so well that no one could find them. But the ultrasound blew their cover. Now they want to do a biopsy on Big Blob to see what he’s made of. Something tells me it ain’t sugar and spice and everything nice.

  Today is Big Blob’s biopsy. The forecast calls for morbid jokes from a middle-aged dame, with periods of emotional turbulence and disbelief. Expect hovering doctor with long, pointy needles and hand-holding nurse with soothing voice. There is a slight chance of internal bruising. Apply-pressure advisory in effect.

  I’m half-naked, flat on my back, scared stiff—in a room so small and so cramped, surrounded by blinking, beeping, humming high-tech machines, that I feel like I’m in a medical cockpit:

  “This is your doctor speaking. We’ll be cleared for your core needle biopsy shortly. Kindly unfasten your hospital gown and remain in a reclining position.”

  Up until now, I have been amusing the doctor and nurse with my lie-down comedy routine. Joke after joke after joke. But the minute the doctor tells me, “Hold perfectly still,” the kidding stops and the tears start flowing.

  “Does som
ething hurt?” she asks, pointing this menacing needle at my nipple.

  “No,” I whimper, “my defense mechanism just broke down. This isn’t funny anymore.”

  “I know. It’s scary. But I need you to hold perfectly still, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “You’ll feel some pressure.”

  And I did.

  “You’ll hear a loud clicking sound.”

  And I did.

  “Now let’s do this again . . . and again.”

  Three samples, and it’s over. I feel rattled and relieved. I’m glad I followed Susan’s advice and let her accompany me to this appointment instead of waiting a week until Bergen gets home. By the time he’s back, we should know exactly what Big Blob is made of.

  MY TRAVELERS come home with stories and photos and gifts and laundry. Naomi looks taller. Bergen looks tanned. They say I look rested and Nellie looks scruffy—but it’s probably the other way around. Life returns to normal for five summer days. The house goes from clean to cluttered; the telephone rings and rings; there are family walks and visits with friends. And then normal disappears.

  When I call the doctor’s office this morning, my biopsy report has finally arrived.

  “Can you tell me the results over the phone?” I ask.

  “No, I can’t do that,” the assistant, Peggy, says. “You have to make an appointment with Dr. Mintz.”

  “Well, then, can you tell me if I should bring Bergen along, to cry on his shoulder? Or should I just come on my own.”

  “Better bring Bergen.”

  Behind every great man, there’s a great woman. And at Dr. Mintz’s office, it’s Peggy. She’s been his loyal assistant for twenty years. Her work never ends: schmoozing with patients, answering the phone, arranging referrals, collecting specimens, managing files, booking appointments, keeping Dr. Mintz well fed. These last two tasks go hand in hand and often lead to mouthwatering delights that magically appear just in time for lunch. Here’s how it works: with a little luck and some culinary cunning, Peggy cooks up the perfect storm by scheduling certain patients’ appointments between noon and one o’clock. These certain patients tend to be Greek grandmothers—AKA Yayas—or East Indian women, with the usual aches and pains but also with heartfelt appreciation. They adore Dr. Mintz, and they know what he adores. So along with their bodily complaints, they bring him homemade spanakopita, samosas, baklava, ouzo, and wine. And every second Friday, butter chicken.

  Today when we arrive, the waiting room smells like cinnamon.

  “Someone baked us coffee cake,” Peggy says. “You can head into Dr. Mintz’s office; he’s expecting you.”

  Bergen takes my hand and leads me into the room, where two empty chairs await. Everything feels surreal and distant—as if I’m in the theater of the absurd. I watch myself sitting down. I see Dr. Mintz moving his mouth. But the words I hear him say get mangled in my mind.

  “We caught it early bird.” “I know an excellent circus.” “Paging invasive ductal carcinoma. Please meet your party at stage one.”

  On our way out, Peggy hands me a slip of paper.

  “I got you an appointment—for tomorrow—with Dr. Chung. She did my surgeries. I told her it was urgent, and she squeezed you in.”

  Good old Peggy. I’d forgotten that she’s had two bouts of breast cancer. How lucky for me that she’s well connected to this surgeon.

  “What’s she like?” I ask.

  “She’s one of the best and busiest surgeons in town. Look at me, I’m still here.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “She’s serious. When you meet her, you’ll understand.”

  A wave of relief sweeps over me and I think, it’s terrible to have such a critical disease, but wonderful to receive such urgent attention.

  TODAY’S APPOINTMENT with the surgeon is scheduled for late afternoon. Happy hour. If I were a drinker, I’d cheer myself up and calm Big Blob’s nerves with a few cocktails. But I’m no drinker—I’m a walker. That’s how I clear my head. And there’s just enough time to take Nellie out for a stroll.

  We wind our way through the neighborhood, dodging lawn mowers, barking at kids, rescuing worms. When we reach the top of the hill, we turn left onto Dunbar Street—the business section. A few stores down from Diane’s beauty salon is an art school for young children. I walk by it all the time, admiring the cheerful paintings displayed in the storefront window. There’s always a theme. A few days ago it was Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. Before that it was Claude Monet’s Water Lilies. And before that, Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. These pipsqueak forgeries of masterpieces always make me smile, but today’s new display—various versions of Edvard Munch’s The Scream—not only makes me smile but also sends shivers down my spine. All the elements of the original artwork are simplified and cartoonlike—the helpless hands against the skeletal head, the turbulent orange sky, the ominous bridge over murky water. Yet the essence of emotional suffering comes through loud and clear. I can hear the shrill screams escaping the gaping mouths. These childlike paintings are hilarious and horrific, just like my life. The perfect backdrop for my happy hour meeting with the surgeon.

  This is the saddest waiting room I’ve ever seen. There must be twenty chairs in tidy rows, all of them occupied by breast cancer patients and their loved ones. When more people arrive, it’s standing room only. There is a three- to four-hour wait to see the surgeon. The décor is dismal. We are surrounded by floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets, overflowing with thousands of multicolored folders. I wonder what color my file will be. Red for right breast? Blue for Big Blob?

  Three and a half hours later I find out: it’s white with red and yellow tabs. Dr. Chung apologizes for the long wait. She says, “You are my last appointment of the day. I’m going on vacation tomorrow; there were a lot of patients to squeeze in.” Bergen and I give her understanding looks and sit quietly while she reviews my file. I watch her delicate fingers slide across the pages while her dark eyes dart back and forth. She looks poised and petite while sitting down. She glances up from the file and says matter-of-factly, “You were diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease eight months ago. And you have just been diagnosed with breast cancer.”

  “At least I don’t have testicular cancer,” I reply.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.

  Obviously she didn’t get the joke. But Bergen did, and now he’s giving me a disapproving look, while mouthing the words “Not now” and pretending to slice his neck with his hand—code for “Cut out the morbid jokes.”

  Then he says, “Robyn has a black sense of humor, especially when she gets nervous.”

  This seems to patch up any damage done to Dr. Chung’s sensibilities, and we move on to the physical exam.

  Dr. Chung’s hands are intuitive instruments—they press and plunge and squeeze and dig and oscillate and calibrate every nook and cranny of my breasts, my chest, my underarms, my neck. I have never been palpated like this before. She is very concerned about the size of Big Blob. And flabbergasted that Little Lump was not biopsied.

  “That should have been done at the same time,” she huffs, reaching for her pad of requisition forms. “I’ll set up an appointment to have this biopsy taken right away. And also an MRI of both your breasts. Depending on the lab results of this second lump, you will need either a lumpectomy or a mastectomy. Plus some lymph nodes removed. How does three weeks from today sound?”

  It sounds inconceivable, hilarious, horrific. Too soon. Too real. It also sounds inevitable.

  “Three weeks from now would be fine,” I say.

  She marks my name down in her calendar; then I add, “My auntie Glenda died from breast cancer. Could this be genetic?”

  “Are you Jewish?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “There is a higher incidence rate of breast cancer among certain Jewish women. Your ancestry—are you Ashkenazi or Sephardic?”

  I know the answer. But I can’t seem to locate it in my mind. So I h
esitate and guess. “Sephardic. My grandparents were from Eastern Europe.”

  “Then you are Ashkenazi,” Dr. Chung says, laughing. “Now that’s funny. You didn’t know which one you were.”

  I start laughing too, then Bergen joins in.

  At the end of the appointment, Dr. Chung hands me a thick folder. “This is for you to keep,” she says. “There’s lots of useful information in there.”

  In other words—homework. When Bergen and I get to the car, I look in the folder and find brochures and a book titled The Intelligent Patient’s Guide to Breast Cancer. Stupidly, I start reading the chapter on mastectomies—detailed descriptions of surgical procedures, potential health complications, photographs of mastectomy scars. It’s all so graphic and gruesome. I feel sick with worry about this pending surgery. I may have signed up, but do I have the balls to show up?

  IT’S A WARM sunny day. Bergen, Naomi, and I take a drive to Commercial Drive and eat lunch on the patio of a favorite restaurant. The little hand on my watch is pointing at Naomi, and the big hand is pointing at my breast. Tick. Talk. Tick. Talk. It’s time to tell Naomi. Before dessert, I casually say, “I have some news.”

  She looks at me, then Bergen, then down at her hands, and shuffles nervously in her chair.

  “I’ve just been diagnosed with breast cancer.”

  I watch her face flutter with surprise.

  “You have that too?” she moans. Her question is so sad and so funny—she’s my daughter, through and through—that we all start laughing and crying, at the same time.

  “I’m lucky, I caught it early. I’m going to be OK. So don’t worry, all right?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I just found out two days ago. You’ve been so busy with your friends these past few days; I’ve hardly seen you. That’s why we arranged this lunch.” There are plenty more questions to ask and answer, but first there’s pie and cake to share. A little sweetness to add to the sorrow.