And so instead of the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, we watch the Obsessive-Compulsive Show starring Hildi—as she frantically searches the cupboards and drawers until the counters are cluttered with everything but that elusive container of gourmet hot chocolate.
“I hate it when something special goes missing,” Hildi moans.
“Me too,” I say. But it’s not chocolate I’m thinking about.
I’M NOT GOOD at good-byes, especially when they involve boarding an airplane, which may or may not be doomed. My fear of flying generously extends to family and friends, so today, with Hildi and Naomi flying to Toronto, I’m a nervous wreck. Standing on the sidewalk, they give me reassuring hugs and kisses, I give them anxious ones in return. Bergen loads their luggage into the trunk. Then there’s a flurry of hands waving from car windows, and for the first time in weeks I’m left all alone—abandoned by the curb, wiping away my tears, silently screaming, “Don’t leave me! Don’t crash! Don’t die! Call me when you land!”
I shuffle through the remaining weeks of summer, vulnerable and moody. On good days, I feel like a wilting flower springing back to life. On bad days, I feel like the compost, putrid and decaying. My right arm is slowly healing, but I still need Nora’s help washing my hair and helping with chores.
The nurses continue their daily visits. They’re pleased to see that my leakage is tapering off and promise that my bloody drain will be removed soon. When that day arrives, the nurse lays a towel across my bed and I nervously lie down on top of it. She spreads out her medical tools and offers these words of comfort: “Don’t watch me do what I’m about to do.” To further put me at ease, she assures me, “This is going to feel strange.” Then she starts tugging at the tube inserted into my side and eventually pries it loose from what I assume is surrounding skin. But I can’t be sure; my eyes are squeezed tightly shut. And then she stops doing whatever it was that she was doing and starts doing something else. A wave of nausea ripples through me, as an alien slowly snakes its way through my innards and out my ribcage.
“There, it’s all out,” she says. “Now you can look.”
I tilt my head in her direction, and my body shudders with disgust.
“That tube is incredibly long. I can’t believe it was actually inside me,” I say.
“It sure was,” she says, smiling, coiling it up, and stuffing it into a garbage bag. Then she bandages up the hole and says, “I told you it would feel strange.”
A steady stream of friends continues dropping by. Betina from Argentina, who became my long-lost sister the moment we met eleven years ago. Diana brings me bottles of mango-steen juice, books on breast cancer, and beautiful blouses. The librarians, Brian and Gillian, bring us home-cooked meals and travel stories. Then Gillian takes me shopping for my first falsie. It’s a little foam insert that slides into a soft cotton camisole. Under loose-fitting shirts it adds dimension, but when worn under something tight it looks weird—like an oversized hard-boiled egg that’s been cut in half. It also moves around, shifting to the left or the right or sometimes straight up, as if trying to escape. I don’t blame it—my vacant lot is not the most hospitable of places.
I HAVE BECOME a morbid measuring stick. When I ask, “How are you doing?” people reply, “Compared with you, I’m doing great.”
And when I ask, “How are you feeling?” they shrug and say, “I’ve got nothing to complain about, considering what you’re going through.”
I’m tempted to retort, “But what about your loveless marriage? Or your debilitating debt? Your sciatica? Your hemorrhoids? Or your beloved dying pet? Your lack of employment? Your loss of enjoyment? Your mysterious aches and pains? Your whiplash? Your mustache? Your varicose veins?”
But instead I bite my tongue and crank out my new business cards:
ROBYN MICHELE LEVY
Morbid Measuring Stick
Certified “Sight for Sore Eyes” Specialist
Department of Poor Health and Comparative Happiness
I HAVEN’T SEEN Marg in months, but we keep in touch through e-mail. The last time she wrote, she invited me over for tea. Better late than never, I’m responding today:
Dear Marg,
FYI, I have discovered a fail-proof distraction from Parkinson’s disease—a distraction I don’t recommend. Breast cancer. I was diagnosed mid-July, right tit lopped off early August, and now I am in recovery mode waiting to find out if I need chemo or radiation or both or none. It sure has taken my mind off my PD. In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t lost my mind, but strangely enough part of me finds this all wickedly hilarious. What else can one do but see the humor, albeit black humor, in life?
I’m still up for a cup of tea . . . but just one cup, since that’s all I now require.
Be well,
Robyn
Dear Robyn,
What a blow—and an insult. I’m so sorry about your cancer and mad too . . .
Tea soon,
Marg
7
In Search of Kick-Ass Clarity
IT’S SEPTEMBER. The forecast calls for heavy showers of advice from oncologists and a flood of anxiety. Expect seasonal support from breast cancer survivors. There is an 80 percent chance of scattered thoughts and indecision.
It sure is handy living in the same neighborhood as Susan. Not only is she a breast cancer survivor, but she’s also a breast cancer encyclopedia. Consequently, our daily walks with Nellie serve as peripatetic tutorials in chemotherapy, radiation, and hormone treatment—all of which may be prescribed when I meet my oncologist.
There’s a lot to learn, and none of it is pleasant. Today I take mental notes while Susan talks chemo:
“I have to tell you, if you have to do chemo, make sure you take those antinausea pills before your treatment. The best ones cost one hundred dollars a pop, but they’re worth it. Otherwise you’re gonna feel like you’re dying. Actually, you’re gonna feel like you’re dying regardless, but the pills will take the edge off. And drink lots of water before and after each session; you want that poison out of your system as quickly as possible—it’s hell on the organs, especially the liver. And buy yourself a nightcap, because you’ll be surprised at how cold it is, sleeping with a bald head. Of course, your immune system is going to be trashed. So, if I were you, I’d ask Naomi not to bring her friends home while you’re getting treatment. Kids always have germs. The last thing you need is to catch a nasty cold or flu.”
“You mean I’d have a legitimate reason to keep the teenagers away? Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
Naomi’s at a new school, in a literary arts program she really likes. But more importantly, she loves her new friends. They drop by after school. Some stay for dinner. Some sleep over on weekends. The same girl shows up every morning before school. Together they turn the upstairs bathroom into a beauty salon, transforming their sleepy faces with cover-up, eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara. Then they rifle through Naomi’s wardrobe until they agree on the perfect T-shirt to match Naomi’s jeans, leaving the rejected shirts in crumpled clumps on the floor.
I do my best to stay in bed and out of the way, for their sake and for mine. The last thing they need is a one-breasted curmudgeon breathing morning breath down their backs. And the last thing I need is to become one.
It’s always a scramble, Bergen getting the girls out of the house in time to catch the bus. Or Bergen corralling them into the car and driving them to school. But once I hear that front door slam, I take a bow for pulling off yet another one of my self-preserving parent-disappearing acts and emerge from my bedroom, ready to begin my day.
WHEN I WAS LITTLE, I had a hunch that change was inevitable. Feet outgrow shoes. Plants outgrow pots. Families outgrow homes. And eventually, children outgrow childhood. I didn’t understand exactly how this happens, but I figured it had something to do with that annoying question adults always ask: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It certainly got me thinking. So did other kids’ predictable answers
: firefighter, ballerina, astronaut, teacher, doctor, nurse, pilot, movie star. There was a definite formula to follow, and so I memorized a handful of stock answers—painter, poet, songwriter, or art teacher—all of which appealed to me. But that’s not what I really wanted.
Secretly, I dreamed of growing up and becoming someone else, anyone else, other than me. The logistics of this were baffling, but I’d watched enough Disney movies to convince myself that this could, and would, happen. After all, mistakes need fixing, and everything about me was wrong. My hair was too thick and curly and required hours of tedious blow-drying to straighten it during the day and an army of metal hair clips to clamp it down at night—forcing me to sleep on what felt like a pillow of nails. My pubescent body was foreign and dangerous, each budding breast a bull’s-eye target for men to ogle. And my talent with words was useless. What good was writing love poems when I couldn’t discern sexual innuendo? I still blush when I think back to that snowy winter day when a strange man stopped and asked me, “How much do you charge for a blow job?” Not knowing what he meant, I replied, “I don’t know, but I can shovel your driveway for five dollars.” By far, my worst defect was my debilitating shyness. I hated how shy I was. I was trapped—there was no escape. Not only did it prevent me from living life to the fullest, but it also prevented me from loving myself. For all these reasons, I wanted to be someone else.
I think about this unfulfilled dream a lot these days. Perhaps it’s not so far-fetched after all. It seems I’m well on my way to becoming someone else, anyone else but me—already I don’t want to recognize myself in the mirror. How long before I actually can’t?
Sometimes I don’t even want friends recognizing me. Especially when I’m not in the mood to be boo-hooed or when I’m weary of wearing my health on my sleeve. These can be lonely times indeed. Thank goodness for strangers—they break the ice of my isolation with their liberating ignorance of who I used to be. When they meet me for the first time, my current condition is the baseline, the ground zero of who they think I am. There are no comparisons. No remember whens. Just a fresh and friendly start. But my encounters with strangers can also be frustrating. People make all sorts of assumptions and judgments based on how one looks and talks and walks. They may not say anything, but I can see it on their faces. On such occasions, I would like to hand these people a “perception correction” card:
For Your Information:
This slow, limping, one-breasted, middle-aged dame was once a vibrant, healthy, and energetic woman.
I miss that woman I used to be, and I wonder who I am becoming.
STRIKING. EXOTIC. BEAUTIFUL. These are words people use to describe Naomi. As I stand next to her at the bathroom sink, she is all that and more. Creative. Insightful. Compassionate. Playful. And something new: confident. My heart soars with delight as she gazes at her reflection in the mirror, brushes her teeth, watches me brushing mine. This self-assurance suits her—she stands taller and smiles more often. I have never seen her so comfortable in her own skin.
We head downstairs in our pajamas. Bergen is multitasking in the kitchen: making pancakes, coffee, and fruit salad for our breakfast while reading the Saturday paper and listening to the BBC TV news with special headphones my father sent him that allows him to rush back and forth between flipping pancakes and watching compelling images on the TV. I’ve learned from experience that getting too close to Bergen in the morning while he’s wearing these headphones is hazardous to my health. Once bumped, twice shy—I wait for him to take them off before we kiss.
After breakfast, we all relax in the living room. Naomi curls up on the couch with a book, I do my stretches on the floor, and Bergen sits in a chair with Nellie on his lap. We talk about Naomi’s new teachers, her weekend homework, and, of course, her new friends. She is keen to inform us which of them are straight or gay or bi.
Then she says, “Remember when I told you I was bisexual? I only said that because I was afraid of your reaction if I told you the truth, that I’m gay.”
Without missing a beat, Bergen exclaims, “Great!”
Then I say, “Straight, bisexual, or gay—it doesn’t change anything. We love you.”
Naomi looks at us with a serene expression on her face, hugs Bergen and then me.
We didn’t tell her that we’ve known this for some time and were waiting for her to share “the news” when she was ready.
“I’m out to all my friends,” she smiles, “and I’ve joined the GSA.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The Gay-Straight Alliance. It’s a club at school. All high schools have one.”
We talk some more about sexual orientation and about our own friends and colleagues who are gay. It brings us all closer together. It also brings me to the brink of tears. Naomi and I are at such different phases of life—her sexuality is blossoming, while mine is being dismantled.
MY PANIC ALARM is broken and I can’t turn it off. The dread drones on and on—when I sleep, when I wake, when I read or eat or walk. Even when I dial the phone.
I call an old acquaintance I haven’t seen in years—Cicely, the breast cancer oncologist. She knows all about panic buttons and, though recently retired, offered to help me prepare for my oncologist appointment at the BC Cancer Agency. So on a quiet Sunday morning, Bergen and I go to her house with my file and a long list of questions: What are the risks and benefits of chemo and radiation treatment? Can chemo exacerbate Parkinson’s disease? Does the fact that none of my removed lymph nodes were cancerous affect what treatment is recommended? What are my risks of cancer recurring with or without chemo or radiation? Since Little Lump and Big Blob were both estrogen positive, what hormone therapy options are available? What are the benefits and risks of hormone therapy? Are there certain estrogen-containing foods I should avoid? What if I want a second opinion?
Cicely answers all my questions with patience and precision. She explains the treatments my oncologist would likely offer me: chemo, radiation, Tamoxifen hormone therapy, and induced menopause (through chemo, medication, or surgery). She also reminds me that whatever is recommended, ultimately it is my choice. I can accept or decline any or all treatments. And having worked at the cancer agency, she shares some insider information: every Friday afternoon, a group of oncologists convene to discuss their unusual or challenging files. This is called a case conference. Given that I have Parkinson’s and my tumors were at different stages, I can ask for a case conference and get an enhanced second opinion.
At the end of the visit, we thank Cicely for this oncological dress rehearsal and tell her what a difference it makes to our comfort level. With a clearer idea of what to expect during my upcoming meeting with the oncologist, my overwhelming panic has downgraded to manageable anxiety. We hug good-bye, and she wishes me well, handing me the notes she’s made from reading my file. And as we drive away, I watch her standing on the front porch, one hand waving, the other hand holding a jar of Bergen’s homemade kiwi jam.
THE NIGHT BEFORE my appointment with the oncologist, I am wound up with worry and in desperate need of distraction. Bergen suggests we escape to the movies for some comic relief. “How about Woody Allen’s new film, Vicky Christina Barcelona?”
“That means I’d have to get out of these pajamas and put on some real clothes,” I whine.
“That’s right. I’ll help you,”
Soon I’m wearing what will become my post-mastectomy uniform—jeans and a loose-fitting blouse with a scarf strategically draped around my collar to conceal my vacant lot.
This is our first evening out since my surgery—just the two of us. Once we’ve bought our tickets, the mouthwatering aroma of popcorn lures us into the lobby, where I immediately have second thoughts. What am I doing here? This is crazy! People and popcorn stream by. I snuggle up close to Bergen, not because I’m feeling romantic, but because I’m feeling neurotic and self-conscious. What if someone accidentally elbows me in the chest? What if I bump into someone I know and my Cry Lady
makes a scene? I don’t tell Bergen what I’m thinking, but he knows that I’m nervous.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Everything’s going to be OK.” I take a deep breath, and while exhaling I spot Michelle and Honey. They’re old friends of Bergen’s, and judging by the expressions on their faces, they are surprised to see me alive. There’s a round of hugs and hellos, and then Bergen says, “I’ll be right back,” and heads to the washroom, leaving us ladies alone to chat.
Michelle stuffs her hands in her pockets, gives me a nervous smile, then bravely asks, “How are you? I heard about your diagnosis.”
“I’m doing OK,” I say, aware of a slight tingling sensation in my eyes.
“When was your surgery?” Honey wants to know.
“About a month and a half ago. The beginning of August,” I say, determined not to cry.
“Wow! You look great,” Michelle says.
“Thanks,” I reply, strategizing how best to keep those unwanted tears at bay. Poke my eyes out? Pass. Let out a primal scream? Not in the mood. Play a practical joke? It’s worth a try.
I spot Bergen in the distance. “Here he comes,” I say.
We all turn our heads toward the rear of the lobby and watch him weave through the crowd toward us.
“Do me a favor,” I whisper, keeping a straight face. “Please don’t mention my mastectomy to Bergen. I haven’t told him yet.”
Michelle and Honey freeze in place, their eyes bulging out at me, then at each other, then back at me. I can almost hear their voices inside their heads: “Why hasn’t she told him? What kind of husband doesn’t notice a missing breast?” These precious fleeting seconds of deception fill me with joy—it’s comforting to know that my hoodwinking habit still works as well as it did when I had two tits. When Bergen rejoins our group, there’s an awkward silence. And then I start to laugh.
Most of Me Page 13