Most of Me

by Robyn Michele Levy

  We sit quietly for a while, and then Theresa adds, “I’ll be going on mat leave in a few months. I’ve just started telling my clients. I want you to know that even though I won’t be coming to the clinic, you can call me on the phone at home if you want to talk. I’d also be happy to recommend another therapist who does similar work.”

  I feel a rush of excitement for her and sadness for myself. Theresa has played such a pivotal role in my life this past year, helping me cope with so many challenges. I can’t imagine finding a replacement, but I’m not sure that I need to. I feel our work is almost complete. Knowing now that she’s having a baby, I am happy that the painting I gave her in exchange for all these sessions would be perfect for a child’s room.

  Several days later, on a Friday afternoon, I get a call from Dr. Lohrisch. “I have some news regarding your case conference.”

  “OK,” I say nervously, feeling my anxiety level rising. What advice will her colleagues give me, and will I heed this advice?

  “At this morning’s meeting, we discussed your treatment options, and it turns out that the majority of oncologists are not recommending chemotherapy for you.”

  “The majority?” I feel stunned and relieved, like a death-row prisoner who has just been granted clemency.

  “That’s right,” she says.

  “Do you still recommend chemo?”

  “I do. But it’s your choice. You’ve still got some time to decide.”

  “I need to talk it over with my husband. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

  “Actually, I’m going on vacation for a couple weeks. So once you’ve made up your mind, call my assistant and let her know. OK?”

  “OK,” I say. “Thanks for calling. And enjoy your vacation.”

  Once I hang up the phone, I rush downstairs to Bergen’s office and tell him the news. He is delighted and curious. “So, what did Dr. Lohrisch say were the reasons for not doing chemo?”

  “She didn’t say,” I reply sheepishly.

  “You mean you didn’t ask?” Bergen laughs.

  “I forgot. But I wish I’d asked. It would help us make the final decision.”

  “Well, I’m sure you can call her back.”

  “Nope. She’s gone on vacation.”

  “Then here’s what I suggest. On Monday, we’ll call the cancer agency and see if we can speak with one of the oncologists who was at the case conference.”

  “That’s a good idea. Let’s think of any other questions we might have, OK?”

  Over dinner, we jot down the following: What are the reasons for not recommending chemo? Did my having Parkinson’s influence the recommendations? What’s the latest research on breast cancer survivors who don’t get chemo?

  When Monday morning rolls around, I call Dr. Lohrisch’s office. The assistant squeezes me in for an appointment that same afternoon with the oncologist who chaired my case conference.

  After lunch, Bergen and I drive to the cancer agency. A nurse leads us into an examining room. Eventually, there’s a knock on the semiclosed door, followed by a handsome head with sparkling blue eyes peering into the room.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Dr. Kennecke.”

  Then the rest of him—dressed impeccably in a tailored suit and dashing tie—steps inside and shakes our hands. For a moment, I imagine we are at a fashion photo shoot, not a cancer consultation.

  “I understand you have some questions about your case conference,” he says, sitting down across from us. I catch a glimpse of his colorful patterned socks and beautiful leather shoes.

  “I really didn’t want chemotherapy, and I’m very happy that you and the other oncologists don’t recommend it. Is this because I have Parkinson’s?”

  “Actually, no. This decision was based on the fact that your cancer was caught early, you’ve had a mastectomy, there were no traces of cancer in your lymph nodes, and your cancer is estrogen positive. Based on the most recent research, we felt that ovarian suppression and Tamoxifen hormone therapy alone would suffice. In other words, there would be no advantage in your case to adding chemotherapy.”

  We talk further about ovarian suppression, and I say I would prefer surgery to remove my ovaries instead of shutting them down over several years with monthly chemical injections. I agree to start Tamoxifen right away.

  Next, Dr. Kennecke examines my chest, armpits, and lymph nodes. Palpating the skin surrounding my scar, he asks, “Have you thought about taking the other one off?”

  Flattered by his compliment, I reply, “No, actually you’re the first one to mention it. Should I be thinking of this?”

  “It’s something to consider down the road.”

  As I get dressed, Bergen asks Dr. Kennecke, “Any significant breakthroughs in the latest breast cancer research?”

  Dr. Kennecke smiles and describes some promising studies in Europe that he’s following and tells us that he also does research here at the agency. I am impressed and ask, “Would you be my oncologist?”

  He smiles politely and assures me that would be fine.

  “I was supposed to start chemo next week.”

  “I’ll cancel your chemo appointments for you.”

  Over the next few days, I tell family and friends the good news that the majority of oncologists don’t recommend chemo and I am following their advice. The only person who questions my decision is my dad. I can hear him thinking over the phone line, and then he says, “Are you sure? Everybody’s doing it.” And for him, this is true—many older relatives and his friends in Toronto are undergoing chemo treatment. So I explain the reasons behind this decision, and in the end he understands. And if he still has doubts that I’m making the best choice, he keeps them to himself.

  8

  Travels with Dolores

  BACK WHEN I HAD TWO, it never occurred to me to give my breasts special names. I simply referred to them as “right one” and “left one.” But now that I only have “left one” left, I regret this omission. It’s not that I’m feeling sentimental. Or morbid. I just think that well-chosen names would better convey my deep love and appreciation for my bosom buddies. After all, as a team they were precocious (early bloomers), ambitious (outgrowing cup size after cup size), flirtatious (ooh-la-la), vivacious (putting wow! into my womanhood), industrious (nursing my baby), suspicious (nipple radar, detecting danger a mile away), and, of course, courageous (battling cancer). Now that the two are separated, I am compelled to honor them properly by renaming them. But so far the perfect words elude me.

  In the meantime, my first falsie, the one I bought right after my mastectomy, has worn out its welcome. I’m ready to upgrade from an egg-shaped escape artist to a breast-shaped impersonator.

  The saleswoman at the lingerie shop assures me that fitting survivors with natural-looking prostheses is her specialty. “Would you mind if I take a look at your breast?” she asks.

  We step inside a change room, and I remove my top. She bends down to nipple level, studies my tit from different angles and exclaims, “I know exactly what you need.”

  She heads to the stockroom and returns with a square box and several styles of post-mastectomy bras. The prosthesis is fleshy-pink and spongy, with a slight protruding nipple for effect. It weighs about as much as my real breast and slips into a built-in pocket in the bra cup. Soon I am standing in front of a three-way mirror, wearing the impostor underneath my shirt and enjoying the illusion of having two tits. So is the saleslady.

  “It’s a perfect match,” she declares.

  And I agree. This illusion costs an arm and a leg, but I don’t blink an eye as I hand over my credit card with a smile. Money can’t buy happiness. But it can sure buy breast prostheses.

  I never intended to name this plastic impostor. It just sort of happened. I was talking on the phone to Lisa, telling her about my new purchase, and she said, “I knew this woman who also had a mastectomy. She would wear her prosthesis when she was out in public, but when she got home, she would take it off and
leave it somewhere in the house. And whenever she was getting dressed to go out, she would frantically search her home for her mislaid prosthesis, shouting out, “Dolores, Dolores, where are you?” This story made me laugh, something I hadn’t done in a while.

  I took this as a sign and began calling my own prosthesis Dolores. The name fits, and I like the way it rolls off my tongue. Dolores. It sounds contemplative. Dolores. It sounds musical. And just the other day our friend Hank, who is coincidentally married to a woman named Dolores, told me that Dolores means “sorrowful” in Spanish. Which I am—and so is the “left one” left behind. He also gave me his blessing to name a second prosthesis—should I ever require one—after him. Touched by his thoughtfulness, I gave Hank a hug and promised to put his name at the top of my list.

  I DECIDE IT’S TIME to go to Toronto to visit family and friends. I can’t arrive empty-handed or empty-chested, so I’m bringing along gifts and Dolores. Before I board the plane, all these items must be checked off the list:

  · Have session with psychiatrist, Dr. Young.

  · Get radioactive bone scan at cancer agency.

  · Attend cancer support group meeting.

  · Meet with surgeon re: prophylactic removal of my ovaries.

  · Get massage with Jessica.

  · Have session with Theresa.

  · Get mustache zapped.

  · Get haircut and color touch-up.

  I manage to get everything done so that if I die in a plane crash, I’ll die medicated, mollified, mustache-free, relaxed, radioactive, proactive, and coiffed.

  It turns out that Dolores loves to fly. Preparing for departure, she’s as bubbly as champagne, whereas I am queasy and convinced we’re going to crash.

  “Don’t be silly,” Dolores giggles as the plane taxis down the runway, “I predict a perfect takeoff.”

  As the engine starts its roar, the cabin shakes and the flight attendants take their seats. Any minute now we’ll be airborne: exactly how, I haven’t a clue. But I know words like “thrust” and “throttle” play a role. If Bergen were here, he’d explain the physics of flight, and I’d pretend to understand. Then he’d pretend that he believes me and recommend an article in his latest Scientific American. But it’s just Dolores and me and a barf bag and my stash of Ativan ascending into the cumulus clouds.

  Once we reach our cruising altitude, the ride smoothes out and I finally relax. Hunger displaces nausea, and I nibble on some snacks while Dolores takes a nap. I catch up on some reading, then watch satellite TV.

  The pilot interrupts and says, “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. We’re heading into some turbulence, and for your safety we ask that you return to your seats and kindly fasten your seatbelts.”

  Then I think I hear him say, “And if your name is Robyn Michele Levy, we ask that you take an Ativan right about now.”

  So I do. There’s a chorus of clicks as passengers buckle up. Mine is already on, but I double check to be sure. And then we start to rock and roll. Drinks are sloshing, pretzels are rolling, overhead compartments are flipping open, lights are flickering off and on. This is it; we’re going down. I nervously bite my lip and rub my fingers over my chin.

  Dolores wakes up and calmly says, “Don’t worry. This will pass. I predict a safe flight.”

  What does she know? Who does she think she is? A prophetic prosthetic tit? That’s when my fingers find it—a stubbly hair at the base of my chin. Damn! My beautician missed this one. I don’t want to die with a starter beard. Suddenly the turbulence stops and the seatbelt light turns off. Soon we begin our descent.

  “Don’t tell me,” I say to Dolores, “you predict a smooth landing.”

  My dad picks me up at the airport. “You look great,” he says, giving me a hug and kiss hello.

  “So do you,” I tell him as he elbows me out of the way, insisting that he push the luggage cart to the car. When he opens the trunk, all hell breaks loose—it’s a Parkinsonian free-for-all.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Battle of the Bag. Introducing . . . first . . . near the left taillight . . . weighing 155 pounds . . . turning seventy years old . . . sporting a frozen shoulder and a sciatic leg . . . rated as the best luggage schlepper of the last decade . . . the one and only Daddy Gordoon. And his opponent . . . near the right taillight . . . weighing 125 pounds . . . clocking in at a mere forty-four years of age . . . sporting one tit and two ovaries slated for surgical removal . . . rated as the worst luggage schlepper in the family . . . the one and only Disintegrating Daughter. On your mark . . . get set . . . go slow!”

  My dad and I duke it out, sluggishly, but in the end it takes two of us to lift my heavy suitcase and heave it into the trunk. For now, it’s a tie. But I’m sure we’ll battle again when he drops me off at Lisa’s.

  LISA’S HOME is my home away from home. It’s where I stay whenever I come to town. When we pull into the driveway, she bursts out the front door, her curly hair dancing around the collar of her shirt. It’s raining lightly, just like it is back in Vancouver, but here it’s colder and more convincing that winter is on its way. She gives me a big shivery hug, and my chin disappears in a clump of frizzy curls.

  “You’re still short,” I mumble into the top of her head.

  “Yep, I still am.” She laughs.

  Then she gives me a final squeeze before turning to greet my dad—my dear, competitive dad, who was taking advantage of our distraction to sneak my suitcase out of the car by himself (pre-empting the repeat tug-of-war I was expecting). It’s late in the evening, and he is anxious to get home.

  “Call me in the morning,” he says.

  Lisa helps me get settled in the guest room. While I get ready for bed, she brings us tea, and we begin our long-awaited face-to-face chat. Although my pajama top is loose fitting, the altered landscape of my chest is detectable. Sliding my hand over my vacant lot, I watch Lisa’s eyes take in their first viewing. I answer her questions about how I’m healing and dealing with the loss. Then, looking around, she asks, “Where is Dolores?”

  I point to a shelf next to the bed. “Shhhh. Dolores is already asleep,” I say, lifting the lid on her box so Lisa can peek inside. She leans over and takes a look.

  “Sweet dreams, Dolores,” she whispers. “You too, Robbie. See you in the morning.”

  FRUGALITY IS NOT my mother’s forte. She’s generous to a fault, especially when it comes to entertaining. She doesn’t just cook up a storm; she cooks up an entire weather system. For dinner one night she serves teriyaki salmon, sweet and sour meatballs, braised beef ribs, roasted potatoes and vegetables, rice pilaf, lasagna, chicken noodle soup, noodle pudding, breaded chicken, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, two salads, and, for dessert, chocolate cake, blueberry pie, and fruit salad. All this for only seven of us: my sister, her husband, their two kids, my dad, my mom, and me. As much as we all ate, we barely made a dent. There are enough leftovers to feed all the starving people in Toronto.

  So far, things are going better than I expected. Everyone is making nice. In fact, the only tension I feel is within myself. I’ve been worried my family might recoil in fear when they see the new and worsening me. But everyone is so busy and preoccupied—cleaning up, playing with toys, watching TV—I realize it would take more than a limp and a missing tit to get noticed around here. And nobody talks about the elephant in the room: the fact that my mom, my dad, and I all have medical problems.

  My dad says, “I just realized that you’ve lived exactly half your life here and the other half in Vancouver.”

  “Really?” I do the math in my head: born in 19 64, moved in 1986, and now its 2008. “You’re right. Twenty-two years in each city.”

  “It’s a long time to be away,” my dad sighs.

  “I know.”

  Being a long-distance daughter—sister, auntie, friend—has never been easy, and as the years have gone by it has taken its toll. There’s an ache in my heart for missing memories.

 
I devote the next day to my brother and sister. Getting together with them in person is a rare treat. It only happens when I come to town—once or twice a year. In a way, it’s like cramming for an exam as I try to deepen our connections and learn as much as possible about their lives and their children in such a short span of time.

  I spend the afternoon at Jonathan’s home. His wife, Ariella, makes the lunch, and Gabby makes the mess. He’s two years old and melts my heart with hugs and kisses and an uncanny resemblance to Jonathan when he was that age. He has the same big brown eyes, shape of mouth, curly head of hair, and hearty appetite. Stuffed from a feast of sushi and salads, we relax in the living room, listening to the Grateful Dead. Gabby hunts down the remote control and cranks up the volume, and soon he and Jonathan are dancing wildly on the carpet, spinning and gyrating and bobbing their heads.

  Ariella laughs and says, “They always do this. Gabby loves dancing.”

  When the show is over, Ariella makes a pot of tea and sets out a fruit platter. Gabby stuffs his mouth with strawberries while he and I construct colorful towers with his stacking blocks. They don’t last long—Gabby knocks most of them down with his strawberry-stained hands. After every successful demolition, his face lights up while he points at the scattered blocks he wants me to pick up.

  Eventually Gabby tires of this game, and I join Jonathan on the couch. He leans over, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and starts rubbing my shoulders and neck.

  “Are your muscles always this tight?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. That feels nice,” I mumble.

  “It’s great having you here, hanging out with us.”

  “I’m happy to be here.”

  “You sure seem a lot happier than the last time you came over.”

  “I am. Thank goodness for antidepressants. I probably should have started taking them years ago.”

  He continues massaging my neck and says, “It’s so weird that you and Dad both have Parkinson’s.”

  “I know.” What I don’t say, but what I’m sure he’s thinking, is that I hope he isn’t next in line. Of course, he’s already coping with this disease indirectly. He works with my dad in the insurance business, and although they each have their own clients, Jonathan now has the added responsibility of tending to my father’s files as his health declines.