Most of Me

by Robyn Michele Levy

  The ladies are happy to see me, and I’m happy to see them—even Cantankerous Woman, who seems to be mellowing out as weeks go by (perhaps this is because Little Old Lady has dropped out of the group). Chantal is as radiant and patient as always, and this time she brings her guitar. She leads us in a musical meditation, her voice so sweet and healing. And then we form our circle and one by one take turns talking.

  We are all on the same journey but at different stages. Our concerns range from coping with chemo to preparing loved ones for our demise. Somehow we always end up talking about food—recipes, nutrition, cooking, gardening. I think it’s our way to nurture hope.

  9

  The Comeback Mama

  DECEMBER IS OVER. The forecast calls for flurries of sawdust and trips to the hardware store. Expect low-pressure visits with friends followed by unsettling postponements of surgery. There is a 50 percent chance of going to the Overbites’ debut performance. Flossing advisory in effect.

  Holiday celebrations fell through the cracks this year. There was no Christmas tree or Hanukkah menorah, no roasted turkey or potato latkes. And instead of buying each other gifts, we agreed to splurge on one family present: a big-screen TV. This sounds deceptively simple, but it wasn’t. And it’s all because of Hildi.

  When she was here in the summer, Bergen asked for her professional opinion about our unfinished family room. In a matter of seconds, Hildi told him what to do: “First, rotate the couches 180 degrees, so they face the fireplace, not the back wall. Then renovate the hideous fireplace. Make it simple and classy. And install a flat-screen TV above it.”

  Bergen’s face lit up with joy—Hildi’s advice was more than music to his handyman ears; it was the authoritative voice of an angel commanding him, “Go forth and renovate.”

  He started the very next day and has been at it for months. Tearing out the ugly old bricks. Building a custom cedar mantel with shelves. Installing sleek black tiles. Insulating the wall. Doing the electrical wiring. Shopping for a TV. Installing it above the fireplace. It’s not even finished, and it looks fabulous. So does Craig Ferguson on a fifty-inch screen.

  The day before my surgery, the hospital calls. Apparently, I’ve been bumped. They reschedule me for the following week, and I get bumped again. Now I have to wait another three weeks. I feel as fragile as the eggs in my ovaries. I wish the surgery was over easy.

  The next three weeks I try to keep busy. There’s shopping with Gloria; dinner with Linda one night and Brian and Gillian another; lunch with Joey; visits with Diana and Betina. There’s also massages with Jessica, electrolysis treatments with Diane, a checkup with Dr. Mintz, a follow-up with Dr. Chung, and an appointment with Dr. Young, my psychiatrist. I see him every two months or so—not for therapy—just to monitor my mood and prescribe my antidepressants.

  When I arrive at his building, I experience elevator amnesia. I go up and down so many elevators I can’t remember which floor he’s on. The office directory is in the lobby, mounted on a wall. It’s a large silver metal board, and all the names and organizations are stenciled in black. At the top I spot the first three letters of his name: Dr. You. Fourth floor.

  “How’s Robyn today?” he asks.

  “I’m doing OK,” I answer. “How are You?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “I see you’ve changed your name.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve lost your N and G on the building directory. It says Dr. You.”

  “Oh, that,” he sighs. “Someone picked off the letters.”

  “Are you going to replace them?” I ask.

  “Nah, why bother?” He sighs once more. “Someone will only pick them off again.”

  I’m about to say, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all day,” but he changes the subject. “How have things been going since I saw you last?” So I brief him about the delayed surgery, my trip to Toronto, and Dolores. And we talk about my moods and my meds. When it’s time to go, he hands me a refill prescription, and I take the elevator down. Poor Dr. You, I say to myself, walking past the directory. Maybe next time I’ll bring him the letters N and G.

  EVEN THOUGH BERGEN and I live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, listen to the same radio programs, and read the same newspaper, sometimes it feels as if we’re living in different worlds—physically, mentally, and emotionally. While this isn’t surprising (I have Parkinson’s disease, after all), it is still shocking to discover new barriers that restrict my access to his world—the world we once shared.

  The latest barrier appeared the other day. Bergen had gone shopping and came home with a brand-new set of matching plastic food containers. It was the industrial design of the lids that sold him: hinged flaps on all four sides, guaranteed to lock in freshness and prevent leaks. We used them for the first time after dinner. While he filled one of the containers with leftover pasta, I filled another one with leftover broccoli. He closed his lid, and I attempted to close mine. But my fingers couldn’t exert enough pressure, let alone find the right position, to force down the flaps.

  Trying to be helpful, Bergen offered me advice on how to use my mechanical advantage. Trying to be hopeful, I followed his advice, clumsily grasped the lid, and fumbled some more. Then I did what any self-respecting forty-five-year-old woman would do—I burst into tears.

  “There, there,” Bergen consoled me, hugging me tight.

  “You forgot about my fingers,” I sobbed.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” I said, glaring down at the open drawer of perfectly stacked matching containers. “I hate this fucking disease! And I hate these fucking containers!” I kicked the drawer shut with my good leg, then stepped into the bathroom and blew my nose. To my horror, high-pitched honks wailed out of my nostrils, as loud and obnoxious as those noisemakers people toot on New Year’s Eve.

  “What was that sound?” Bergen called out.

  “Me,” I answered, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, tears streaming down my face. “It’s my Tupperware party and I’ll cry if I want to.”

  VALENTINE’S DAY is fast approaching, and if everything goes according to plan, I know exactly what I’m getting. Nothing predictable like decadent chocolates or slinky lingerie. And nothing pampering like a day at a swanky spa. Nope. This Valentine’s day I get “bed rest and morphine.” That’s because on February 12 a surgeon will remove my ovaries and fallopian tubes. A procedure I’m told is quick and easy and safe, highly unlikely to result in any accidental damage to my adjacent vital organs (listed in the hospital waiver I signed in triplicate).

  The clinical term for this operation is “oopherectomy,” but it sounds really sexy when you pronounce it with a heavy French accent, as in “OOff-urr-eck-tum-mee.” Of course this leads to instant menopause, but that’s sexy too, right?

  I have three friends who have survived this life-altering operation. The first is Zoë. When I asked her how this surgery affected her, she said life in the instant menopause lane was hell for about three years. Sue is the second friend, and she, like me, was diagnosed with estrogen positive breast cancer last year. She had her oopherectomy one month ago. Sue told me the operation went well—that is, until the surgeon inadvertently nicked her bladder. Fortunately, she recovered not only from this surgery (and fluke accident) but also from a double mastectomy a couple of weeks later.

  At this point, it would only be natural to be filled with trepidation. But thanks to my third friend, who happens to be my spayed dog, Nellie, I’m feeling optimistic. Not only did she survive an oopherectomy and a hysterectomy, but she also survived an entire week of public humiliation wearing one of those obnoxious plastic lampshade cones around her head. Something I hope to avoid. After all, unlike my dog, I will promise my doctor not to lick my stitches.

  But life doesn’t always go according to plan. My surgery date might get bumped for the third time, thereby leaving my reproductive organs intact a little longer. Or Dr. Gregory House might reach out fro
m our fifty-inch plasma TV screen, pull me into his cantankerous diagnostic world, and perform my oopherectomy strung out on Vicodin, after which we go limping off together into the high-definition Hollywood sunset. Either way, one thing’s for sure: compared with coping with Parkinson’s disease and breast cancer, instant menopause is sure to be a breeze.

  THE HOSPITAL didn’t bump me. It’s all systems go. I know the preoperative drill: put on the gown; get poked, prodded, and primed; remind Bergen of my final wish.

  “If I die, promise me you’ll burn my old diaries—if you find them.”

  “I promise,” he says, squeezing my hand. “And you’re not going to die.”

  My Cry Lady is on standby; she’s waiting for her cue, holding a white tissue in her hand. She waves it in surrender when a dark-haired doctor walks in.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Mazgani. I’ll be performing your surgery.”

  “Hi,” I say. “You’ve done this before, I hope.”

  “Many times,” she assures me with a quick smile.

  Her face is round and friendly. Her hospital scrubs fit like pajamas.

  She touches my shoulder, looks me in the eyes, and says, “We’re almost ready to begin.”

  A hospital orderly appears by my bed and unlocks the wheels one by one, and then I’m rolling slowly away with Bergen’s kiss, down a corridor, into an operating room. Au revoir, ovaries . . . Farewell, fallopian tubes . . . Parting—with more parts—is such sweet sorrow.

  I WAKE UP groggy and sore and stiff as a board, with nurses on one side and Dr. Mazgani on the other. She leans over me and says, “Hi, Robyn. Everything went really well.”

  “Great,” I groan, feeling slightly nauseated.

  “Where’s Bergen?”

  “He’s on his way,” she assures me.

  I drift in and out of consciousness, catching snippets of conversation. Something about someone with low blood pressure. At some point I open my eyes and see Bergen smiling. “I told you that you wouldn’t die.”

  What a relief—I’m not only alive, I’m still recognizable.

  “How do I look, now that I’m down to one tit and a uterus?”

  “Beautiful,” Bergen says.

  Compared with a mastectomy, an oopherectomy is minimally invasive. I imagine it’s like being probed by aliens. A tiny wandlike camera—called a laparoscope—is inserted into the abdomen through tiny incisions, and then the ovaries and fallopian tubes are fished out. This procedure is considered day surgery, and patients are generally sent home a couple of hours after recovery. But not me. My blood pressure is quite low, so they keep me in hospital until it rises enough that I don’t faint when standing up. It’s the end of the day when I’m finally discharged.

  WE’VE ARRANGED for Naomi to sleep at a friend’s house tonight to spare her from seeing me in this decrepit state: Tin Man stiff, depressed as hell, watching TV while waiting for the painkillers to kick in. Bergen is cooking dinner for just the two of us. When it’s ready, he helps me walk upstairs—I’m still dizzy and shaky on my feet.

  “Oh, the table looks beautiful,” I say.

  He’s lit candles and plated the food. He’s even set out napkins with the cutlery. All that’s missing is a violinist. Without a doubt, this is the most romantic postsurgery dinner I’ve ever had.

  I take a bite of broccoli and a forkful of rice. Bergen does the same. And then suddenly I am hit by a tsunami of emotion and burst into uncontrollable tears. Heaving sobs ripple through me. I can barely catch my breath.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I sputter, hoping Bergen will say something soothing to calm me down.

  But then his lip begins to quiver, he slumps back in his chair, and he starts crying too. Whatever I’ve got must be contagious.

  Then along comes Nellie, her big brown eyes darting back and forth, her pink tongue panting rhythmically, her stubby tail wagging with delight. The crying continues; the food grows cold; Nellie disappears. Then we hear a stream of squeaks and squawks under the table. It’s Nellie—accompanying our duet, improvising on her squeaky toy, chomping it in her mouth. The more we cry, the faster she squeaks, until we are sobbing and laughing hysterically at the same time, releasing weeks of pent-up tension and stress. Eventually Nellie drops her toy and curls up by our feet, quiet and content—our cue to settle down and finish dinner.

  RECOVERING FROM this latest surgery is easier than last time—at least for me. But not for Bergen. Even though there’s no massive scar, no bloody drain, and no new damage to my limbs, my body feels battered and fatigued. So I spend most of my time resting and requesting. There’s no shortage of things to ask for: scrambled eggs, almond butter on toast, chicken noodle soup, home fries, roasted chicken, beans and rice, salad and fruit, juice and tea and water. I keep Bergen busy beyond belief. And not just in the kitchen. The phone has been ringing off the hook, and Bergen is my answering machine. He’s also my doorman—welcoming visitors, accepting deliveries of flowers, gift baskets, and books.

  I am so grateful for Bergen’s support. I always say please and thank you. But he deserves much more than that. In fact, had I known my expunged organs would lead to another generous shower of presents, I would have signed up at Home Depot’s gift registry. So instead of sending me “get well” roses or “speedy recovery” gourmet snacks, family and friends could have sent him “we appreciate you” power tools or rechargeable batteries or an assortment of nails and screws—anything a handyman might desire when he’s not tending to what’s left of his wife. It’s too late to register now, but if I ever require more of me removed, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

  MY NEIGHBOR HELEN drops by this morning with another one of her beautiful fruit salads.

  “Thank you so much,” I say, admiring the colorful mix of delicately chopped apples, pears, pineapple, banana, grapes, and strawberries.

  I can see a pattern emerging: the more body parts I lose, the more fruit salads Helen gives. I’d hate to jinx this winning streak, so I make a mental note: exempt Helen from the Home Depot gift registry notification plan.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Pretty good, my energy is coming back slowly.”

  “Did you know that Will’s band is performing next week? It’s a Battle of the Bands fundraiser for the dentistry school student yearbook society.”

  “Who are they competing against?”

  “Oh, this band of young dentistry students. It should be fun.”

  “I’d love to come out to the show.”

  “Maybe you’ll be feeling better by then,” Helen smiles.

  “I hope so,” I say. Every band needs a one-breasted groupie.

  EVERYONE WANTS to know how I’m doing—I’ve got a glut of e-mails and phone calls to return. I just don’t have the energy to reply to each relative and friend individually. So I e-mail them this update:

  Hi everyone.

  I survived my oopherectomy and learned some valuable lessons:

  1 That old expression “Never trust a stranger” doesn’t apply to surgeons. Because early Thursday morning I met Dr. Mazgani, and within one hour I let this perfect stranger (albeit a qualified one) poke holes in my abdomen and yank out my ovaries and fallopian tubes.

  2 Contrary to rumors I’d heard down at the cancer agency, there is no Ovary Fairy! I know this for a fact because I tucked my organs under my pillow the other night, and when I woke up in the morning, they were still there. (I was secretly hoping I’d strike it rich, because last summer the Breast Fairy was very generous after my mastectomy.)

  3 So far, instant menopause isn’t so bad—a hot flash here, a mood swing there—here a beard, there a mustache, everywhere extra hair . . .

  4 I’ve kept the promise I made to my surgeon—that I wouldn’t lick my stitches—but maybe I should have promised that my stitches wouldn’t be licked. By anyone. Or anything. Anyway, I forgive my dog, Nellie, and have warned her if she does it again, I’ll take that obnoxious plastic lampshade cone off my head and mak
e her wear it.

  5 Generally speaking, I believe in free speech. But for the foreseeable future, I’ve banned that three-letter word that chickens lay from being spoken in our house. Bergen and Naomi are happy to comply, if it makes me feel better. Which goes to show there’s a sunny side up to everything. Even censorship.

  6 This is my first year celebrating Valentine’s Day as a breast cancer survivor. And even though I only have one breast left, I’m grateful to still be here in this downsized body of mine, surrounded by so much love and compassion. Makes me want to stick around for more.

  THE GOOD THING about having two simultaneous diseases is I’m spared from wallowing in either one too long. Following the rhythm of doctor appointments and surgical procedures, I swing back and forth between breast cancer and Parkinson’s disease.

  Today I have a follow-up appointment with my neurologist, Dr. Stoessl. It was booked six months ago, and yesterday his secretary called to remind me.

  “Remember,” she said, “don’t be late or Dr. Stoessl won’t see you.”

  And I thought, imagine that, a doctor who goes blind when his patients are late. Poor thing. So I assured her I’d be on time, and in fact I arrive early.

  Even though there are no decorations or balloons or cake and ice cream, meetings with my neurologist remind me of a child’s birthday party. That’s because there are plenty of games and activities—and I get to be the center of attention! We play “tap the patient’s impaired reflexes” and “try to move the patient’s rigid left arm.” Then we play hand-eye coordination games such as “try to touch the doctor’s moving finger” and “copy the doctor’s well-rehearsed intricate hand movements.” At this point, the partylike atmosphere turns a little sour, since I always lose and my neurologist always wins these contests. But pretty soon things brighten up thanks to the Beck Depression Inventory. Here’s a sample from this uplifting multiple-choice questionnaire: