Most of Me

by Robyn Michele Levy

  “This year,” she says, her fingers wrapped around her cup.

  As she takes a sip, I watch both my parents smile. They have just learned something new about their long-distance granddaughter, the one they long to know more about.

  “Tell us about some of your friends,” my mom says.

  “What did you ask? I can’t hear you,” my dad blurts out.

  “I asked about her friends,” my mom says.

  He leans forward, hoping to hear the conversation.

  “The crowd I hang out with is really diverse,” Naomi answers. “I have one friend who is transitioning.”

  “Transitioning from what? High school to university?” my mom asks.

  “High school to what?” My dad is struggling to catch every word.

  “University,” she repeats.

  “Transitioning from female to male,” Naomi corrects.

  I casually glance at my mom’s face, expecting to see a puzzled expression, but she is smiling and nodding her head. My dad is also smiling ever so slightly as he leans back in his seat.

  “Some of my friends are bisexual, gay, and lesbian.”

  I sit quietly beside her, resisting the impulse to laugh. My brave daughter is testing the water. On the plane, she told me she was considering coming out to my parents. She is tired of them always asking her if she has a boyfriend. Perhaps now is her chance.

  My mom’s face slides into neutral, as she mulls over Naomi’s words. And then she says, “That’s nice. I’m glad you are accepting of people that are different from you.”

  Moments later, the waitress delivers our meals. And before we have a chance to start eating, an old friend of my parents walks over to our table.

  “I just had to come say hello.”

  My parents are happily chatting away with this heavyset bejeweled woman. My dad introduces us his usual way, “You remember my daughter Robyn? And this is our favorite oldest granddaughter, Naomi.”

  “How old are you, Naomi?” the woman asks.

  “Fifteen.” Naomi smiles politely.

  “Oy, have I got a boy for you!” the woman announces.

  Naomi and I glance at each other quickly, rolling our eyes.

  “That’s what they all say,” I smile.

  Later on, my dad drives us to his massage clinic. He booked Naomi and me for treatments with Julie, his massage therapist. When he walks us to the lobby, he looks exhausted and stressed.

  “Why don’t you take my appointment, Dad? You could use a massage more than me.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want a massage right now.”

  “How about sitting down and resting for a while?” I ask, pointing to a chair.

  “I just want to go home.”

  “Are you OK to drive?” I ask.

  My mom has been quiet all this time. “Do you want me to drive you home, Gord?” she asks.

  “No. I can drive myself. But how are all of you going to get home?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

  And with that, Naomi heads into the room for her massage, and my mom and I walk my dad to the car. As he drives away, I look at my watch and tell myself, it’s only a fifteen-minute drive. He’ll be all right. But really, I’m not so sure. My sense is that his driving days are numbered. Twenty minutes later, I call him on his cell and breathe a sigh of relief that he made it home, safe and sound.

  The next few days, Naomi and I make the rounds: visits at my brother’s home, my sister’s home, my aunt and uncle’s, my cousin’s. My mom takes Naomi shopping for back-to-school clothes. And in between the visits, I keep my dad company at the house—rubbing his feet, massaging his head, sitting quietly by his side—doing what I can to ease his anxiety. And mine.

  I hate this fucking disease.

  OUR TRIP TO TORONTO has an intermission—a four-day getaway plan. Out of the city. Into the woods. With my Toronto Trio. It’s another one of Ruthie’s good ideas. She has rented a lovely cottage on a private lake in the Muskokas and invited Lisa, Bonnie, and me to visit. She also invited our kids. In total there will be four adults, two seven-year-olds, one teenager, and a dog.

  Naomi and I drive up north with Bonnie and Oliver. It’s raining lightly. As the scenery changes from concrete and glass to trees and farms, my worries about my dad start to recede. While Naomi and Olie chat away in the back, Bonnie asks me, “Did you read Naomi’s latest Facebook status?”

  “Nope, I’m not her friend.”

  “Really? I am.”

  “What did she write?”

  “Something like: Naomi is going to a cottage with two little kids and a bunch of middle-aged women.”

  “That’s hilarious!” I say. “I think that’s the first time I’ve been called middle-aged by someone else.”

  “Oh, I’ve been called it a few times. But it still takes getting used to.”

  After nearly three hours and several Tim Hortons pit stops, we finally pass through the town of Bracebridge. According to Ruthie’s directions, we are almost there. Soon, we turn onto a bumpy dirt road that snakes its way through a pine forest and ends abruptly at a cottage.

  “Hi, guys!” Ruthie yells out from the top of the porch stairs. “Stay here, Maya,” she instructs her arthritic Great Dane.

  “Hi, Ruthie!” we all shout.

  She hops down the stairs, sweeping her long wavy hair from her face.

  “Sorry about the rainy weather,” our hostess smiles, giving us hugs. “It’s supposed to clear up and get sunny in a couple days.”

  “That would be nice,” I say, swatting at mosquitoes and black flies, waiting for nipple-sized itchy red welts to appear on my exposed flesh.

  “I forgot you’re afraid of bugs,” Ruthie says.

  “I wish they were afraid of me. But they find me irresistible.”

  We see Lisa’s car pulling up and her and Dani waving.

  Then there’s a round of hugs, bags to carry in, groceries to unpack, and four glorious days to treasure with my daughter, my soul sisters, and their youngest kids.

  Once we sort out the sleeping arrangements, we head downstairs. Since every kitchen needs a chef, and our hostess happens to be an award-winning restaurateur, Ruthie assumes this role. She also assumes we know The Rule. But we don’t. At least not at first. Fortunately, we are fast learners. All it takes is one “Hey! Who changed the music?” admonishment from Ruthie, waving her chopping knife, to realize the chef controls the iPod. And apparently she hasn’t had enough of Michael Jackson or his song “Don’t Stop ’til You Get Enough.” She resets the playlist, and the song starts over. When it’s finished, the recently deceased King of Pop serenades us with more ’80s hits: “Billie Jean,” “The Way You Make Me Feel,” “Beat It,” “Thriller,” “Bad,” and “Man in the Mirror.” I feel like I’m back in high school.

  There’s only one contender for the job of bartender, and that’s Sweet Lisa, AKA Ms. Margarita. She unpacks her blender, bottles of tequila and triple sec, limes, and sugar and gets to work. In case things get out of hand, Bonnie is the designated bouncer. Blessed with exceptional bladder control—even after two babies—she happily bounces up and down for hours on the trampoline with Olie and Dani. And my job? I’m the floater, pitching in wherever help is needed: prepping food, washing dishes, shopping for groceries, hunting for mosquitoes.

  THE DAYS UNFOLD in a slow, steady rhythm: Eating. Reading. Yoga. Swimming. Bouncing. Baking. Cooking. Eating. Drinking. Cleaning. More eating. Sleeping. I even squeeze in some writing when inspiration strikes. And I marvel at Naomi, as she flows effortlessly between children’s games and adult conversations. Watching her interact with my girlfriends and their kids, I catch glimpses of the young woman she is becoming—resilient, outspoken, compassionate, independent, and fun.

  One sunny afternoon, she surprises me. We are all down by the water, and she offers to take seven-year-old Oliver out for a canoe ride—revealing an adventurous side I’ve never seen before in her. Bonnie gives her permission, and the tw
o of them strap on life jackets and get in the boat—Naomi in the stern, Olie in the bow, paddles in hand. It occurs to me that Naomi’s canoeing skills may not be as proficient as she imagines they are. Then again, I could be wrong. I keep my eyes on them as they paddle away from shore. Either they are not interested in synchronizing their strokes, or any attempts to do so fail.

  Bonnie asks, “Do you think Naomi knows what she’s doing?”

  “Yeah. Floundering,” I say, my heart beating rapidly as we watch her struggling to turn the canoe around.

  “I’m going to get them,” Bonnie announces, plunging naked into the water. Mama Bear to the rescue. We watch her swim out into the middle of the lake and slowly swim back, the canoe and the kids in tow.

  “The current surprised me—it was stronger than I expected,” Naomi says. “Thanks, Bonnie.”

  “No problem,” Bonnie smiles, toweling off.

  With Naomi and Olie safe and sound, I announce, “I’m going inside. These black flies are brutal.” Walking toward the cottage, I hear Naomi ask, “Who wants to go for a ride on the inflatable raft?”

  Not me, I think, curling up on the couch, opening my journal to a blank page. Absorbed in my writing, I lose track of time until the sounds of footsteps and voices break my concentration. One by one, the gang walks through the door. Dani is laughing hysterically, and says, “Hey, Robyn. You missed another rescue!”

  “Really?”

  “This time my mom swam out to help Naomi, me, and Olie get the raft back to shore.”

  I look over at Naomi, who is smiling sheepishly by the door. I smile back and say, “Why am I not surprised?”

  TODAY’S THE DAY we head back to the city. We spend the morning cleaning up, doing laundry, making the beds, and packing our bags while k.d. lang belts out spine-tingling cover songs: Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” Neil Young’s “Helpless,” and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Her voice fills me with melancholy and longing and gratitude. I can feel my Cry Lady beginning to stir. Resting on the couch, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them, Lisa is sitting next to me.

  “Hi, Robbie,” she says.

  “Hi, Sweet Lisa,” I reply, wiping away my tears.

  “Are you sad?”

  “Not exactly. More like relieved.”

  “Relieved about what?”

  “It’s so strange. I feel like I’ve had a holiday from my diseases. You’ve all been acting as if I’m still the same old me. Treating me as if I’m normal.”

  “Aren’t you normal?”

  “No. I’m abnormal.”

  Lisa looks at me strangely, while I conduct a silent inventory of all my defects: my limping leg, my dearly departed breast, my missing ovaries, my stilted arm, my dopamine-deprived brain.

  “Abnormal?” Lisa exclaims. “Gosh. I wish you’d told me earlier. If I had known you were abnormal, I would have treated you abnormally. And that would have been way more fun!” She laughs. So do I.

  Lisa gets up and joins Ruthie and Bonnie in the kitchen. I watch my Toronto Trio chatting away. These women are my best friends, my soul sisters. Maybe they know something I don’t? I find this both comforting and confusing, especially since my social interactions are often tinged with pity—usually other people’s, sometimes my own. As far as I can tell, there’s not a drop of it to be found here. Of course, over the years, we’ve all had our share of heartaches and crises. There have been miscarriages, sick children, dying pets, cheating husbands, cash crunches, marital strife, ailing parents, work woes, and pesky aches and pains. And now there’s Parkinson’s and cancer thrown into the mix. Plenty to complain about, which we sometimes do. But pity? Not a chance. We are resourceful, we are resilient, and when in one another’s company, we are resplendent. Even if we are middle-aged.

  NAOMI AND I drive back to Toronto with Bonnie. The closer we get to the city, the more her BlackBerry buzzes, and the more excited I am to go home. I miss Bergen. I miss Nellie. I miss my Vancouver life.

  When we turn onto the 401, I ask Bonnie, “Do you ever miss living in Vancouver?”

  “No. I love living in Toronto. But I love working on shows in Vancouver. So I get to visit you.”

  “When are you coming to town next?”

  “No plans yet. But I’ll let you know as soon as I get a contract. Hey, did I tell you that I bought critical care insurance?”

  “No. Isn’t that really expensive?”

  “Really expensive. But you inspired me.”

  “Really?”

  “When you were diagnosed with Parkinson’s, I realized that I needed to protect my self and my family, in case I get sick and can’t work. So I splurged.”

  “It’s a good idea. I wish I had thought of that.”

  We spend our last few days in Toronto with family. My dad seems even more fragile, more anxious than he was before my trip to the cottage. It’s heartbreaking to watch him suffer with this body-snatching disease. Before Naomi and I leave for the airport, I massage his feet while he rests in bed. I can feel his legs relax a little. I can hear him breathing more calmly.

  “Can you rest your arms and hands on the bed?” I ask.

  He glances down at his rigid limbs levitating a couple inches above the covers.

  “I’ll try,” he says quietly.

  I watch him bending his stiff arms and wiggling his frozen fingers.

  “Is this better?” he asks.

  “A little,” I lie. “Let me help.”

  One at a time, I massage his floating arms, coaxing the tight muscles to relax. Eventually, his left arm surrenders and flops down by his side. Then the right arm begins to relax too. As I set it down on the bed, his left arm rises up—as if an invisible pulley connects the appendages. I can’t help smiling. And I can’t resist the urge to see what will happen next. I grasp his left arm again, and sure enough, as I settle it back down on the bed, his right arm lifts up into the air. This time I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” my dad asks.

  I don’t have the heart to tell him about his levitating arms. So I resume rubbing his feet and say, “Our disease. If I don’t laugh about it, I’ll cry.”

  A while later I hear my mom’s voice announcing, “Robyn. Naomi. The taxi’s here.”

  My dad has drifted off to sleep. I lean over and give him a kiss on his forehead and whisper, “Bye, Dad. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

  His eyes flutter open and he gives me a smile. “Are you leaving?”

  “Yeah. Our ride is here. I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m going to miss you too.”

  I head downstairs, hug my mom good-bye, and join Naomi in the car. My Cry Lady has been patiently waiting, and as we pull out of the driveway, the tears begin.

  BERGEN PICKS us up at the airport.

  “How was the plane ride?” he asks.

  “It was a one-Ativan flight,” I say, feeling a little woozy.

  “In other words, Mama thought we were going to crash,” Naomi says.

  When we get home, I have just enough energy to give Nellie a belly rub and get myself ready for bed. Then I conk out for the night.

  TWO DAYS LATER, I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Chung. When she’s finished examining me, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t bake you a cake this time, considering it’s our anniversary.”

  She smiles. “Our anniversary?”

  “Exactly one year ago today, you did my mastectomy.”

  “Well then, congratulations.”

  “Congratulations to you too.” I look down at my chest. “Anything to worry about?”

  “Everything looks and feels normal,” Dr. Chung reassures me.

  “That’s a relief.” And there’s that word again: “normal.”

  “Do you want to continue coming to see me for your six-month checkups? Because your family doctor can do that for you, if you prefer. I don’t know how far you have to travel to get to my office.”

  “Not far at all. And if it’s OK with you, I’d
like to continue coming to see you. I really trust your expertise.”

  “That’s perfectly fine,” Dr. Chung smiles.

  I CALMLY LIMP through the remaining weeks of summer. There are dinners with friends, walks with Susan, massages with Jessica, and family time at our cabin. As September approaches, breast cancer steps out of the spotlight and Parkinson’s takes center stage. It’s been six months since I started taking Dopamine Agonist. It has certainly improved my bodily function and quality of life. But Dr. Stoessl warned me that this drug’s superpowers would eventually fade and I’d need to augment my drug therapy regime with Sinemet. He was right; all summer long I’ve been experiencing a slow and steady decline of my mobility and dexterity. My body is slowing down again. My fingers are beginning to malfunction, making it difficult to chop vegetables, type at the computer, and floss my teeth. It’s all rather depressing, though I’m not depressed. Yet. However, I am anxious and worried that my symptoms will get worse and I will become a zombie again—just like I was before taking medication. I feel determined not to let that happen ever again. So now that I’m clear of cancer and have had all the surgeries I need, I decide it’s time to start taking Sinemet.

  If Dopamine Agonist is a superhero, then Sinemet is a supergod. Within days of starting this medication, I feel reborn. My rigid left arm is beginning to swing. My left leg is losing its limp. But best of all, the fog is lifting in my brain. After just one week on this drug, I say to Bergen, “I haven’t felt this clarity of mind in years.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Bergen says.

  “It’s unbelievable. It’s like a switch has been turned on in my brain.”

  Which in a way, it has. I remember Dr. Stoessl explaining to me how Sinemet works—but back then I didn’t grasp the concept. I do now: People with Parkinson’s need dopamine. However, you can’t actually give them straight dopamine, since it can’t cross the blood-brain barrier to reach the brain. So Sinemet is the next best thing. It contains levodopa, which is the precursor of dopamine. And the levodopa crosses the blood-brain barrier and is transformed into dopamine in the brain.

  “Is this the medication that Dr. Stoessl didn’t want you take in the beginning?”