The next few weeks were a blur of drugs—benzodiazepines mostly—and doctor’s visits that entailed a posse of Mom, Dana and Mom’s Palm Beach BFF Lynn, a breast cancer survivor diagnosed when she was 31. I dressed for the hospital like I did for a ladies’ lunch: head-to-toe designer gear, full makeup and hair, stilettos, jewelry. I looked and felt amazing. That’s the scariest part of cancer; you can look fabulous and feel even better while the cells in your body are waging a civil war.
I had nice tits, too. Braless, they were saggy, but in a 34C, they were hot. Men loved them. Women envied them. I liked them in clothes, hated them when naked. In Lynn’s car on our way to my first consult with an oncologist, we videotaped me saying (in a slightly nasal, Jappy-sounding voice): “They’re not going to chop off my boobs. Fuck that.”
After many, many doctor’s visits, I finally met Dr. Larry Norton in New York, the head of the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Breast Cancer Program. Norton is the Anna Wintour of breast cancer—if Anna were a nice, humble Jewish man, with a sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor. Norton and his team invented the Sloan Protocol, the chemo regimen followed by hospitals throughout the world.
Mom, Dad, my brother and I packed into Norton’s office on the Upper East Side. “You know, we could’ve done this over the phone,” he said.
“I wanted to meet you in person… and it’s the perfect excuse to go to Bergdorf’s.”
“Ahh, my kind of people.”
After he spelled out my treatment options, I asked the question I ask all doctors: If I were your daughter, what would you tell me to do?
“The safest treatment for you would be a double mastectomy and chemo.”
This meant a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction followed by four months of chemotherapy capped off with a year of Herceptin infusions. I had stage II, high-grade, infiltrating breast cancer and was—as the genetic testing later revealed—BRCA1 positive.
Ashkenazi Jewish women have a one in 40 chance of inheriting a BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene, which gives us lucky ones up to an 85 percent chance of developing breast cancer. If I’d chosen not to have a double mastectomy, my chances of recurrence would have been greater than 30 percent. But by chopping ’em off, with added chemo and Herceptin, my recurrence rate dropped to less than 10 percent.
I didn’t panic, which is ironic because pre-diagnosis I had panic attacks at the threat of taking mass transit or going somewhere without Purell. I’m usually the neurotic, navel-gazing alarmist, but suddenly I was the strong one. Denial? Probably. But I had no choice. It was what it was.
My friends and family freaked out more than I did. One night, my mom was so out-of-control emotional that I crushed a Klonopin and mixed it into her hummus and salad. It worked. About a month later I told her and Dad about it, after threatening to do the same during one of his tantrums.
When I tell people about this time, they always ask me how I didn’t freak out, break down, feel sorry for myself or play the victim card. Meditation? Fuck that shit. Medication is more my speed. “Xanax,” I say. Sometimes I’m joking. Often I’m not. The real answer is: Xanax, Ativan, Klonopin, Seroquel, Percocet and Valium. Plus friends, family, excellent doctors and a sense of humor. Pot brownies don’t hurt either.
Unprotected: A Confession
By Rachel Kramer Bussel
WHEN I WAS 17 AND 19 and probably around 22, I thought I was pregnant. There was no real reason for the suspicion, other than that I’d had sex with a guy (using birth control) sometime in the previous three months. I was completely paranoid; I’d get my period but still be convinced I was knocked up. Once I even got my period for the second time and still trudged off to Planned Parenthood for a test to make absolutely, totally sure I was fetus-free. I was convinced that I would end up as one of those women who doesn’t know she’s pregnant until she suddenly gets strange stomach pains. Eventually, I got over myself and trusted that the Pill, and later, condoms, would do the trick. But back then, I thought getting knocked up was the worst possible fate that could befall me. It scared the hell out of me and continued to… until I turned 29. I’ve never been a big believer in the biological clock, but something happened to me at that time, my Saturn’s Return (if you believe in that sort of thing). On the cusp of 30, I went from thinking babies were smelly, loud, messy things to yearning for one so much that the feeling physically overpowers me when I catch sight of any infant.
I would liken it to feeling like an alien has taken over my body, making me crave the company of small, helpless children. Even though they are the ones reliant on adults to feed, clothe and nurture them, I feel beholden to the babies, helpless as I look longingly at their tiny forms, requiring the feel of their soft, warm skin for my very survival. I now look at babies I pass on the street the way I once looked at hot guys and girls—OK, not exactly the same way, but with that undeniable urge to reach out and touch them. In this case, to get up in their face and bust out my best baby talk, to offer up my finger for them to curl their minuscule hands around. Holding my 5-month-old cousin Adam to calm him down, feeling his warm, sweet head pressed against my shoulder, kissing his pudgy little cheek, is heaven to me. As impossible and impractical as I know it is at this moment in my life, I want a baby. Which is really the only explanation I can give for why on the night before Valentine’s Day I went home with a guy and had unprotected sex, once that night, and once the next morning.
I wish I could tell you it was Valentine’s Eve 1996, or 1999, or even 2002, but it wasn’t. It was 2006, I was 30, and I knew exactly what I was doing, even if I didn’t plan it. I wish I could tell you it was the three dirty martinis I had instead of dinner that made the decision for me. I wish I could tell you it all happened so fast that there was no time to process what was about to happen. I wish I could tell you it was all worth it because it was the best sex of my life, the kind that would make even quadruplets worth it. I wish I could tell you he had a really big cock, and when he rubbed it against me I was so overcome with desire I simply had to have him inside me that very instant. I wish I could tell you it felt so much better than having that latex barrier between us. I wish I could tell you anything that might make me sound like less of an idiot, but I can’t.
We had met for our second date at a bar in SoHo. I arranged it so that I could leave afterward and go to a reading, yet part of me knew I was going to sleep with him if it was on the table. I ordered a Diet Coke, but soon after finishing that refreshing carbonation, I sank into the comfort of a dirty martini. And then another one. After the third, I felt the urgent need to show everyone in the bar my bare breast. I remember having that thought you never really want to have when you’re drinking: “Wow, now I’m really, really drunk.”
I remember giving him a blow job in the cab, then stopping and leaning against his shoulder with my eyes closed. Suddenly we were walking into his just-moved-in apartment. There were boxes scattered around and a bed. I remember seeing my book of erotica, the one I’d given him, sitting on a desk, and then our clothes came off really quickly and we were naked, fumbling around together. That’s where things get a little murky, but I do remember lying down, my head spinning slightly. He was on top of me, and there was a moment where I realized he was about to put his penis inside me. There was enough time to think about this, to ponder the surreal fact that in 2006, a guy was about to fuck me without a condom, no questions, no queries, no qualms. And not just any guy, but a nice, Jewish guy, one who had sweetly kissed me on the lips and told me he liked to cook. It was like a Twilight Zone episode where I’d become some kind of zombie whose years of sex education had magically vanished from her consciousness.
Part of me wanted to say something—but what? Anything I could’ve said would’ve broken the mood, and I started to wonder if I wasn’t being a hypochondriac. If he wasn’t worried, why should I be? What’s the worst that could happen? I’d get knocked up? Well, is it really so bad if your worst nightmare is actually your dream come true? (STDs didn’t really enter my menta
l picture, sadly, because the snobbish, unrealistic part of me figured that if he really had an STD, I wouldn’t be in bed with him.) Maybe I’d walk away having broken an eight-month sexless streak and get a baby of my own, one I could cuddle and nuzzle and gaze at adoringly for as long as I wanted. And then I forgot all about that and just went with it. If this was normal for him, well, why couldn’t I just go with the flow?
The sex itself was average—that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. I remember the way he looked at me and said, “Beautiful,” and made me feel it, his voice soft and reverential. I remember the way he turned over, hands above his head, his perfect bubble butt poised and waiting just for me. I remember falling asleep in his arms and him kissing me all over my face when I woke up, almost like we were a real couple, rather than two near-strangers who might possibly get to know one another better. Or not.
The next morning I remember being grateful for the speared olives and otherwise liquid meal, because my stomach looked flat and felt empty as I slithered off the bed, scampering naked to the bathroom. I wasn’t as self-conscious as I normally am, and I was happy to wake up before his alarm clock to curl back up into his grasp. I kissed my way along his bicep, admiring his muscles. I turned over onto my back and again, without speaking, his bare cock entered me. I was so lazy from the previous night’s alcohol that I lay there and let it happen. Again. If we didn’t use a condom last night, why should we now? The damage, if any, was done, and why should I be such a worrywart?
Maybe that’s the heart of it. I worry day and night, even in my dreams. I worry that I’m going to die in a car accident, I worry about my gargantuan student loans, I worry that I’ll never write the big book I want to. I worry that some random person will take a sudden dislike to me. I worry that I’ll suddenly be fired or evicted. I worry that nobody will ever again want me to be their girlfriend. I usually have extra stamps, pens, sweaters, aspirin—whatever I or someone else might need in case of emergency. But all that gets to be overwhelming after a while—trying to be on top of everything, remember everything, be responsible. On those rare occasions when I simply abandon all the worry, when I almost pretend I’m someone else, someone who glides through life with ease and confidence, I do so with all the passion I have in me.
I was embracing not just a new way of having sex, but a new me, one who expected life to carry her through to the other side safely and securely. I wanted to be the kind of girl who can drink three martinis for dinner and not be near dead the next day, who can flash her chest and laugh about it, not caring what anyone thinks. I wanted to be the kind of girl who can ward off pregnancy by sheer force of will, or the kind who might get knocked up but can turn that into the best thing that ever happened to her.
If I had known exactly what kind of guy he was (the kind who, apparently, could kiss me tenderly on the forehead one day and then confess that he was seeing someone else a week later), would I have wanted him to be my baby daddy? The saddest part, and the real confession here, is that the answer is probably yes. But thanks to two little pills called Plan B, we don’t have to worry about any little Rachels running around… at least, not just yet.
Out of the Bag
By Noah Tarnow
LIKE MOST JEWISH MALES, I am in perpetual terror of disappointing the females in my family. My sister is Hippolyta among the Amazons of my psyche. She is three years older, and during our childhood—through a combination of her imperiousness and my complete spinelessness—she became a tremendous figure of fear and aspiration. Now that we’re adults, we get along well. (I finally figured out that she was almost as screwed-up a kid as I was.) But still, whenever she asks for a favor, I’m more nervous than I should be.
Several years ago, my sister and her husband left New York for San Francisco. They road-tripped across the U.S., so they couldn’t take Natasha, their sweet, withdrawn, grossly obese 6-year-old cat. Instead they dumped her at our cousin’s house in the New Jersey suburbs, and gave me a vital task: In two months, when I flew out to San Francisco for Thanksgiving, I was to transport the cat with me.
I love cats. Some say that’s not wise for a heterosexual single man to admit, but any woman who’s shallow enough to let that bother her doesn’t interest me. People like dogs because they give unconditional affection—no matter what kind of prick you are, a dog will love you. But cats are more discerning—you have to earn their love, and that’s something I appreciate. Unfortunately at this point, I had yet to earn Natasha’s love. Her stance toward me: Don’t pet me, don’t try to pick me up, don’t even fucking look at me. But regardless, I had no intention of letting my sister down.
If you’ve never taken an animal on a cross-country plane trip, be aware that it’s a shitload more complicated than it should be. I had to pay the airline $50 and have the cat’s papers with me. She had to fit under the seat in front of me (tricky, considering that Natasha was approximately the size of a newborn rhinoceros), and she had to be removed from her carrier at security so that the carrier could go through the X-ray.
Fortunately, I was prepared. A vet had given me three large white pills. “Just give the cat one of these about an hour before takeoff to calm her down,” he said. The second secret weapon: a red leather S&M bustier that I could clip a leash onto while removing her from the bag at preflight screening.
I’m generally a lucky guy, so when that bright pre-Thanksgiving Wednesday morning approached, I was optimistic. I’d done a ton of prep work.
About five minutes before the cab showed up, however, the first sedative was fired from Natasha’s mouth with force, skittering across the tile floor of my cousin’s suburban kitchen. (This was after several futile attempts to hide it in her food.) I recovered the pill and eventually got it down her throat. But then Natasha put up another violent struggle when I tried to put on the harness. Why does this cat act like a drooling vegetable all of the time except now? And could I blame her? The harness made her look inane—as if she were a feline parody of a dominatrix in an Austro-Hungarian beer hall. I pulled and prodded, dodging and weaving her, finally tightening the last strap as the taxi honked out front.
I jammed Natasha into her carrier. “Good luck!” my cousin wished me. “Have fun, Natasha,” she said to the cat. “You look very pretty.” Natasha was darting her head around inside the carrier as if she were deciding which way to collapse when the heart attack hit.
As the driver pulled into the maze of airport on ramps, I realized what I was really in for: This was Thanksgiving 2001, barely two months after September 11. One of the busiest travel days of the year, during the most anxiety-ridden time in our lifetimes. I hauled my bag of feline to the end of a very long line. Time wasn’t a factor—as a result of my Jew-rosis, I’m always early to anything important, like a flight. But I was growing antsy and I knew Natasha would be too.
I peered into the carrier. She appeared to have settled down, so I started to unzip the bag a little, let her enjoy the view—when this animal made a rocket-powered launch for the sky. Before I could respond, seven-eighths of her body was out of the bag. I acted fast, pushing her skull down, her hind leg caught on the inside of the bag being the only thing preventing her from complete escape. We struggled, her front claws digging into my jacket, me twisting her cranium, forcing her back in the bag, zipping it back up again. People around me laughed.
Few things have ever given me less faith in the competence of American federal bureaucracy than the Thanksgiving 2001 air travel experience. We weren’t yet pointlessly removing our shoes or putting shampoo in Ziploc bags, but the whole system was beyond stupid. I had to show my boarding pass to half-interested attendants at four or five checkpoints. Brutish-looking commandos in berets and fatigues sporting machine guns were stationed throughout. And when it came time to deal with Natasha, they didn’t know what to make of it and I had to take the reins. “I think I’m supposed to remove the animal and carry her through, while we put the empty bag through the X-ray,” I offered.
“Yeah, t
hat’s right,” said the attendant, not even looking up. But there was too much happening. A dozen other people were trying to put their things through the X-ray, I was removing my cell phone and keys from my pockets, the attendants still had their heads up their asses, the armed men loomed ominously. Thank God for the leash and harness, I thought. I held on tight to the leather strap and removed Natasha from her bag, placing her on the ground underneath the X-ray conveyor table. Just hold on and everything will be fine.
Seconds later, I felt a slight tug, a call of panic. I looked down and found that I was holding tight onto a leash attached to an empty leather harness. I followed the gaze of several nearby people back toward where I’d been waiting in line, and there was Natasha, bolting her way toward a TCBY. This ridiculously fat and lazy animal was suddenly a turbocharged streak of brown and black, desperate for whatever freedom she thought an airport food court could offer.
I dropped my own bag, left the leash on the floor, and bolted after her. I got several yards, to where the gleaming open expanse of the airport narrowed into the security corridor. There I witnessed one of the more interesting sights of my life: A fatigued military man had Natasha pinned to the ground with his massive soldier-grade boot. He was pointing his gun at her head. Jesus, did he think she was going to spit up anthrax?
“Um, excuse me, that’s…”
“Oh, here you go.” This man could probably have killed me with his mind, but at the moment, he couldn’t have been nicer. He handed me Natasha, who at this point was pacified by the shock. He had the kind of smile that said, “I almost split this animal’s head into tiny shards with the blast of my government-issued assault weapon, in the process completely obliterating your sibling relationship.”
Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish Page 6