Plenty of others are around to help me too. My neighbor Helen makes me a beautiful fruit salad. Full of seasonal berries, peaches, pineapple, grapes, apples, and pears. Everything is chopped up into such tiny delicate pieces that each spoonful tastes delightfully different. I used to be able to chop like that.
A few days later, she pops by to say hello. I thank her for the salad, tell her I am feeling better every day—eating healthy food, taking long naps.
“I hope Will isn’t keeping you awake,” she says, rolling her eyes and feigning exasperation.
My heart skips a beat; my cheeks flush with guilt. Does Helen know that her husband is flossing me in my fantasies? And if so, how did she find out? Not knowing what to say, I just stand there in silence.
Then she adds, “I haven’t seen Will this happy in years. I don’t even mind that the band has taken over our living room.”
“The band? Will is in that band?”
“Oh yeah, he plays drums.” Helen smiles. “You should see them. They’re all dentists, around Will’s age, almost ready to retire. Everyone in the band is faculty at UBC’s Department of Dentistry, except for the singer. She works in faculty administration.”
I try to picture mild-mannered Will going wild on the drum kit with his balding buddies riffing on electric guitars and keys, climbing the crescendo of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” But my mind can’t sustain this incongruous image—one minute I flash back to the cute indie rockers I dreamed up while lying in bed; the next minute I flash forward to imagine one of the aging dentists keeling over from a heart attack and Will saving him with an electric-guitar defibrillator. I am tempted to tell Helen what I am imagining, but in the end I hold back—I’m not sure how she would react. The last thing I want is to piss her off. In case I have more body parts removed, I wouldn’t mind another one of her fruit salads.
Then there are my girlfriends. I’d be lost without each one of them. Especially now. They’re like GPS for my soul, helping me navigate through this uncharted territory of disease and detours and dead ends. My Toronto Trio calls me frequently, as does my sister. And my Vancouver friends drop by: Diana, Betina, Joey, Gillian, Linda, Yvonne. Gloria would be here too if she were in town, but she’s spending the summer in Spain.
And then there’s Hildi, my oldest, funniest, most gullible friend. We met in grade 6, when she was honing her skills as class clown—a job she took more seriously than her studies. I was new to the school, and she terrified me so much that I befriended her.
We often played practical jokes on each other, and to this day we still talk about the best one I ever pulled on her. She had asked me when my birthday was, and I told her I celebrate my birthday for eight days—beginning March 29 and going through April 5—because it took me eight days to complete the journey out of my mother’s vagina. First my head, then my neck, and so on until finally my feet flopped out and the doctor cut my umbilical cord. It was the best lie I’d ever told, and Hildi believed me. Mind you, we were only eleven years old at the time, but I must have been extremely convincing and she must have been extremely naïve.
For years, we were inseparable. Best friends. And then our worlds shifted and gaps grew between us until we no longer played leading roles in each other’s lives. Still, we kept in touch through occasional phone calls and visits whenever I was in Toronto. When Hildi heard I had breast cancer, she called me up and made me an offer I didn’t refuse—to fly out and take care of me after my mastectomy.
The minute Hildi walks into our house, she takes charge of everything and everyone. Hildi is good at that. She takes charge of everything and everyone at work. (She’s an interior designer and contractor.) She takes charge of everything and everyone at home (her husband, their three daughters, one nanny, two dogs, one guinea pig, and a chinchilla). And after she gives me a big hug, she sends Bergen out grocery shopping, tells Lourdes what chores to do, prepares an enormous salad for our lunch, bakes chocolate chip cookies for Naomi and her friends, makes a pot of chicken soup that will be ready for dinner, cleans my refrigerator and kitchen drawers, and then persuades Bergen to take a break from looking after me—his first break in days. He goes for a run in the forest, does some errands, and works in his office. When dinnertime rolls around, he is refreshed and relaxed.
After dinner, Hildi makes tea, and the two of us lounge on the couch in the living room. The balcony door is open, and she is massaging my feet while “Hey Jude” drifts in.
“Where’s the music coming from?” Hildi asks, her hands momentarily abandoning my feet for her BlackBerry.
“My neighbor across the street has a band. They’re all dentists. I don’t even know the band’s name, so I have decided to call them the Overbites.”
“They’re really good,” Hildi says, resuming my foot massage. A grimace spreads across her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She drags her hand along my stubbly leg hair and says, “If you want, I can shave your legs for you.”
Another offer I can’t refuse—especially if I want any more of her foot massages.
Naomi is enjoying having Hildi around—and not just because she baked her cookies. Hildi is a woman of contradictions—stylish yet original, unpredictable yet reliable, manic yet composed, hilarious yet philosophical. She is also a woman who never forgets—at least when it comes to other people’s sex lives. It occurs to me that burning my old diaries—if I ever find them—wouldn’t be enough to prevent Naomi from learning about my past. Hildi’s brain contains a top-secret list of who-I-did-what-with-when-and-where. Which is why I’m a little worried. Nevertheless, everyone should have a Hildi.
I’VE ONLY BEEN home one week and already I have dozens of thank-you notes to write to family and friends. My missing tit would be tickled by this outpouring of support: exotic flowers and gift baskets, books and CDs, pajamas and slippers and hats and scarves, home-cooked meals, antioxidant juices, homeopathic remedies, gift certificates, massages. There were also generous donations to breast cancer research on my behalf and in memory of my auntie Glenda.
This showering of gifts is both overwhelming and comforting. But I couldn’t help recalling that it barely drizzled when I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Clearly, in a popularity contest, breast cancer would win a landslide victory over Parkinson’s. The headline would read: “Tit trumps brain cells: Sympathy gifts for middle-aged dame’s diseases skewed.”
I’m not complaining. I’m just pointing out the obvious. It’s easier for people to relate to breast cancer. Breasts are sexy, symbolic, and tangible. They stick out for all the world to see. And because breast cancer is so common and affects so many people, it has become a popular cause to support. Brain cells, in contrast, go about their mysterious business in the dark. And Parkinson’s is a mysterious and frightening disease, gnawing away at our gray matter, hidden from sight.
It’s always harder to relate to the unknown, let alone shop for it. So, to provide a service to the unafflicted, I compiled a list of gift ideas for someone who has just been diagnosed with Parkinson’s—especially the early-onset variety. Here are some presents I would have appreciated at the time:
· flannel pajamas with built-in three-ply Kleenex dispenser
· a rearview mirror inscribed with the words “Warning! Abject woman in mirror is sicker than she appears.”
· a DIY suicide kit with fill-in-the-blank suicide notes and obituaries, plus no-nonsense noose with lifetime guarantee
Simple gifts, really. But all I got were shoulders to cry on—which probably saved me.
I FEEL LIKE I’ve joined the circus, and I’m waiting in the wings for my cue. The ringmaster shouts, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Cirque d’Oy Vey. Get out your hankies for today’s opening act—presenting Robyn the Wretched. She will bravely attempt looking in the mirror at her naked chest for the very first time—a dangerous stunt requiring a safety net. Remember, Ladies and Gentlemen—it ain’t over till the flat lady cries.”
; Thank goodness for Hildi. She catches me before I plummet to the ground and enfolds me in her arms. And when the ringmaster waves good-bye, she gives him the one-finger salute.
Had Hildi not saved me, I might have become one of the Lucky Ones:
After a tragic fall under the big top, Robyn the Wretched joined the Celestial Circus in the Sky. She leaves behind her old diaries, a stack of unfinished thank-you notes, and her unfulfilled dream of going to the Overbites’ upcoming gig.
She will be dearly missed by family, friends, neighbors, and pets.
In lieu of flowers, donations to her favorite charity, Naomi’s Soy Latte Trust Fund, would be appreciated.
HAVING BRAVELY VIEWED my vacant lot, I’m prepared for the next day’s showing at a follow-up appointment with Dr. Chung. Bergen and I are waiting for her in the examination room. Soon there’s a knock on the door, and she walks in. She parks her clipboard on the sink counter, greets me with a smile, and says, “Your breast pathology report arrived. It’s good news.”
“Great,” I say, thinking back to my school report cards that were loaded with A’s and accolades. I imagine my breast pathology report card:
It was a pleasure having Robyn’s right breast in my laboratory. I’m delighted to report that it excelled in all areas of testing. Most notably, it distinguished itself from the other specimens by developing two unique cancers in separate locations. The large tumor exceeded all size expectations, proving to be bigger than initial estimates. Both tumors demonstrated superb communication skills by constructing a cancerous highway between them. They were also tidy and considerate tumors, refraining from spreading their disease to any of the eleven lymph nodes that were surgically removed. In light of these accomplishments, Robyn’s right breast has deservedly earned A+ in the following subjects—individuality, ambition, communication, and organization—and hereby graduates with top honors.
Bergen squeezes my hand, and together we let out sighs of relief. Dr. Chung beams with pride and says, “It’s good we removed your entire breast. Let’s have a look at how you’re doing.”
I maneuver myself up onto the examination table and sit on the edge with my legs dangling down. Dr. Chung moves in closely, gently removes the gauze dressing covering my vacant lot, and begins her inspection. Her delicate fingers trace the periphery of my scar, hiding beneath the white Steri-Strips.
“No swelling at all, no sign of infection. This looks great,” she says, moving on to the drain tube jutting out from my side. “This also looks great. You’re healing up quickly. How’s your arm?”
“Painful and tight,” I answer, struggling to lift it up to shoulder height—as far as it can move. Dr. Chung touches my arm and asks “Are you doing the exercises from the book?”
“Several times, every day.”
“That’s good. Keep it up. The mobility will improve.”
When the exam is over, Dr. Chung asks, “How is your daughter doing?”
I tell her that Naomi is coping quite well and fortunately has been out of town for much of the summer. And then Dr. Chung smiles and closes my file. It’s time to go, and I give her a thank-you card, a jar of Bergen’s homemade kiwi jam, and an A+ for likely saving my life.
MY PHONE RINGS, and as usual, Bergen answers it.
“It’s Gloria. She’s back from Spain. Do you want to talk to her?” he asks. I think, of course I want to talk to her, but not over the phone.
“Can you talk to her? Just fill her in, I’m sure she’ll want to drop by for a visit.”
Boy, is she in for a shock. The last time I saw her was six weeks ago—the day before she left for Spain—and just a few days before my diagnosis. We were out for brunch and I didn’t mention my lumps. The timing wasn’t right. Imagine saying, “By the way, I found two lumps in my breast that may be cancerous. I hope you have a wonderful holiday with your family in Spain. Have fun! See you next month.”
When the doorbell rings, I know it’s Gloria. Bergen and Nellie greet her at the door while I shuffle to the front hall. The moment she sees me, she comes undone—tears cascading down her cheeks, arms crushing me close to her chest, deep sighs spilling from her mouth. For a moment, she loosens her grip and I think I will be released from this agonizing tableau with my remaining tit intact. But then she looks me in the eyes, shakes her head in disbelief, and mutters, “Oh, Robyn” several times before she pulls me and my left breast back into her arms. This time my drain gets wedged between our ribs, and I have to wiggle myself free.
She wipes away her tears, then semi-smiles.
“These are for you,” she says, handing me a bouquet of flowers she’d been clutching during the hug. Dahlias and freesias and gerberas.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
A few more drops trickle from Gloria’s eyes, and I wonder—where are my tears? It feels strange to be the dry-eyed witness and not the weeper.
“Come meet my friend Hildi. She’s visiting from Toronto.”
We head into the TV room, where Hildi is stretched out on a couch. She wiggles her toes hello. And soon, the three of us are chatting away, barefoot on the couch while Nellie lounges on my lap.
The conversation turns to how Gloria and I met. We take turns telling Hildi the story.
“It was almost twenty years ago,” Gloria starts, “before we had husbands and kids.”
“That was so long ago.”
My voice startles Nellie, and she scoots off my lap, curls up by Gloria’s feet, and starts licking her pedicured toes. I can’t remember when this first started, but every time she comes over, Nellie goes for her feet.
“Anyway,” Gloria continues, her eyelids beginning to flutter, her mouth growing slack, “I was on a lunch break, at Granville Island. And the moment I saw Robyn’s artwork on display, I knew one of her paintings would make a perfect wedding gift for some friends of mine.”
“So Gloria commissioned me to make a custom painting for the couple.”
“Who aren’t even married anymore,” Gloria laughs.
“Who got the painting when they split up?” Hildi asks.
“She did,” Gloria says, wiggling her wet toes.
“And then Gloria invited me out for lunch.”
“We had so much fun consulting about this project,” Gloria smiles, “I wanted us to be friends.”
By now, all three of us are watching Nellie—her little furry head bobbing up and down at Gloria’s feet. It’s hard to tell who is having more fun—my dog or my friend.
“This feels so good!” Gloria sighs, unabashedly stretching out her legs and arching her back, as if she’s on the verge of an orgasm.
My own toes are tingling with vicarious pleasure, taking my mind off my sore chest and arm. That’s when I realize my friendship pilgrimage is back on track. My friends are coming to me. They’re meeting one another. And I am luxuriating in their love.
THE NIGHT BEFORE Hildi leaves, we take her out for dinner at an Indian restaurant. The place is packed with families and couples. We are seated at an empty booth at the front. Bergen, Naomi, and I go for the all-you-can-eat vegetarian buffet. Hildi orders butter chicken off the menu. The food is delicious, especially my favorites—dal and basmati rice. I make several trips to the buffet at the back of the room, and each time I am delightfully surprised by how polite and considerate the other customers in line are toward me. They smile and let me go ahead of them—some of them even insist. Then they wait until I’ve finished filling up my plate before they approach the bar and begin serving themselves.
When we’re done, a waitress clears our plates and Bergen pays the bill. As I slide out of the booth and sling my purse over my shoulder, the strap catches on my surgical drain, which is pinned to the outside of my shirt. A wave of shame envelops me—I’d forgotten to tuck it out of sight or at least cover it with a sock. What an eyesore! I’ve been parading around the restaurant with this blood-filled contraption dangling in full view. No wonder those strangers at the buffet were so nice to me.
&n
bsp; On the drive home, my embarrassment subsides and soon I’m feeling smug. For I have discovered the secret to getting front-of-the-line treatment—the bloody surgical drain.
Back at the house, both Hildi and Naomi haul out their suitcases and start packing. Tomorrow they fly to Toronto—on different flights, for different reasons. Hildi is returning home to her family and work. Naomi is going on vacation, to visit family and friends. Originally, I was booked to go with Naomi. Then along came cancerus interruptus, and I had to cancel my flight. But Naomi still wanted to go. This will be the first time she travels on her own.
Once they’re finished packing, we all sit around the dining table sipping tea and nibbling on fresh fruit. The kitchen looks sparkling clean, and the flower arrangements look stylish—thanks to Hildi’s professional interior designer touch. It’s been a long, busy day, and just as I’m about to suggest we all watch some Craig Ferguson to unwind, Hildi leaps up from the table and declares, “I need chocolate.” She starts pacing back and forth, running her hand along the counter and asks, “Has anyone seen that container of gourmet hot chocolate?”
“You mean the chocolate mix from that beautiful gift basket my cousins sent me?” I ask.
“Yeah. That stuff. I could have sworn I put it away in this drawer,” Hildi says, exasperated, digging through jars and bags of baking supplies.
“It’s not in here. Shit. Where the hell is it?” she yells, slamming a bottle of vanilla on the counter, tossing bags of sunflower and pumpkin seeds beside it.
Of course, if anyone should know the whereabouts of this chocolate, it should be Hildi. Just two days ago, she reorganized everything in our kitchen, from baking supplies to cans of tuna to boxes of cereal. She may very well never forget other people’s sexual secrets, but obviously her exceptional memory skills don’t apply to food. There’s no point telling her this—or anything at all—given the frenzied state she is in. Bergen gets up to help her look, but Hildi is determined to find it on her own.
Most of Me Page 12