by Bif Naked
The rain was light and the sky was light, a pale grey, almost transparent, like the colour of tracing paper—my favourite weather. I sat in my car, a small black Mercedes I had had for a couple of years. My cell phone rang; it was the doctor’s office.
“Beth, you’re pregnant.”
“I’m sorry, can you please repeat that?”
“You’re pregnant, Beth. Don’t go for your hysterosalpingogram. What time is your appointment?”
“But that’s impossible, I can’t be pregnant. I just went, I just had my appointment.” I was stunned; she had to be wrong. Or had there been some kind of mix-up?
“Well, your numbers are elevated on your bloodwork. I’ll order another requisition, and you go back to the lab on Monday and we’ll see.” Her voice flattened, then trailed off.
I couldn’t believe what she had said. There was no way I was pregnant. I was skeptical though happy, but afraid now because I had had the X-ray.
I still had to work. I had to fly to London for a day for an appearance, then race back home for a promotional trip to the States. My schedule was relentless. Exhausted and in full makeup, I arrived in London to find that my breasts had basically grown over the Atlantic. I already felt like a cartoon character. They grew again in the cab, on the way from Heathrow to the Sanderson Hotel. I knew the lobby would be packed with our European record-company people, and I had an entrance to make. It looked like I had got a breast job, and I thought that was pretty great. Let’s be honest: it looked good on my skinny body. I often joked that I looked like an eleven-year-old boy wearing a bra stuffed with tissue—my C-cup days of the Chrome Dog era were gone now that I was some twenty or thirty pounds lighter—so this was like a small dream come true.
Time went on, and my breasts kept growing, and I was feeling pretty special. I was beginning to get excited, and fantasized about everything from baby names to learning ASL, in case my new baby wanted to sign with me. I started poring over books on how to bring up a baby as a vegan, and looking into prenatal yoga, doulas, and water births. I was in love with my baby already. I was so into being a mommy.
And then, twelve weeks later, I began bleeding, and it never stopped. I knew it was game over. I was so disappointed. I cried, sitting there on the toilet, knowing all was lost.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bif Naked Bride?
DREAMS ALWAYS COME TRUE, JUST NOT ALWAYS HOW WE expect them to. Certainly, I had been caught up in the short pregnancy, and utterly disappointed that it simply was not meant to be. But, luckily for me, I was still The Girl of Someone’s Dreams.
Television was the Great Suitor, and me, a ready and willing bride-to-be.
Peter was wrapping up multiple seasons of BodogFight, and the first season of Bodog Battle, and he was looking for some situation video content for the BodogTV website. With cocksure swiftness, Peter’s social media team came up with the title Bif Naked Bride. Ian and I were to shoot short episodes of our lives, from engagement through the wedding planning and into the wedding itself. Eight episodes in all were launched on the Bodog YouTube channel and on BodogTV.
Ian was a natural, and he loved the camera, the antics, and the opportunity to be showcased with his rock star fiancée. Performing in front of a camera can be heady stuff, and I’ve seen a lot of people start to grow major egos when they get a bit of attention, deserved or not. I think Ian was pretty natural in his role. We played up the regular-guy-meets-rock-star angle, and the directors and producers thought it was pretty funny stuff. I often played the straight man to his antics. I was the mommy and he was the boy ready for adventure. He was an extreme-sports writer for the Vancouver Sun and I was a touring musician. Two polar opposites—perfect sitcom material.
By the time we got to the wedding day, in late September 2007, it was a media circus. It was truly the wedding of my dreams. My first wedding had also been the wedding of my dreams, but now my dreams were bigger and better. I wore my custom-designed dream gown, which had a long, hot-pink veil and an Indian influence, and traditional Indian jewellery. The beautiful ceremony took place in a huge United church in the heart of downtown Vancouver, St. Andrew’s-Wesley, and I was surrounded by family and friends. Ian had invited close family and some of his newspaper colleagues.
The reception was held at Maurya, an Indian restaurant with a celebrated chef from New Delhi. Our amazing friend and wedding planner, Soha Lavin, had transformed the place, now dripping in vibrant orange and pink flowers, and the music and smells were intoxicating. It was all exotic and sensual.
The happily-ever-after ending was perfect, and it was the final episode of Bif Naked Bride. National and local news cameras were lined up outside the restaurant. Ian was living life to the fullest, enjoying his new-found fame.
Calvin Ayre was such a generous friend. He wasn’t able to attend the reception but sent us a special video message, congratulating us. Moreover, Calvin in his generosity had picked up the tab for the wedding. Peter had convinced Calvin that the price tag on the wedding was a small production cost compared with those of the bigger TV shows such as BodogFight and Bodog Battle. Calvin loved the idea. I was blown away by it all.
A strange thing can happen to people when things come easy. If you watch the Bif Naked Bride episodes on YouTube, you can see that this show was a full production, with multiple cameras, sound, lighting, scripting, editing, voice-overs, the works. It was packaged and released with a full press and media push. It was incredible. As a performer, it was easy for me to put this all in perspective, and I’ve come to understand that TV, albums, tours, awards, and so on are all just episodes in my life, business as usual, the day to day. I call it my day job. For Ian, however, this was something new and completely different, and it was bringing on a change in the boy.
Ian is a natural extreme performer, pulling stunts for his newspaper column and then, later, for his blog. He would put himself into ridiculous situations and report on them for the paper, such as trying out for the BC Lions, or enjoying dressing-room shenanigans with the WHL’s Vancouver Giants and with the Vancouver Canucks, or traversing the side of a skyscraper dressed as Gene Simmons from Kiss. This was hitting full stride during the well-publicized Bif Naked Bride production, and his being filmed for the show. I realized that my sweet, low-profile, humble fiancé who had never heard of me or my music was beginning to live la vida loca and to eat, sleep, and breathe the show and media attention.
Who was I to deny him his fifteen minutes of fame? As long as he could handle the ups and downs of the entertainment business, what could be the harm? He had the rock star life, the rock star Internet show, the rock star everything. But I was lonely. What we needed was everyday intimacy, love, affection, respect, more than the rock star existence. I wanted that regular guy back.
The wedding came and went, the show ended, and we went to Mexico. As a wedding gift from Peter, we were put up in a romantic, über-cool, and private condo-hotel on the beach in Playa del Carmen. And we fought. I began to have the terrible feeling that Ian didn’t think much of me at all.
When we returned from the honeymoon, in October 2007, things were different from how they had been before we married. Ian seemed different. So, as per my modus operandi, I began to overcompensate and become the mommy in the relationship, just like in the Bif Naked Bride episodes. And as part of overcompensating, I did everything to regain that feeling we had pre-ceremony. I wore sexy clothes, bought new lingerie, walked around the apartment naked in high heels and full makeup. But the show was over and, though I didn’t realize it at the time, so were we.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Year of the Tit
WITH THE MEXICAN HONEYMOON BEHIND US, I WAS GRATEFUL to be reunited with my dogs, and was kept sane and sound by my dear friends. I resumed my work plans and was happy not to be travelling before Christmas. I was making Christmas cards to send to our wedding guests, continuing with my daily workout, and even considering discussing again with the good doctor how to get pregnant. I threw myself into my rou
tines and forgot about my fears for a couple of weeks, determined to be committed.
Then, one night, just after I had crawled into bed, I found what felt like a chickpea in my left breast, on the upper left side.
I had never done a breast self-exam because my breasts were always a bit lumpy. Who could tell what a lump was supposed to feel like? There was nothing but lumps. But this one was different. It was a lump-lump, and I knew it the minute I touched it. I had never been so certain of anything in my life. It was a tumour.
The noise of the television drowned out my gasp.
I made an appointment the next morning to see my doctor and went straight there. My GP thought that the likelihood of the lump being cancerous was slim. I was young, I was athletic, I was a vegan—there was just not much chance, he said. I understood what he was saying and I even agreed with him, but still I knew it was breast cancer.
I simply accepted it, and kept it to myself. Until the doctors are sure, you can’t really announce it to your family or friends. It’s like telling people too early that you’re pregnant. It’s better to wait to make sure. So I sucked it up. But it was the strangest thing: I had no real fear about it. I didn’t really care either way. I could take it or leave it. I was a bit depressed from my isolating and lonely job of being Bif Naked, and I actually kind of hoped it’d kill me. Going for mammography was just a formality.
I was not anxious about the mammogram; I knew what the results would be. Ten days later, I was back at the same medical building I had frequented only two months before, when I was trying to get pregnant.
The mammogram machine sounded like a winning slot machine in Reno, ringing and dinging. To me it seemed like the whole thing lit up, bells ringing and whistles blowing, coins coming out the slot. It was like a Ren and Stimpy cartoon, and I was simply watching it. There I was, in my thin blue gown tied at the back, immobilized by this machine, and the technician clucking like a hen. “Miss Beth, just hang on, we are going to do another picture. Just step back, dear, we are going to get you in there again.” I stepped back and my throbbing red boob felt like a wounded mouse sprung from a trap.
The technician motioned me back up to the machine and positioned my breast again. As the plates flattened my breast, she mashed and kneaded it, stuffing it in between the plates. Then she manually tightened them, further and further. “You okay?”
I was holding my breath. “Yep, you bet.” I smiled at her, being as cooperative as possible. My breast was flattened and it hurt a great deal, but I sucked it up. I knew the doctors need an accurate image, though I knew what they would see.
The technician ducked back behind the shield and the beeps and breath-holding requests commenced. In between the shots I couldn’t help but yawn. I just needed to get this appointment over with and get back to my car, parked at a street meter. Instead, I remained in mammography the rest of the afternoon while the technician checked and rechecked each side of my left breast and each film.
The radiologists one by one poked their heads into the room to take a peek at me. Less than 10 percent of patients screened have a suspicion of cancer and certainly not many in their thirties, so they were being looky-loos. Plus, whether I liked it or not, it was Bif Naked who was lighting up the bells and whistles of the mammography machine. It probably really broke up the week for everyone.
Finally, the exam was finished. “You’re going to have to wait in your gown,” the technician said. “There’s been an opening for ultrasound across the hall.” The doctor wanted to see me right away and sneak me in between a couple of other patients.
The ball of the ultrasound probe rolled back and forth, up and down, then over and over, back and forth, pressing harder each time. The technician paused and concentrated on one spot. I didn’t need to look. I knew it was the tumour. “Beth, I think we need a biopsy.”
“I know,” I answered, almost bored.
“Let’s get you dressed and get it booked for this coming week.”
I told her that I was off to Winnipeg for a few days and asked if we could do the procedure when I was back. I got dressed, quickly doing up my cardigan buttons and tying my shoes, but to no avail—my car had been towed while I was in the mammography clinic. What a day.
I went to Winnipeg as planned and didn’t think much about the upcoming appointment, but just before I left to head back to Vancouver, I did tell my mom about the possibility of the biopsy results. She listened intently, nodding quietly. I told her I wasn’t panicking and I would let her know how it went. She asked me to call her right away once I knew, and she told me she loved me. I hugged her and told her I loved her right back, and promised to call. Then I flew home, for my appointment the next morning.
And that’s when I had the harpoon, the core needle biopsy. The syringe had a snapping motion, like the piercing gun used when my friends and I got our ears pierced in the mall in Lexington when we were twelve. Snap! The spring-loaded needle extracted the smallest amount of tissue from my breast. It hurt immensely. I don’t remember getting even any local anesthetic.
“Got it,” the technician said to another technician, taking only one sample. I think I yawned again, mostly for their entertainment.
“You can get dressed,” the first technician said as they both left the room. There was a small bandage over the biopsy site, which was bleeding a bit.
Fuck it hurt. I was given the brown paper bag before I even got my coat on. “It will actually get there faster if you drive your sample to St. Paul’s yourself,” I was told.
“I can drive my own sample there?” I was surprised.
“Just ask for pathology and they’ll tell you where to leave it. The sticker here has your name and your patient ID.”
“No problem!” I happily took the sac and drove to St. Paul’s Hospital, on Burrard Street. I parked, entered though the side doors, and followed the line painted on the hallway floor to the pathology department. It was filled with people waiting. I looked at them all and they all looked back. I left the sample with the receptionist and walked back to my car. I didn’t give the biopsy another thought.
Four days later, my GP called me, asking that I come to his office. I knew what he what he was going to say.
“Beth, you have breast cancer.”
“I know,” I said right back to him. My doctor was even, and I respected him a great deal. He made an appointment for me to see the breast surgeon at the cancer centre, for about a week later. I thanked him and made a follow-up appointment with him. Outside, all I could think of was getting back into my car before I lost my shit. If I was going to cry, I really wanted to be in the car.
But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I simply was not fearful or sad. But I did have to tell my mom, and my dad, and Peter and Naz; they could all take it from there. The news spread like wildfire. There were family dinners, dinners with my girlfriends, dinners with my manager’s family, and yet more dinners. I wasn’t broken up about the diagnosis, but it wasn’t fun. I was not this fun girl; I had cancer. For Ian, a new wife with cancer was like a new puppy getting lots of attention and advice.
I felt pretty excited about my first appointment with the surgical oncologist. She was in running shoes. Clearly, she was a runner, an athlete. I was impressed. She sat down and looked at me sitting up on the exam table. Ian was sitting nearby in a chair. She put her hand on my arm and said, “Beth, you have breast cancer”—although, of course, I already knew this. Then she turned and looked at my new husband and said, “Your wife has breast cancer. She will lose her hair.”
The three of us were silent; her words hung in the air. The room was way too quiet for me.
“It’s okay, doc!” I happily chimed up. “My husband’s an ass-man.” I started snort-laughing and slapping my knee. Silence. She was surprised. After a short pause, she laughed.
We talked about mastectomy and I told her to just cut off my breasts, both of them, and she said the outcome would be the same with radiation and chemo, and that the doctors would determ
ine the best course of action after more testing. So I signed up for whatever she thought was best. She was the doctor, that was my bottom line. The rest would work itself out, or I would work it out, but she was the boss, I figured. I didn’t have years of medical oncology training; she did.
That night, at home getting ready for bed, I sat in the bathroom with a hand-held magnifying mirror and pulled out every single eyebrow hair I had. I plucked them all, one by one, like that guy in the Pink Floyd movie The Wall, in the scene when he’s digging in his face in the mirror. I was determined to get rolling with the appearance so that it wouldn’t be weird for me. I was going to control it. My long-time friend and hairdresser, Van, cut my hair into what will always remain my favourite haircut, the one we decided on and the one I controlled. It was liberating and empowering. My transformation was beginning, and I was up for it. Somewhere along the way, my attitude had changed. I didn’t want the cancer to win. I was ready. I had to be.
The next month, including over Christmastime, I went through a series of tests. It was a full-time job, busier than my regular job. A body covered in tattoos is definitely something many of the technicians and nurses were not familiar with. And my body piercings were not exactly compatible with many of the machines used for testing. Many girls in my senior year of high school had had their belly button pierced, and I was no different. I wore a belly chain attached to the piercing. I’d had a belly ring pretty much as long as I’d had tattoos. It was just a normal piercing, nothing too crazy.
I’d had my nipples pierced many years before, both of them on the same day, not seeing the point of having only one done. I had been so pissed off during an argument with Peter that I marched right down to the piercing shop and got the two rings. “That will show him,” I thought. That will show him? Genius. The rings always hurt. To maintain them, I had to put alcohol and soap on them, turn and wash them, then pat them dry. I had to baby them for months and they never seemed to heal. Although I was happy with how they looked, and with the reaction the double nipple piercings generated, what motivated me to get them in the first place—to somehow punish my manager—was perhaps not well thought out. Peter had laughed and said, “Maybe you could tie a string on them and I can pull it to get your attention.”