Most of Me

by Robyn Michele Levy

  I’m supposed to take this medication three times a day, with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But sometimes I get distracted and forget to take a dose. That’s when I get even stranger. The first time this happened, I was standing by the stove, cooking pasta. The pot needed stirring, and as I went to pick up the spoon, my hand could barely move. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, I discovered my hand wasn’t the only immobile part of me. My entire body seemed stuck. There I was, standing rigidly erect, head cocked, arms stiff, muscles tight, heart pounding against flushed skin. And even though I don’t actually own one, I’ve seen enough of them to realize what I resembled: a giant penis with a robust erection. And if I didn’t take my medicine soon, I feared I might wind up like those unlucky men with long-lasting Viagra-induced erections, in need of medical attention. Not a pretty sight. But one that leaves a lasting impression.

  No doubt I left a lasting impression with Dr. Mazgani, the surgeon who performed my oopherectomy six months ago. Because she recognizes me out of context—here at the grocery store, standing beside the green beans, wearing street clothes—not in an operating room, lying down on a gurney, wearing a hospital gown. She smiles and asks how I am doing. While we chat, a wave of embarrassment sweeps over me, as I imagine how strange I must have looked at the hospital: I wasn’t on Parkinson’s meds yet, so my body was constantly rigid and stiff.

  There’s a lull in our conversation, and she wishes me well and says good-bye. Then, right on cue, a hot flash flares up, and I’m sweating like a pig, watching my surgeon disappear down the street. She seems like a nice woman, that Dr. Mazgani, even if she does have a strange job—yanking out ovaries and fallopian tubes, launching ladies into instant menopausal hell.

  SOME DAYS SLIP by without a focus, but these days a definite theme is emerging. Since I bumped into Dr. Mazgani yesterday and am scheduled for a follow-up with Dr. Chung this afternoon, I am officially declaring this week to be Surgeon Appreciation Week. The timing is perfect. My macaroon-baking phase has fizzled out. Now I’m cranking out banana breads. No one is complaining about this switch, though Bergen stills asks, “Is this for our family, or are you giving it away?”

  Today I tell him, “I’m baking this cake for Dr. Chung.”

  “Didn’t you bring her some banana bread last time?” he asks.

  “Yep. But just a piece.”

  “Are you sure she liked it?”

  “She mailed me a thank-you letter! For a piece of cake,” I beam.

  “Makes you wonder how she’ll respond when you give her a whole cake.”

  I soon find out.

  When I arrive for my appointment, the waiting room is packed. I carry the cake to the reception, to ask where it should go, but no one is at the desk. So I set it down on a table in the hall. It looks festive, covered in chocolate frosting and sprinkles. A few minutes later, the assistant returns, I give her my name, and she says, “Please have a seat, there are two people ahead of you.”

  A while later, I hear a door open, and a solemn couple leaves the office. Dr. Chung’s voice rings out, “Where did this come from?”

  “Where did what come from?” her assistant asks.

  “This. A cake.”

  I twist in my chair and watch Dr. Chung suspiciously inspecting my offering, as if it might contain a bomb.

  “I don’t know where it came from,” her assistant confesses.

  “Cakes don’t just appear out of nowhere,” Dr. Chung huffs, lifting one side of the serving platter up, causing the cake to tip.

  Afraid it might slide right off, I wave at her and say, “Hi, Dr. Chung. I brought the cake.”

  She looks over at me, and her face relaxes. “You did? Thank you.”

  Then she takes her next patient.

  When it’s my turn, Dr. Chung greets me with a great big smile.

  “Thank you so much for the cake; it’s very nice of you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She conducts her usual exam and assures me everything feels and looks normal.

  Then I ask her, “Do you bake?”

  Dr. Chung smiles sheepishly and says, “Not very often.”

  This doesn’t surprise me—she works such long hours, even on weekends. She once called me on a Sunday morning to tell me the results of my mammogram. I figure, for every cake she doesn’t bake, she probably saves one woman’s life.

  Next up is a visit with Zoë. The forecast calls for devastating deterioration and the brutal reality of breast cancer. Expect shortness of breath, shattered hopes, and gusts of grief. There is a 100 percent chance of palliative care.

  We are two one-breasted friends, sitting at her kitchen table on a Sunday afternoon. Zoë is wearing long pants and a sweater, a colorful knitted hat, matching gloves and socks, and her trademark smile. She is trying to stay warm, even in this hot weather. I wish I could harness the heat from my hot flashes and offer it to her. I also wish I had cooked her something useful—like oxygen soup or lung-inflating flan or miracle remission cookies—instead of banana bread and black bean stew. She’s having trouble breathing. Her cancer—or as she calls it, her “mets”—has spread to various parts of her body, including her lungs. One has partially collapsed. But she doesn’t dwell on this for long. She is still Zoë, after all, and nothing can quash her curiosity. So, while speaking is hard for her, not speaking is even harder.

  She wants to know the latest news about me, Bergen, Naomi, and Nellie. I fill her in about my superhero drug, Dopamine Agonist, good old Dolores, instant menopause, volunteering in breast cancer research studies, and my rekindled passion for writing. I tell her that my family is doing well and we are enjoying our summer. When I ask about her son and daughter, her face intermittently lights up and clouds over—every story and thought and feeling she shares about them is imbued with fierce love and the torment of leaving.

  Zoë’s pain medication is wearing off, and her thin, frail body needs to rest. As tired as she is, she walks me to the door. We hug good-bye, and our vacant lots momentarily fuse.

  “You are such a wonderful mother,” I hear myself say.

  These unplanned words pierce her heart, then ricochet into mine. We are stunned into silence. And then swept away by the past tense:

  You were . . . she was . . . they had . . . they will miss . . . Our good-bye drowns in grief.

  I’M DREAMING OF WINTER. All the typical things: snowstorms . . . icicles . . . sub-zero temperatures . . . extramarital affairs with snowmen. Anything to turn down the heat of these hot flashes. They’re brutal in the summer. And to think I used to love this season. Not anymore. Now I shun the sun and hate the heat. Menopause has changed me—right down to the molecular level.

  Feeling sexy is not easy to do with just one breast, especially in cleavage-flaunting weather, but wearing my plastic prosthesis in sweltering heat is not exactly titillating—and it might not even be safe. With all that trapped hot air, it becomes a fiery furnace raging within my sizzling bra. And I imagine all it would take is one menopausal hot flash to set off a chain reaction, and BOOM—another case of spontaneous human combustion.

  Of course, I’m doing what I can to prevent this calamity. Besides dreaming of winter, I’m also avoiding the sun, guzzling ice water, and taking cold showers.

  Every little bit helps. Which is why Dolores doesn’t mind staying tucked away in a shady drawer until autumn arrives. If only I could do the same. Together we’d escape this hellish summer and re-emerge when cooler temperatures, glorious gusts of wind, and tight-fitting sweaters prevail. Perfect conditions for us to make our sexy comeback.

  WHEN I WAS A KID, my favorite thing to do at the park was play on the swing set. I would fly back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—pumping my legs vigorously, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of invisible arcs etched in midair. It was never boredom that made me dismount. Only a full bladder could do that. Or someone else’s meddling mother determined to let her whining child have a turn.

  Eventually, I outgrew t
his childhood pastime. But since the Parkinson’s diagnosis, my preoccupation with swinging has swung back into my life—with a vengeance. And in the most peculiar way. No, I’m not the crazy lady hogging the best swing at the local playground. Not yet. For the time being, I’m the limping lady who doesn’t swing her left arm while out walking her dog. It’s not that I don’t try. Because I do. I’ve tried everything to get my stubborn appendage to budge.

  So far, pep talks and affirmations have flopped. Apparently, motivational phrases such as, “You can do it, oh powerful one; swing your arm like a pendulum” aren’t powerful enough to override the faulty wiring in my brain. Neither are guided meditations and visualizations—which I like to call naps. For a while I tried acupuncture and homeopathy. But the only upper-limb movement these treatments triggered was my good arm digging my wallet out of my purse and forking over way too much cash.

  Both physiotherapy and massage seemed promising, since treatments relax my tight muscles and reduce rigidity. And if you saw me walking down the street after one of these therapeutic sessions, you might notice my left arm getting into the swing of things. But that’s because I’m cheating. While my stiff arm is temporarily floppy like a rubber chicken, my right arm reaches across my chest and gives it the occasional push—giving the impression that it is swinging to and fro.

  There was a time I believed Nordic walking poles would be my savior. I imagined they were equipped with a high-tech mechanism that positions and propels arms to swing in perfect repetitive formation—right arm forward, left arm back, left arm forward, right arm back. I’d seen people gliding by me at the park, their hands gripping these lightweight poles, their arms swinging sweetly, steadily, inspirationally. So the other day, I bought myself a pair. I tested the right pole first, and to my delight, it worked like a charm. My right arm swung upwards, bending at the elbow, then stretched out, planting the pole firmly on the ground. The left pole was next. Gripping the handle, I expected it to propel my left arm through the same movement sequence. But instead, the pointy stick clumsily flailed about, randomly whacking at objects, pets, and people, including me. Heartbroken, I realized that one of us was defective. So I returned my Nordic savior back to the store for a full refund.

  It’s quite discouraging—no matter what I try, nothing gets my left arm swinging. Not even my Parkinson’s medication. But since I’m off to Toronto for a couple weeks, I’m hoping to try something on the wild side: a night out with my friend Belinda and her husband, at their swingers club. Because I hear anything can happen there—anything at all.

  Naomi and I are going to Toronto together. I have been looking forward to the two of us spending some time together. Away from the routine distractions of home. A chance to reconnect, build mother-daughter memories, discover common ground.

  Bergen drives us to the airport and says, “I’m missing you both already.” We give him good-bye hugs and kisses, then check our luggage and get our boarding passes.

  There is a long lineup at Security. This gives me plenty of time to practice looking innocent while hot flashes rage through my body and sweat pours down my flushed face. When it’s our turn, I watch our carry-on bags pass through the X-ray machine, while Naomi glides gracefully through the metal detector. The security guard gives me the nod, and as I walk toward him, he says, “Please remove your scarf.”

  “Welcome to the one-boob universe,” I mumble under my breath, remembering that I’d packed Dolores. I pass the test and go to collect my carry-on bag.

  “Is this yours?” a female guard asks, looking suspiciously at my knapsack.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Can you open it for me?”

  “Sure,” I say, unzipping the bag.

  The guard starts rummaging through my stuff, and when she finds a square box she grins. I say, “That’s Dolores.”

  “Who?” she asks, opening the lid.

  “Dolores. My prosthesis. I have only one breast.” I point to my vacant lot.

  “OK. You can go.”

  I pack up my bag and walk over to where Naomi has been waiting.

  “Well, that was fun,” I say.

  She smirks and says, “The security guard tried to pick me up. He asked for my passport, boarding pass, and phone number.”

  “Lucky you. The only number I get asked for is my health card number.”

  We laugh and walk to the waiting area. We may be going in the same direction, geographically, but we are clearly living in different time zones.

  WHENEVER I GO to Toronto, my dad always picks me up at the airport. Sometimes my mom comes along. But not this time—tonight he has passed the torch to my brother-in-law, Bob.

  We throw our luggage into the car and drive to my parents’ house. When my mom greets us at the front door, her electric-pink hair, jangling jewelry, sparkly outfit, floral perfume, and high-pitched squeals send me into sensory overload. This always happens when I haven’t seen her in a long time. But within a few minutes, I acclimatize to her stimulating presence.

  I wonder if she is also adjusting to mine. It might be just as jarring for her to see my deconstructed body, with its vacant lot and menopausal perspiration. If it is, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she does what she does best—puts on a brave, smiling face and launches into party-girl mode, squeezing out every ounce of fun she possibly can. And why not? Naomi and I are in town!

  My sister and her kids are in the family room. I give Fern a hug, while Kayla and Josh’s sweet voices ring out in unison: “Hi, Auntie Robyn.” I bend down for more hugs and kisses and marvel at how much they’ve grown. Kayla is now eight and Josh is five. Naomi walks into the room, and then it’s her turn to be embraced.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask my mom.

  “He was resting in the bedroom. He should be on his way down.”

  I step back into the hallway, and sure enough, there he is, slowly, cautiously, walking down the stairs.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, Robyn. Stick around; I’ll be there in a minute.”

  A Parkinson’s minute, I think. When he finally reaches the bottom, our hug transcends “hello” and conveys a depth of understanding and compassion that comes from being held captive by this cruel coincidence—a father and daughter, decades apart, united by dying neurons.

  “How was your flight?” he asks.

  “It was good. No turbulence,” I say.

  My dad smiles and asks, “Where’s Naomi?”

  Right on cue, she pops up by his side.

  “Hi, Zaidie,” she says, wrapping her arms around his stooped shoulders and giving him a kiss on his cheek.

  Parkinson’s is often called a designer disease. This sounds glamorous and chic—like a fashionable affliction you catch from wearing expensive clothes. But it’s not. There is nothing glamorous or chic about my wardrobe. Or the sickness. It turns out “designer disease” refers to the uniqueness of every patient’s affliction—from onset and variety of symptoms to the severity and rate of progression to the response and tolerance to medication.

  So while my dad and I have some similar symptoms, we are at different stages in the disease and respond differently to drug therapy. So far, I have been lucky. My antidepressants work wonders, and I tolerate Dopamine Agonist. My father is not as lucky. It took a while for him to find the right antidepressant. And since he had an adverse reaction to Dopamine Agonist, his neurologist prescribed Sinemet—the gold-standard medication (something I will require in the future).

  For a while, his meds kept him in good spirits and mobile enough to go to the office regularly, socialize with family and friends, play golf, travel with and without my mom, and enjoy life. But lately, his depression is creeping back, and his physical symptoms are getting worse. I’m saddened to see the extent of his decline tonight.

  “Who’s hungry?” my mom roars from the kitchen.

  “I hope Mom made enough food for all of us,” my dad jokes.

  We sit down at the table, and Naomi asks, “Where’s Uncle Jona
than, Auntie Ariella, and Gabby?”

  “They couldn’t make it tonight. But we’ll see them tomorrow,” my mom assures her while uncovering the serving platters and bowls. Then she kicks off dinner with rapid-fire questions: “Who wants some teriyaki salmon? Honey garlic ribs? Mashed potatoes? How about roasted vegetables? Corn on the cob? Rice? Kayla, I made you your favorite—spaghetti. There’s also sweet and sour chicken balls. Josh, I boiled you some plain hot dogs. Have some salad, Naomi. Robyn—you love my teriyaki salmon. Gord? Can you get some ginger ales from the fridge? Kayla and Josh—there’s no chocolate cake unless you eat your dinner.”

  We eat and talk and nibble some more. As usual, my mom doesn’t allow anyone in her kitchen—not even to help her clean up—so Naomi and I join Fern, Bob, and their kids in the family room. Together, we read books and draw pictures, while my mom tidies up and my dad dozes on the couch. Just like old times. It’s comforting to see that some things haven’t changed in the midst of so much that has.

  In the morning, we go out for breakfast to my dad’s favorite Jewish restaurant, Bagel World. The minute we walk in the door, my parents recognize half the people in the room. Everyone recognizes my mom and her hair. Some wave; others come over to say hello.

  “You remember my daughter Robyn? And this is our favorite oldest granddaughter, Naomi,” my parents beam.

  “The granddaughter from Vancouver?” they all ask.

  “Oy, is she gorgeous!” some add.

  The waitress seats us in a corner booth. Naomi and I look at the menu, but my parents don’t bother—they already know what they want. We order our breakfasts—bagels, omelets, grilled cheese sandwiches, fruit salad, juice, and coffee.

  “When did you start drinking coffee?” my mom asks Naomi.