An Intimate Life

by Cheryl T. Cohen Greene

  I almost felt sorry for him, but I wasn’t backing down.

  “Cheryl, I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to hurt you.”

  “Anybody who would do that to me . . . talk to me like that after all the years we’ve been together. I can’t be with you anymore, Michael.”

  I looked out our back window at the cottage that sat on our property. It had come with the house when we bought it in 1978. The only question now was how soon Michael would move into it. Within the week Michael had packed up his books, records, clothes, and other belongings and decamped to the backyard.

  By April 1993, Michael and I had lived as neighbors for almost a year, and had settled into a kind of friendship. Bob stayed with me several nights a week, and Andrea lived intermittently with Michael. When Jessica and Eric came, we got together in the house that I had now assumed full ownership of and had dinner, watched movies, or just hung out together. As I acquired some distance from Michael, I also gained clarity. Michael had brought his own issues to the marriage. I no longer believed that he couldn’t love me because I wasn’t good enough. Instead I saw how he’d always battled his own insecurities and demons. I wasn’t sure he could love any woman. This helped me to have some compassion for him and to dial back my anger enough for a friendship to grow.

  Financial circumstances didn’t allow Michael to move from the backyard bungalow. In fact, I chuckled when the judge at our separation hearing asked me if I was sure about not going after him for spousal support. I just hope he doesn’t go after me, I thought. He didn’t, and when it came time to divvy up the few assets I had cobbled together as the major wage earner of the family, he demanded little. If we were going to be neighbors, we would try to be good ones for our own well-being and for the sake of our children.

  I think I would have felt pretty good if it wasn’t for the almost constant pain I now had in my stomach. When it started I attributed it to stress. Some days it was so intense that I couldn’t eat. I had dropped a few stubborn pounds, and even though I felt terrible, I was getting close to the body I had wanted for years. If I could only maintain the diet the pain imposed on me after it was gone, I thought, I could stay slim into my fifth decade. The problem was that the pain didn’t go away. It kept me up at night and stopped me from working. After one particularly bad day in July 1993, when I was unable to get out of bed and could barely take a drink of water, I called my doctor and said I needed to come in immediately.

  “Sounds like diverticulitis,” said Dr. Sanders, who, at the time, was seven months pregnant. She prescribed antibiotics and said she would get me an appointment with a gastroenterologist if I didn’t improve.

  A week later I was still in agony and called Dr. Sanders. She had left for maternity leave, but her nurse gave me the name and phone number for Dr. Jedson, a local gastroenterologist, who, mercifully, had an opening that afternoon.

  Dr. Jedson had a soft-spoken, calm manner that put me at ease instantly. The medication I had been taking made so little difference to my condition that I had begun to doubt the diverticulitis diagnosis. This guy is going to figure out what’s really wrong with me, I thought with relief. After he examined me, he announced that I would need to get a CAT scan—the following morning. I wanted to know what was wrong with me, but this seemed awfully fast. Doesn’t it take at least a day to navigate the medical bureaucracy? Should I be worried? I asked Dr. Jedson where I should go to make the appointment, and he said he had already made it for me. Now I really was worried. It seemed like I was getting special treatment and this was not a context in which I wanted to be special.

  I phoned Bob, who immediately called his work to tell them he wouldn’t be in the next day. I also told Michael, who immediately volunteered to join us. He was genuinely concerned. After all we had been through, Michael and I still had a bond, and I had to admit I wanted him there. I needed all the support I could get, and if he wasn’t a reliable husband, Michael was turning into a supportive friend.

  The following morning the three of us reported to a lab in downtown Berkeley. I left Michael and Bob chatting amiably in the waiting room and followed a nurse down a corridor that led to the large room that housed the donut-shaped CAT scan machine.

  I lay down on what looked like a chute protruding out of the machine. The tech told me to hold my breath when I saw the green light on the rim of the scanner. I heard what sounded like a vacuum cleaner being used in a distant room as I glided backward into the tunnel of the machine. The green light went on and I caught my breath. Then several mysterious clicks, and the green light flipped off. A minute later it was on again and the clicks returned. We did this five or six times.

  I returned to the waiting room and sat between Michael and Bob. If I hadn’t been so anxious about what the test might reveal, I probably would have been coming up with a way to explain to the doctor who the two men with me were. I chuckled at the idea of introducing Bob as my future husband, since Reno didn’t count legally, and Michael as my future ex-husband. In as soon as a few minutes I would learn what was behind the excruciating pain that had dogged me for the last two months. I was afraid of what the test might reveal, but looked forward to finally undergoing the treatment that would alleviate the agony and let me get on with my life.

  It looks like I have a rain cloud in my stomach, I thought as the three of us looked up at the scan of my abdomen that was pressed against a light box on the wall of an exam room. “See all this grey?” the doctor said. “That’s your lymph system. You have lymphoma. These are all tumors.” I heard him, but I didn’t really assimilate what he said. Lymphoma was cancer, and I couldn’t have cancer. I looked at Bob and then at Michael. They both looked as serious as I had ever seen them. The doctor took out a prescription pad and scribbled the name and number of an oncologist on it. He held it out toward me, but I just stood there. Finally, Bob took it from him. We walked silently to the car. Bob opened the door for me and I got into the passenger side. Bob didn’t normally do this. It struck me how terribly grave my situation really was.

  Dr. Resner, the oncologist, was a slender man with a gentle demeanor. His black hair was dusted with grey at the temples and he had a lilting voice. He explained that I had tumors from just below my heart to my groin. They were crowded around my stomach and many of my organs. This was why I couldn’t eat and why I was in so much pain. He needed to do a number of blood tests and other exams before he could tell me how we should proceed. First, I would have surgical biopsy to remove some swollen lymph nodes. This would tell them which of the many varieties of lymphoma I had. A bone marrow test would follow, and when he had all of the results, we would reconvene.

  On a late July morning, Bob, Michael, Jessica, Eric, and I climbed into Michael’s car and drove across town to the hospital. I had to be there at 6 AM to check in for surgery and we were a bleary-eyed bunch. The surgery would be done under general anesthesia, and if all went well it wouldn’t take longer than two hours. The surgeon would make an incision above my right collar bone and extract the lymph nodes.

  When we arrived, Jessica and Eric headed to the cafeteria for coffee while I completed a stack of forms. Soon I had an ID bracelet clamped around my wrist and had changed into a blue hospital gown. A friendly nurse prepped me and the surgeon arrived and asked if I had any questions. One by one my beautiful family kissed me and assured me they would be there when I awoke. The last thing I remember is counting aloud to ten after the anesthesiologist covered my nose and mouth with a mask.

  The barely perceptible weight of the breathing tube resting below my nose was the first thing I felt when I resurfaced. An IV line sprung out of my arm, and I could hear faint chattering coming from the nurses’ station outside my door. Next to the lower right corner of my bed Jessica was slumped forward in a chair, her arms on the bed and her head resting on her arms. Droll, whip-smart, and artistic, Jessica was a born rebel and I couldn’t be prouder to be her mother.

  “Jess, what’s wrong, honey?”

  “What’s w
rong? What’s wrong? You’re in the hospital. You have cancer. You’re knocking your forehead on the threshold of Monsieur Reaper,” she said in the most exaggerated French accent I had ever heard.

  A spasm of pain rippled across the surgical cut and I felt the stitches pull.

  “Don’t make me laugh,” I said, and pursed my lips to staunch any more giggling.

  With the support of my loving, quirky family and friends I hoped to send Monsieur Reaper packing.

  What, exactly, the grim reaper threatened me with became clearer after the surgery and other tests. I had follicular mixed-cell low-grade lymphoma. It was in stage three, not the best time for detection, but not as dire as stages four or five. The cancer had not gone into my bone marrow, and, if I followed the treatment protocol, I had a 95 percent chance of shrinking the tumors. Survival rates for this kind of cancer were high.

  I needed to hear this. I was still in tremendous discomfort, even though I now had a steady supply of painkillers, and I was weak and exhausted. I was still unable to eat and had lost thirty pounds. At times I thought I would rather die than continue on in this kind of misery. My resolve was running thin. There were days when I could barely hold my chin up. For the first time I realized the weight of my head. It felt like I had a bowling ball balanced atop my neck. Still, my prognosis was positive.

  Dr. Resner explained that I would be treated with something called CHOP, a chemotherapy regimen that includes cylcophosphamide, hydroxydaunorubicin, oncovin, and prednisone. Three weeks earlier I had never heard of these drugs. Their impenetrable names scared me. I wanted to go back to the time when I didn’t know the word chop could be an acronym. Still, my prognosis was positive.

  When the chemo started I would lose my hair that hung to the middle of my back. I decided that at the first sign of hair loss I would shave my head. It was a way of reclaiming some degree of power over a body that had spun out of control. I also vowed to devote all of my energy to my recovery. Squandering any of it on anger or bitterness was a luxury I could no longer afford. I had to concentrate on getting well as quickly as possible. I already had to take time off and turn away potential clients because I was too sick to work. I knew I would not be able to work as I went through treatment and that I would have to dip into my scant savings to make ends meet.

  I vowed that I would care for myself as best as I could. Michael and I had studied hypnosis together a few years earlier and he agreed to hypnotize me every day. I made an appointment with a nutritionist and doubled up on my psychotherapy visits. A former client heard I was sick and he arranged for a massage therapist to visit me after every chemo treatment. Bob cashed in the five months of vacation time he had accrued as a postal worker for the last ten years, and barely left my side. Both Jessica and Eric were at the ready to help whenever I needed it. My support network was sturdy and reliable, not just because of who was in it, but because of who wasn’t.

  I decided that I wouldn’t call my parents as I went through treatment. Against my wishes, Michael had told them about my diagnosis shortly after I had received it. I didn’t want them to know that I was miserable. Almost three decades after I had left for California and began a life with Michael, they still expected disaster to strike. I didn’t want to prove them right. Michael told me that they took it in their typical stoic manner and asked him to call if I took a turn for the worse. No great outpourings of sympathy flowed from them. Hasty travel plans to visit me in California were not made. So be it. My plan was to avoid anyone who didn’t support or comfort or relax me, and if that meant temporarily cutting off my parents, then that’s what I would do.

  With chemotherapy looming, I thought carefully about what I needed to forgive others and myself for if I was going to muster every bit of my energy for healing. As I well knew, anger and resentment were parasites that could quickly drain away precious internal resources. I worked on forgiving Michael, and forgiving myself for putting up with him. If my mind alighted on a memory that sparked anger, I reminded myself that my energy was now to be used in the service of getting well. On some days I had to tell myself this only once; on others I had to say it repeatedly. Before my diagnosis, the thought of extending an olive branch to Meg would have seemed about as plausible as walking on water. Now, it felt almost necessary, so a few days before I was due to begin chemo I called her.

  “Cheryl, is that you?” Meg asked when I said hello.

  “It’s me, Meg.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Well, I suppose Michael has told you that I’m . . . I’m sick. Well, I mean I have lymphoma and I’m going start chemo soon.”

  “He did, Cheryl. I’m sorry,” Meg said in a timorous voice. Maybe she thought I was calling to release my anger, which I was, but not in the way she might have suspected.

  “Meg, it’s okay,” I said.

  “Thanks. It’s hard to know what to say.”

  “I’m calling today because I want you to know that I’m not angry with you. If I die—and I don’t plan to—I don’t want you feeling like I died hating you. I understand what happened. You’re a human being. We all are, and we fell in love with the same person.”

  “Cheryl, I’m sorry for . . . for a lot, but I can’t say I’m sorry for having my kids.”

  “I don’t want you to apologize for that. I love your kids and I’m glad they’re in my life.”

  Forgiveness doesn’t happen in the course of one phone call, but it was a beginning. And I believed Meg. She hadn’t intended to hurt me, and even if she had, I was doing my best to jettison anger—no exceptions.

  “No exceptions” included my parents too. For a long time I dreamed of a reconciliation with them that would consist of more than a series of tacit agreements not to talk about what we knew would trigger a fight. I wanted them to accept and love me for who I was. I wanted them to rethink much of what they believed, and I wanted them to understand how much their attitudes about sexuality had hurt me. I yearned for them to recognize me as a loving mother, a competent professional, and even a good daughter. I also realized that I was in no position to set contingencies and conditions on forgiveness. I had to let my anger toward them dissipate no matter what they had or hadn’t done, and that’s what I committed to finally do. It wasn’t the closure I wanted, but it was the one I had to accept.

  Bob and Michael arranged to accompany me to my first chemotherapy infusion appointment. For his part, Michael had continued to make a diligent effort at friendship and I welcomed it. “It’s complicated” is used flippantly these days, but our relationship was . . . well . . . complicated. Michael and I had essentially grown up together: We had raised children together and experimented together. Our shared history, however tumultuous, would keep us in each other’s lives. Michael would stand beside me as I faced the worst health crisis of my life. If the situation were reversed, I would have been there for him, with all of my anger and love, resentment and tenderness. He attended the first three chemo sessions.

  “Does she ever . . . ” I heard Michael whisper to Bob just as I had settled in to my first chemotherapy infusion. He shot me a mischievous look. I appreciated the attempt at a joke, but I was in no mood to laugh.

  “Oh God, could you please not do that,” I said.

  Bob went back to his photography magazine and Michael stared out the window. I didn’t need them comparing notes while drip-by-drip I took in the toxins that would save my life. Including this one, I was scheduled for six treatments, one every three weeks. It was August, and if all went as planned I would be done by Christmas, and I’d begin 1994 cancer-free.

  I reclined back, closed my eyes, and thought about the Grand Canyon and Europe, two places I wanted to see more desperately than ever. When I regained my health I was going to make those trips a priority. It may sound clichéd, but having cancer forced me to realize that I didn’t have all the time in the world to do what I wanted to do. Procrastination was now the enemy.

  As treatment wound on, I was thankful for many things
. My family and friends were at the top of my list. Zofran, an antinausea drug that was relatively new at the time, was second. After my first infusion, my stomach felt like it was on spin cycle. Morning sickness was nothing compared to this. I vomited until I had nothing left in me and I was so weak that I had to be virtually carried the twenty feet from my bathroom to my bedroom. After that, I took Zofran intravenously before every treatment and in pill form if I needed it afterward.

  Most of the time I was so exhausted that I had to remind myself that I was on my way to getting well. It sure didn’t feel like it. On my own I wouldn’t have left the house much, but my family took turns getting me out. More than once I heard one of my kids say, “Let’s take Mom for a walk.” If I had had the strength I would have laughed. What was I, a dog?

  Bob also got me out. Once we took a trip to the University of California’s Botanical Gardens, where we had our first date. We walked along a path, Bob supporting me at each step. I soon had to rest and sat on the nearest bench. I put my head on Bob’s shoulder. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and almost fell asleep. Then I heard a child giggling. I looked up and coming toward us was a toddler tootling along, his beaming parents rushing to keep up with him. He had a head full of brown curls and bright blue eyes. He tried to climb up a little dirt mound, and when he lost his footing he slid down laughing. His mother brushed the dirt off his knees and kissed his chubby cheeks.

  He’s just starting his life, I thought. That was me at one time. His parents are just starting their lives with him. That was once me, too. I may be at the end of my life. I felt enormous sadness for myself, and boundless joy for the strangers who walked toward me. How quickly life can end. It can all be over in a flash. I closed my eyes tight so Bob wouldn’t see me cry. Look at how much you’ve had, I said to myself. People younger than you die all the time all over the world. Children die. Babies die. They live for less time than a butterfly. You’ve had a good life, a rich life with so much experience. It’s going to be okay if you die. When I opened my eyes the family was gone, slipped away in the span of a few thoughts.