Most of Me

by Robyn Michele Levy

  That night, lying in bed with Bergen, words are whispered, then brushed aside by searching fingers and aching flesh. His touch distracts me from my bewilderment at having two diseases and all that entails. But not for long. My muddled mind interrupts with questions: How can Bergen still find me desirable as Parkinson’s distorts my body? How will he react when my breast is gone? What will I look like? How will I feel? Who will I be? Tears stream down my face and dampen his shoulder.

  “Do you hate me?” I ask.

  “I love it when you say that. It brings us closer together,” he laughs.

  Then he wraps his arms around me and says, “I’m lucky to be with you. You’re very sexy, you know.”

  “I don’t feel very sexy.”

  “Oh, but you are very sexy,” he says in a Scottish accent.

  “You won’t be saying that when I only have one tit.”

  “Oh, yes, I will. You will always be my bonnie lass.”

  We kiss. I veer my mind away from my worries, toward the possibility of pleasure. After all these years, our bodies still transport us to electric places. Even now. Maybe even after my breast surgery.

  A few days later, I have an appointment with Theresa. She has a new office; I have a new disease. Both take some getting used to. This office is bigger and brighter than her previous one, and this new disease is more deadly than my first. Both feel foreign—discombobulating. But Theresa’s my anchor. I tell her about the diagnosis.

  “I’m so sorry, Robyn,” she says. “You seem remarkably calm, considering what you are dealing with.”

  I suppose it’s possible to confuse a stunned “deer in the headlights” demeanor with calmness, but I know that’s not what she means.

  “I know. It’s so strange. It’s as if my Cry Lady is incognito, keeping a low profile. Sure, there have been tears—but nothing melodramatic. I almost feel numb.”

  “It must be quite a shock,” Theresa says.

  “Yeah. But it’s also a kick in the pants. There’s so much to do before the surgery.”

  “Like what?”

  “Get all these tests done, the second biopsy, the MRI, X-rays, blood work. Tell my family and friends. Finish my will and find and burn my old diaries.”

  “Your old diaries?”

  “Yeah. From my university days. If I die in surgery, the last thing I want is Naomi rummaging through my stuff, reading about my sexual adventures.”

  Theresa laughs.

  “What if I die in surgery?” I wonder out loud.

  “It’s highly unlikely, but it’s possible.”

  “Lots of women die from breast cancer.”

  “That’s true. And lots of women survive.”

  “When I first found the lumps and was waiting for the biopsy results, part of me thought I’d be lucky to die this way—I wouldn’t have to worry about Parkinson’s anymore. I also wouldn’t be a burden to my family. But now that I know I have cancer, I realize I don’t want to die. Not yet. I want to live.”

  The moment I say this, my chest tightens and I feel like I can’t breathe—I’m having an anxiety attack. Theresa remains calm and focused.

  “Try doing this,” she says, placing her hands on her chest, taking deep breaths in, exhaling loudly. I copy her motions and feel the panic subside a bit.

  “That’s good,” she nods. “It’s OK to feel scared. I’m right here.”

  And with that, my body surrenders to some primordial force. I’m Gug the Cavewoman, quaking like thunder, weeping with abandon, summoning the gods. The sky is falling, and I am falling apart. Finally.

  BONNIE IS COMING to visit me. She got a deal on a last-minute flight. By the time her plane arrives, I’ve recovered from yesterday’s therapy session. My plan is to pick her up at the airport, be cheerful and chatty, then break the news when we get home. In other words, avoid a public display of affliction. I spot her by the luggage carousel looking tanned and trim.

  “Beachface!” I shout.

  Several people turn their heads in my direction, but only one person answers to that nickname. Bonnie smiles, grabs her bags, and walks over.

  “Hi, Robbie,” she says, giving me a great big hug.

  That’s my cue to be cordial, to stick to the plan and say, “Hi, Bonnie. Did you have a good flight?” But as our bodies meld, my plan is hijacked by a sudden surge of emotion ripping through me. Oh, God—here it comes—premature revelation!

  “I have breast cancer,” I blurt out, exploding into tears—right here, at YVR domestic arrivals.

  Once we’ve loaded the luggage into the trunk, we hop into the car. There’s a gift waiting for Bonnie inside.

  “Go ahead and open it,” I say. “It’s for you.”

  She unwraps the package and finds a shiny red plastic case, decorated with a cartoon of a little boy dressed up as a doctor.

  “A toy medical kit?” she asks, opening the lid.

  “I have a few appointments this week—some blood tests, X-rays, a biopsy. I was hoping you’d come along; you could be my make-believe nurse. I know you loved volunteering at the leper colony in Calcutta years ago. I’m sure it won’t be as exciting as cleaning festering wounds, but it could still be fun.”

  “Of course I’ll go with you,” Bonnie says. “I just want to hang out with you. It doesn’t matter where.”

  ANOTHER DAY, another waiting room. I’ve got the right person for the right job. Nurse Bonnie, oblivious to the watchful eyes around us, is busy checking my vitals—taking my temperature with the yellow toy thermometer, listening to my heart with the blue stethoscope, checking my blood pressure with the tiny inflatable armband.

  “There. Everything seems normal,” she smiles, packing away her medical instruments.

  Normal? If only that were true. What a difference a lump makes. Or two.

  When my name is finally called, I leave my purse with Bonnie, change into a hospital gown, and wait in an examination room. My fingers slide along the right side of my collarbone, then travel down my ribs until they bump into Little Lump. Woe is we—me and my lump—waiting for this second biopsy is more nerve-racking than it was waiting for the first one—now that we know exactly what to expect. But when the doctor arrives and preps us for the procedure, it turns out all that worry was for nothing. Little Lump is located too close to my chest wall.

  “Instead of a core needle biopsy, you need an excise biopsy,” the doctor explains.

  “Does that require a priest?” I ask, recalling The Exorcist, where Linda Blair plays the devil-possessed girl whose spinning head spews vomit and vulgarities.

  The doctor either didn’t hear my question or just ignores it. “You’ll need to call your surgeon. She’ll probably do the biopsy for you.”

  “LET’S GO to the Naam for lunch,” Bonnie says.

  It’s her favorite vegetarian restaurant in Vancouver. Mine too. The service can be slow, but the food is always great. And today, as far as I’m concerned, they can take their sweet time filling our orders—Bonnie and I have lots of catching up to do. I want to hear all about her two young boys, her husband, and the amazing lighting designs she is creating for theatrical productions around the world.

  I’ve known Bonnie since high school, but it wasn’t until after graduation that our lives intersected, at the corner of Yonge and Bloor, in downtown Toronto. It was summer, and we were both street vending our handcrafted jewelry. Bonnie’s earrings were elegant, made of shiny silver and shimmering beads. Pretty enough to wear to a wedding. My earrings were not elegant or pretty. They were called “cute” and “weird” and “rude” and “funny.” I sculpted teeny-weeny people from special Plasticine—some wearing bathing suits, others wearing birthday suits. These sold steadily, but it was my Gumby knockoffs that killed. That retro green clay toy figure was making a pop-cultural comeback at the time, and I couldn’t keep up with demand. I churned out thousands of these mini-Gumbies, most of them modest in boxers and bikinis. But I also cranked out nude versions that were anatomically correct.
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  Bonnie and I would often set up our displays next to each other. We’d spell each other off for bathroom and lunch breaks. And between sales, we’d talk. By the end of the summer, we were friends. And then Bonnie moved out west to study theatrical lighting design at the University of British Columbia.

  We didn’t reconnect until the following summer when I transferred from psychology at the University of Toronto into fine arts at UBC. I was driving my car across Canada with my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend and his buddy. We broke up along the way—somewhere in the Prairies, just off the Trans-Canada Highway, in the parking lot of some coffee shop, in the pouring rain. I wish it had been one of those mutual “let’s just be friends” endings. But it wasn’t. I broke his heart. And then he lost his left boot, his appetite, and his interest in bathing. So by the time we showed up at Bonnie’s house in Vancouver—which she was renting with several other students—my ex was an existential, one-booted mess. In spite of the awkwardness of the situation, Bonnie’s compassion prevailed, and with my acquiescence, she let my ex stay a couple days until he found other accommodations.

  Although this was not planned, I moved in, first into Bonnie’s room and then into my own room when one of the roommates moved out.

  By the end of the school year, our lives were intertwined and forever changed. We were soul sisters. Bonnie moved again—to take a job in Halifax. I also moved—into an apartment of my own, in Vancouver. But this time we kept in touch. There were long-distance phone calls and cross-Canada visits. And always Bonnie’s presence in my life—her steady, fearless love that whispered, “No matter what happens, or where you go, I will be there for you.” Like she is now, here with me in Cancerland. And like she would be, if I were to wind up in a leper colony.

  I HAVE A CONFESSION: I’m seeing another man. Almost every night. He has baby blue eyes and manly tattoos, and when he talks, I glisten. He’s charming and funny and sexy and smart. He’s married. But so am I. He’s smutty and I am smitten. It took me by surprise.

  It was my dad who introduced me to him, while Bergen and Naomi were away. We were watching the evening news. Then my dad changed channels and there he was—gazing into my eyes, extending his arms, smiling seductively.

  “Welcome to The Late Late Show. I’m your host, TV’s Craig Ferguson.”

  His mellifluous voice melted my heart—I’m a sucker for Scottish brogues. He had my vagina with his monologue. And then he had the rest of me when he pulled out his puppets.

  “It’s a great day for America!” Craig teases me each night, arousing my adulterous desire. This unrequited lust can’t last forever, but it sure feels good for now. And so I wait with bated breasts for Craig to cross my border and plunge his patriotic flagpole into my foreign soil—hopefully before my surgery.

  And when he does, I’ll say, “It’s a great day for Canada!”

  IT’S TIME to climb back on the bad-news bandwagon—I’ve delayed it long enough. There are people I have to tell. I’ve been dreading all these phone calls I’m about to make. If only there were an easier way. . .

  For Immediate Release

  Middle-Aged Dame Diversifies Disease Portfolio

  Vancouver, B.C., July 2008—Robyn Michele Levy has diversified her disease portfolio with the unexpected acquisition of breast cancer. This follows hot on the heels of her recent partnership acquisition of Parkinson’s “R” Us, formerly a sole proprietorship owned by her father, Gordon Levy.

  As part of her strategy to survive, she is planning to postpone her summer vacation, lop off her right tit, and try not to wallow in self-pity.

  Robyn deeply regrets any distress this may cause family, friends, and pets.

  Robyn’s right breast deeply regrets any distress this may cause brassieres, plunging necklines, and ex-boyfriends.

  THE DEED IS DONE—well done. It’s left me medium rare. Marinating in other people’s calamitous tears. I now have a cache of their concerns, unsolicited advice, and heartfelt offers of help.

  My poor father—he’s been down this road before. It was a dead-end street for his sister, Glenda. Neither of us mention her name while we talk on the phone. We cradle our memories of her in our silence.

  “I want to be there for the operation. I’ll fly out,” he says, pushing through fear, grasping for hope.

  I am hesitant to say yes, for both of our sakes. “Let me think about it, OK?”

  “What about Mom? I know she’ll want to come help you too.”

  His question lands in my lap like a hot potato. After all these years, my dad is still trying to bring my mom and me closer. I don’t blame him. He’s only doing what he thinks is best. But considering how scared and vulnerable I feel now—just imagining the horror of possibly having a mastectomy—I expect to feel worse after my breast has been amputated. And in this fragile state of recovery, I’ll need plenty of rest and nurturing. Sadly, just thinking about my mom visiting me under these circumstances makes me feel anxious. My decision is difficult to make and even more difficult to convey to my dad. But the more we talk, the more sympathetic he is to my wishes and the deeper I understand why he needs to be by my side. So I say yes to him and no to my mom. We agree that he will fly back here in two weeks—the day before my surgery.

  In the meantime, Bonnie has gone home. She left her toy medical kit behind.

  She said, “You should keep it. It might come in handy.”

  It’s got the cutest little yellow plastic scalpel. I was going to take the kit along to today’s biopsy—it’s Little Lump’s unlucky day—but Bergen thought it best to leave it at home. He’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to give Dr. Chung the wrong impression (again). She might think I need a lobotomy in addition to a biopsy.

  I ask Bergen to come along to help keep me calm. Of course, he says yes. He would never turn down an opportunity to accomplish more than one thing at a time. He could be helpful by providing moral support, while stimulating his scientific curiosity by watching a surgical procedure.

  Soon after we arrive at the hospital, Dr. Chung’s face says, “Hello.” That’s the only part of her petite body we can see. Everything else is shrouded in green hospital scrubs and latex gloves and hair net and booties. On all the other surgeons and nurses, this outfit looks sloppy and bland. But on Dr. Chung, it looks elegant and chic; she could be a doctor on call at a cocktail party.

  “Hors d’oeuvre? Champagne? Bilateral mastectomy?”

  In the operating room, we chat, and I’m struck by her radiant smile and the excitement in her eyes. It’s obvious that she is raring to go. I watch her flip through some paperwork, nod to her nurse, then announce, “We’re ready to begin.”

  The operating room is bright and cold. Bergen’s hand is strong and warm.

  “Do you enjoy performing surgery?” I ask Dr. Chung’s hovering head.

  “It’s my favorite part,” she says from behind her mask, while painting antiseptic on my exposed skin.

  “I’m going to give you some local freezing now, so I need you to lie perfectly still.”

  “I have Parkinson’s. That won’t be a problem.”

  I am awake the entire time, squeezing Bergen’s hand. I purposely don’t watch her making the incision or scraping away my flesh. I’m afraid if I did, my reaction might be impolite or foolish—I tend to fart or faint under extreme pressure. So to prevent any one of us from needing resuscitation, I keep my eyes on Bergen, sitting quietly in his facemask by my side, and together we calmly breathe the antiseptic air in and out.

  Meanwhile, Dr. Chung keeps on digging, prodding, swabbing, dabbing. When she finally extracts Little Lump from my anesthetized breast, she holds it out for me to see. And there it is, glistening between the tweezers, no larger than a pea, looking more boogerlike than bogeyman.

  “This doesn’t look like cancer,” she says. “But we have to know for sure.” That’s why Little Lump is sent off to Biopsy Land in the bottom of a sterilized jar. And I am sent off to Worryville to wait for test results that will determi
ne the fate of my right breast.

  THERE’S NO REST for the weary, or the teary. My Cry Lady and I were swamped. We had ten days to get this pre-surgery to-do list done. It was daunting but doable, provided we took one Parkinson’s shuffle at a time.

  The items on the list fell into three familiar categories: calamity, sanity, and vanity.

  My calamity checklist looked like this:

  · Go to the cancer agency to get an MRI of both breasts.

  · Go to the local health clinic to get a preoperative blood test.

  · Attend an urgent meeting with my neurologist, Dr. Stoessl, to discuss specific medications and anesthetics that should not be administered to Parkinson’s patients during surgery and recovery.

  · Attend a follow-up meeting with my surgeon, Dr. Chung, to hear results of Little Lump’s biopsy report and MRI, as well as her recommendation for either a lumpectomy or mastectomy.

  · Go to the hospital for a preoperative meeting with the anesthesiologist.

  · The day before surgery, go to the hospital for a nuclear medicine injection for sentinel node biopsy.

  The good news is I managed to get all these things done, and I didn’t panic in the MRI (I just focused on John Lennon’s soothing voice in my headphones), I didn’t faint during the blood test, I didn’t need to worry about the drugs (Dr. Stoessl knew exactly what to avoid), I didn’t joke with Dr. Chung, I didn’t sleep with the anesthesiologist, and I didn’t glow in the dark after the nuclear medicine injection—though in my mind, these were all distinct possibilities.

  The bad news is that Little Lump is also cancerous: invasive ductal carcinoma Grade 3. Although she may be smaller than Big Blob, she’s more deadly. Now the writing is on the chest wall: hello, mastectomy; good-bye, boob gone bad.

  My sanity checklist was smaller:

  · Book a massage with Jessica.

  · Schedule a session with Theresa.

  · Hire a part-time housekeeper.

  Jessica is a registered massage therapist. Week after week, I venture downtown to lie prostrate in her presence. Blessed with strong peasant fingers and athletic prowess, she coaxes my rigid muscles to relax. This is no easy task for either one of us. It’s demanding physical work: pressing, being pressed; pulling, being pulled; kneading, being kneaded. And I need her now more than ever—she’s a necessity in my life.