Escape Points

by Michele Weldon

  Oh, the women all looked great, because only the women who look outstanding go, Dana said. Not feeling quite Christie Brinkley? Stay home and send your regrets. Working out, doing yoga, had a recent touch-up of highlights? Then you could go.

  At my twenty-five–year college reunion, I knew only a few people there. “Weren’t you in marching band?” a woman asked me at the check-in table, who did not look at all familiar, not even if I squinted.

  No, I was not. I was not in marching band. Nothing against marching band, but no.

  Ten years. In ten years Colin grew from a toddler to a seventh grader; Weldon from a preschooler to a teenage driver; Brendan from being half my size to towering over me. I had spent ten years teaching at Northwestern; in that time having hundreds and hundreds of students in my classes. I wrote three books in ten years. It was ten years since I was divorced. I was alone for almost ten years and then I was in love. And then I was not.

  You could do a lot in ten years. You could do a little. I would have to keep doing a lot.

  On the right side was a graph in horizontal gray and black stripes. My chances of being alive in ten years? That was listed as 78.6 percent, with surgery only. That was a grade of C, not so good. With hormonal therapy, 88 percent chance. Better. With combined radiation and hormonal therapy, there was a 92 percent chance I would live to see Colin turn twenty-two. The paper said so. Nowhere on the paper did it say 100 percent. Nowhere.

  My life was down to a printout, a thin sheet of paper I held in my hand, though the weight of it was a hundred million tons on my heart.

  I knew it was possible that anyone could die at any time. I mean intellectually I knew this; we were not immortal. But most mornings before this all happened, when I made my bed, put the wet towels in the dryer, stirred the fruit in the yogurt, or pulled the car out of the driveway, it did not cross my mind all that much. I wanted to tell Dr. Rao about my Meg Ryan hair. Since the brachytherapy, my hair was thick and extracurly. It had this luscious messiness that was not its usual temperament. I woke up and it always looked fine.

  “What do you mean?” Lisa asked.

  “It’s like my hair was blown dry from the inside out,” I said.

  Lisa wasn’t buying my reasoning. No one had documented Meg Ryan hair as a side effect. “Are you using a different shampoo or conditioner?”

  Dr. Rao gave me a prescription for tamoxifen and talked about how I would be taking it every day for the next five to ten years. Tamoxifen. The name sounded like poison to me. It rhymed with toxin. And in a game of Scrabble, toxin would likely be the first derivative word that came to mind—every day for five years or more. I didn’t know why I was so afraid of that small pill; perhaps it was because it held such power, because my survival depended on my taking it every day without fail.

  I knew it blocked estrogen and that estrogen fed tumors. I understood it had been used for thirty years to treat breast cancer and that all the printed materials said the benefits outweighed the risks. But the side effects listed were not inconsequential: blood clots, stroke, uterine cancer, and cataracts. Oh, yes, and hot flashes, fatigue, headaches, nausea, vomiting, skin rash. Sounded like a pretty scary bucket list to me. Every day for five years. Then Dr. Rao said as an afterthought, yes, sometimes weight gain.

  Wonderful. But I guess measure the weight gain against the recurrence, followed by dying and leaving your kids without a parent at home, and a little belly fat is fine. I could always wear jackets, to cover up the fat, I mean. Thank God tunics were in style.

  I had a dream a few months later that I dropped the prescription plastic bottle of tamoxifen on the ground and a small white Maltese so tail-wagging sweet scooped down and licked up all the small pills. I was trying to grab the pills out of his mouth but couldn’t get them before he swallowed all of them. Seconds later in my dream the dog collapsed and died. I woke up sweating and panicked.

  “I recommend you have genetic testing on the tumor removed from your breast,” Dr. Rao explained.

  I nodded.

  The test was the Oncotype DX breast cancer assessment, and it looked at twenty-one genes in the tumor tissue that could accurately determine the odds of recurrence by looking for specific biomarkers showing predisposition to other kinds of cancers. The test offered more information about the type of tumor it was and if I should have chemotherapy in addition to the radiation to significantly lower my chance of recurrence. They said recurrence, but what they meant is the chance you won’t die by a certain time. A ten-year deadline. Or the chance that you will. The test, not covered by most insurance, came up with a recurrence score from 1 to 100, taking into account the biomarkers. I would wait two weeks for the results. I would later pay almost $4,000 for it. I had a list of questions for Dr. Rao, and she answered them, but it was as if she was speaking in slow motion; her words muffled and distorted through a screen of petroleum jelly. I just wanted to get out of her office, out of the building. I thanked her. I pretended that on the inside I was not hollowed out.

  In the waiting room Mike was in the same chair. I handed him the piece of paper.

  “Do you want me to talk to her?”

  “No, let’s go.”

  In the elevator I had to grip the handrails because I could not feel my legs and I started to cry. Mike held me up, his arm around my shoulder, gripping me. I thought I would faint; it felt like the closing moments of the Looney Tunes cartoons, when the circle of black tightens around Porky Pig and he stutters, “That’s all, folks.”

  “She told me my chances of being alive in ten years,” I said between sobs.

  “But they are good,” Mike said.

  Mike was like my father, someone who was not prone to moods or ill temper; someone who would be the same kind soul on Tuesday as he was on the previous Thursday, and a thousand Thursdays to come. Like Johnny Carson was every night at 10:30, always in a good mood, always a smile on his face.

  And here was Mike, taking a half day from the hospital for his sister-in-law. He was that same kind of man, to my sister of course, but really to all of us. He had always been good to my mother, like another son. He changed her light bulbs when she called, always available with medical advice and interventions. Talked to all her doctors, listened to her, invited her to dinner every Sunday night at their house; he cooked, mostly grilled fish like tilapia or salmon and vegetables. He was good to me and he was good to my boys. He came over to talk to the boys or go for a walk with their dog Haleigh, then Sammie. I was glad Mike was there.

  When the elevator arrived at the main floor, we walked the crisscrossed hallways to the main lobby. My throat was parched; it felt as if all moisture in my body evaporated. I felt like my head was not connected to my body and I could fold to the floor like I was a paper doll.

  “Let’s sit,” Mike said.

  There by the deli counter with a clear case showing stacks of plastic containers of chef’s salad, premade sandwiches, biscotti, coffee, and juice, I cried. Nurses and doctors and visitors were buying lunch and snacks and going about their day because no one had just told them their chances of being alive in ten years. I couldn’t hold it in. I cried. The wet bursts were hiccupping hard because my boys weren’t there and I knew I couldn’t cry like this at home. I cried in front of twenty people eating a late lunch because I had to be a vision of strength and a comfort to the boys at home later. My surgery and radiation scared them. I learned that teenage boys who have been abandoned by a parent don’t take well to the illness of the only parent they have left to care for them. They became aggressive, irritable, caustic to me and to each other.

  “I didn’t expect them to be mean,” I told Susy when she brought over dinner for all of us.

  “Oh, those wonderful boys. They are so scared,” she said.

  I knew she was right. I knew it was scary for them. But for some reason I thought that fear would manifest itself as them trying to take care of me, being very low maintenance, taking care of themselves, not requiring more of me, certainly not f
ighting with each other and definitely not talking back to me. I pictured them being sweet and solicitous, perhaps throwing in an extra load of laundry. What the heck, making me a cup of tea. I don’t know what in the hell I was thinking.

  While Weldon held it together better than the other two, I would say my cancer made them mad as hell. And they were mad as hell at me. I was the one who was sick; how dare I do this? You could see it in their eyes, the skittishness, the doubt; they were pissed off. When they would ask how I was, they would leave the room before my answer; they would not want to know any details. I had to be OK. Brendan could be sweet, you could see him trying, when he made me breakfast or when he bought me hand cream, trying so hard to be caring, when I could see how scared he was.

  What’s next? Will you die next?

  Colin had a harder time and was uncharacteristically argumentative with me and with his brothers. One night Colin would not stop arguing with me, so I called Madeleine for help; she sent Mike over to get Colin for a few hours. Absorbing their fears and their anger was exhausting. I would lie down on the couch for a half hour and sleep for five hours.

  “I’ve never seen you take a nap,” Colin said.

  I was so tired; a bone-deep weariness I couldn’t shake or emerge from immediately. After surgery, even after the abbreviated radiation treatments, for about a month, I woke up tired. I started out feeling like it was the end of the day. My head felt swollen, I couldn’t think clearly, I couldn’t take care of everyone else while they were screaming for me to do more please so they didn’t feel afraid. But I kept going.

  The night after my third day of radiation was parent-teacher conferences at the high school. I met with six of Weldon’s teachers. The next night I would meet with six of Brendan’s, second floor, fourth floor, third floor, second floor, all right after radiation. Most of the conferences were six minutes apart; some sessions had breaks in between. In the four-floor high school, many of the sessions were two floors apart. First was room 411 with Mr. Goldberg for history, down to 217 for math, back up to 417 for Spanish, down to 333. I sat in the third-floor hallway outside the classroom waiting for my time with Weldon’s English teacher, Brendan Lee, Weldon’s favorite. My conference was from 6:42 to 6:48. I would talk fast. I had a few minutes to get to room 361 for Mr. Potts. Then down to 284 for Mr. Martinek, science.

  “What’s wrong with you? What makes you look so tired?” asked another woman I had known since our oldest children were in preschool together. She wasn’t a good friend. It was different out in the noncancer world. Questions were curt. Judgments were made.

  “Must be the radiation after the surgery,” I answered and went back to the pile of papers in my lap from the other teachers, on top of the legal pad where I had taken notes on comments about Weldon and Brendan.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.” And she didn’t ask me any questions.

  My work life went on. Wrestling went on, basketball for Colin, dinners in the room off the kitchen, loads of whites and loads of colors separated every morning. Gas in the car. Checks to pay the bills, boots and sneakers piled in the mudroom needing to be straightened. Dishwasher to load and unload, kitchen floor to sweep. Homework to proofread, forms to sign.

  A few weeks later I sat in the stands watching one of Colin’s games talking with Alex’s mom, who was an emergency room doctor.

  “The tamoxifen upsets my stomach,” I told her.

  “Eat jelly beans. One at a time. Licorice ones will help. The pectin and the sugar will soothe your stomach. Try it,” Sherry said. “Get the cheap ones; for some reason they work better.”

  So I sat in the stands and in meetings with brightly colored jelly beans in my pocket. It was a small solution, one bite at a time.

  PART THREE

  REVERSAL

  * * *

  * * *

  13

  Stands

  * * *

  December 2006–January 2007

  The day before Christmas Eve there was a local tournament for Weldon, then the day before New Year’s Eve a tournament in Elmwood, Ohio. I couldn’t get away for that one; I stayed home with Colin and Brendan. Weldon went with the team. Then four more wrestling tournaments were at local high schools, followed by the Huskie tournament at home in the field house. Weldon won that 140-pound championship with a pin. That pin and others from the team pushed Oak Park to win the invitational tournament with 263 points.

  The following Friday night was a dual meet at another local high school, Lyons Township. The boys’ father had left a message on the house answering machine a few days earlier that he was in town from Amsterdam. Surprise. He had not spoken to the boys in two months. I listened to it, told the boys he called, and no one called him back. Weldon said his father had also left him a message on his cell. I had not spoken to his father, but I knew he must be watching Weldon’s wrestling record online for the season.

  “Dad e-mailed me about my match,” Weldon said. “He said he wanted to see me wrestle.” Then he added, “I blocked his e-mail address.”

  Weldon was annoyed at my questions for more details.

  “I don’t want him there; he is not going to ruin this for me. I can’t be distracted,” he said.

  I didn’t know what it would be like being monitored online by a phantom father, but I imagined it was something like a version of a scene I saw in the 1937 movie Stella Dallas, starring Barbara Stanwyck. I loved the old black-and-white movies that were romantic and emotional with grandly feminine characters in bias-cut satin dresses swooning over handsome men with mustaches. At the end of the movie, Stella watched her daughter Laurel’s wedding from outside the window of the house her ex-husband shared with his new wife.

  I knew their father would go to the meet; he loved being in control of a surprise, even if no one wanted it. Both Brendan and Weldon went on the team bus to Lyons. Colin went to a friend’s house. I took my place in the stands with the other Huskie parents and told Paula, Kake, and Caryn that I was nervous. They sat closer to me.

  I saw him immediately. Their father was standing on the top stair in one corner of the gym, wearing a bright red sweater, with both his arms stretched out holding onto the wall. You could not miss him. Anyone glancing up at the stands from anywhere would see him, a half-body length above the crowd, the only one in bright red and the only one with outstretched arms.

  “He’s looking right at you,” Nancy said.

  I watched Brendan’s junior varsity match and waited for the 140 varsity match, wondering if Weldon noticed his dad. Weldon paced back and forth before his match as he usually did, and jumped high in place bending his knees beneath him in this limber frog move that had become his trademark. I watched his face, more stern than usual. He jumped about four feet in the air from a standing position, his legs tucked tightly under him. Over and over.

  Weldon was pushing really hard, and there was something about his mood, something about the way he wrestled, so driven, so intense. He knew he was being watched. He won 20–5, another technical. Brendan was sitting in the stands on the opposite side of the gym from the spectators, with his junior varsity teammates. I watched him to see if he noticed his father and if Brendan would go to speak to him. After Weldon wrestled, I glanced over at the top deck in the stands where his father had been standing. He was gone. I went down to the floor to speak to Weldon after his win.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  Sweat was pouring down his face and he was clearly agitated.

  “He better not be in the parking lot,” he said.

  “No, he’s gone,” I said.

  Then I walked over to the stands and asked Brendan, “Did you see your dad?”

  “No, was he here?”

  When the dual was over, I went to the parking lot, looking behind me, around me, nervous that he would pop up out of the shadows. But he had disappeared.

  We were less than a month away from the 2007 state championships. In July 2006 I had made hotel reservations online for the upcoming F
ebruary Illinois High School Association (IHSA) Individual championships. The year before when Weldon made it to state, I was unprepared, panicked, and couldn’t get a room when he won regionals. All nearby hotel rooms were booked. Not ever having had this experience, I had no idea that parents of wrestlers booked a year in advance, confident they would need to attend because their sons would have winning seasons that qualified them for state.

  So I went online the year before just days before state and called every hotel and motel in a ten-mile radius with no luck. I knew I couldn’t drive the three hours each way there and back safely in one day. When I told him about not having a room, the boys’ uncle Mark somehow managed to book a room for Colin, Brendan, and me at the local Holiday Inn. Mark then drove down to meet us and watched Weldon.

  I knew Weldon would qualify for state again. I was more convinced of it every time he wrestled. We were less than a month away from the finals and he was winning almost every match. Reserving the room six months ahead of time was easy; now all he needed to do was keep winning. A lot of us Huskies parents had our eyes set on state for the boys.

  A few days after he appeared in the stands at Lyons, the boys’ dad left a voice mail on Weldon’s cell. “I have tickets for state and a hotel room . . .” Weldon hung up and screamed for me; I was upstairs in my room.

  “Mom!” Weldon bounded up the front stairs two or three at a time. “Mom! Tell him not to come. Tell him I don’t want him there.” Weldon was extremely upset, pacing, shouting. “He said he has tickets and a room!”