I don’t like the word remission, probably because of its sister word, recurrence. I prefer to think of myself as cured, and that’s what I told Dr. Resner on the last of our appointments. The chemo had done its job, and I could return to life and work. The anger and resentment I had accumulated over the years was also gone. I had a man who loved me, a newly healthy body, and a deeper appreciation of what mattered in life. At fifty, I had learned volumes—enough to make the next half-century even better than the first.
19.
sex and the senior girl: esther
As I entered the new millennium, most of my crowd was either firmly ensconced in the senior citizen bracket or on the cusp of it. The generation who venerated youth was doing the impossible—getting old—and this meant coming to terms with our aging bodies and changes to our sexuality.
After the Dalkon Shield disaster in my twenties, a thick layer of scar tissue built up in my fallopian tubes and my ovaries were covered in cysts. Between forty and forty-six, I had three operations to remove them. I resisted the surgeries for as long as I could and refused my doctor’s advice to have a complete hysterectomy because I knew that it would affect my libido. When one of my doctors asked why I needed my uterus, since I wasn’t going to have children, it betrayed a shocking ignorance about female sexuality. I explained that not having my uterus would limit my ability to have orgasms. My uterus was still perfectly healthy and removing it would shorten my vagina and needlessly impact my sex life. He argued that it would protect me from uterine cancer, but I wasn’t going to have it removed for preventative reasons. I wondered how he would feel about preemptive testicle removal. Would he volunteer for that to protect himself from testicular cancer?
Regardless, I had three surgeries to remove my fallopian tubes and ovaries, and I did worry about how this would affect my libido. And I would find out, because after the surgeries, my hormonal balance shifted and my libido became a shadow of what it was. I decided to go on hormone replacement therapy, and to rely on my decades of solid sex education. I knew that communication, imagination, and a willingness to experiment go a long way toward turning up the erotic temperature. If my body’s thermostat had been reset, my thought process would have to contribute more.
Sexual energy took longer to ignite, and while I still had orgasms, they no longer felt like a tidal wave sweeping through my body. I had to go to the ultimate source: my brain. I dipped into my treasure trove of sexy memories and relied more on fantasy to kick-start arousal. I reminded myself that sexuality changes over the course of a lifetime, and I was no exception. It was time for me to take the advice that I had given to friends and clients countless times: Keep playing; keep experimenting.
When I was in my early sixties I had an experience that inspired me to charge into my older years with as much commitment to having satisfying sex as ever. Esther was an old friend who had recently turned eighty-four. Married for over half a century, her husband, Henry, now struggled with dementia, arthritis, and a number of other conditions that spelled an end to his sex life. Esther loved and cared for Henry, and she was determined to revive her sex life.
She didn’t come to me as a client, but as a friend who wanted the benefit of my expertise.
One Saturday she came over for brunch. We sat in my backyard enjoying the first flowers of spring, sipping mimosas, and eating eggs and croissants. Esther explained that she wasn’t ready to walk away from the exhilarating sex she had enjoyed for much of her married life. She referred to her orgasms with Henry as “earthquakes, but good ones.” She wanted to return to them, or at least feel pleasure and arousal, but she needed a little help learning how to achieve this on her own.
“Here’s where you come in, Cheryl,” she said. When she flashed her lovely grin, a group of wrinkles gathered around her mouth.
“How can I help?”
“I want to learn more about sex toys. I tried a vibrator years ago, but I didn’t like it. Can we take a trip to that store?”
“Good Vibrations?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
I wish every town had a store like Good Vibrations. It’s a boutique that offers sex toys, lubes, condoms, books, movies, games, and more. They were founded on sex-positive principles and have helpful, knowledgeable staff who make everyone feel welcome. I remembered how exciting it was when they opened in 1977, and we suddenly had a classy community sex store that we could patronize without hesitation or shame.
Esther and I had drained our mimosas and finished our leisurely meal and decided we’d visit Good Vibrations the following day.
When I arrived at Esther’s house the next morning, she had pulled her gunmetal grey hair back into a knot, and wore rose-colored lipstick.
“The big day,” she said.
We headed over to the Berkeley store, and as we drove I gave her a preview of what she would find there.
“They have lots of vibrators and dildos, and just about everything you need to go with them. How is your lubrication these days? Do you think you might need something to help with it?”
“That’s another thing. I’ve gotten very dry.”
“Okay. That happens to many women after menopause, and most women at your age have a lot of dryness. We’ll take a look. My advice is to try a few different samples and see what works best.”
I parked around the corner, helped Esther out of the car, and we made our way to the store.
“Whoa,” Esther said, her hazel eyes wide, as we walked through the front door.
She scanned the large room and only moved out from the entryway when she realized a few people had circled around her to get in.
I gave Esther a quick tour. Dildos, vibrators, and other toys were on one side of the room; lubes, massage oils, and additional items were on the other. Just then an employee recognized me and said hello. I introduced her to Esther and told her it was her first trip to the store.
“Welcome, Esther. Let me know if I can help with anything,” she said.
“Thank you, dear,” Esther replied, still a little bedazzled.
I showed Esther my favorite lube and gave her my take on others. I doubt she heard much of what I said because her eyes were focused on the other side of the room where a huge variety of dildos and vibrators were affixed to the far wall.
“See anything interesting?” I asked.
“I think so. I’m going to take a look over there,” Esther said and, cane in hand, she made her way to the sex toys.
I busied myself with checking out the lubricants, condoms, and other supplies. I needed to stock up for both work and home. Just as I had put a few boxes of condoms in my hand basket, I looked up and saw Esther smiling at me from across the room. She was holding an almost foot-long, blue, silicone dildo.
I walked over to her.
“That one looks good?”
“I’d like to give a try. Tell me, Cheryl, do you have a preference?”
For years I had used a vibrator that was probably three-quarters the size of the one Esther grasped in her hand. As I had aged, however, I discovered I loved the Pocket Rocket vibrator, which was considerably smaller, about four inches long, and had one only speed, but it was a little powerhouse.
“Let me show you what I like these days,” I said.
We went to the toy shelf and I pointed out the Pocket Rocket.
“It’s good for traveling, too,” I said.
“But it’s so small.”
“Well, you don’t need to go very deep to be stimulated.”
“Hmm . . . I always liked big men, and Harry got huge when he was ready,” Esther said.
She looked at the behemoth in her hand and then at the Pocket Rocket on the shelf.
“I think I’ll try both.”
“Good idea. Experiment with them and see what you like best.”
She picked out a few different kinds of lube and we headed to the cash register.
Esther and I had a quick bite to eat and then I drove her home.
She
called the next weekend. I didn’t take much prompting to get her report.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, Cheryl, that Pocket Rocket. Maybe I’ve overestimated size or maybe I’ve changed, but, whoa, it’s my new best friend.”
Her comment reminded me of an incident in my early twenties. I was visiting with a friend who lived with her mother and grandmother. Her great aunt happened to also be visiting the day I was there, and the two elderly sisters sat in the kitchen within earshot of my friend and me in the living room.
“I’m so glad that’s over,” I heard one of them say.
“Me too. It’s such a relief that he doesn’t want it anymore,” the other one answered.
I realized they were talking about sex. My friend and I looked at each other. “I hope we never feel like that,” I said.
Now, listening to Esther sing the praises of her new Pocket Rocket, I was sure I wouldn’t. I was also certain that my generation, the one that had turned the world upside down in the sixties and seventies, wasn’t going to abandon sex because of age. Our bodies change as we grow older, but that just means we have to find new ways of being sexual. Along with my grey-haired friends and colleagues, I was writing a new chapter of my sex life, not an epilogue.
20.
still cooking
“Cheryl, you need to come over here right away.” Sarah sounded like she could barely breathe enough to push the words out. My heart pumped so hard that I could feel it reverberate in my ears and arms. This had to be bad. “Is Eric dead?” I asked. It was the worst news I could imagine my daughter-in-law delivering. “No, no, but you need to come over here now.”
It was 2001 and my son, his wife, and my young grandchild lived in the cottage in my backyard. Michael had vacated a few years earlier to set up house with Jan, his latest girlfriend.
I jammed my feet into a pair of flip-flops and flew down the back steps and down the path that separated our houses, my legs powered by the adrenaline that raced through me. As I bounded up the front stairs, I lost one of my shoes.
“What, what is it?” I asked Sarah.
“Cheryl, I have bad news. Michael is dead.”
“Michael who?” I asked, not able to comprehend that it could be my Michael.
“Michael Cohen,” she answered.
I felt like I had been walloped with a two-by-four.
“What? Oh, oh my God,” I gasped.
Michael’s birthday was three days away. On February 3 he would have been sixty-one.
“Eric is on his way home. I called him at work,” she said.
“What happened?”
“He had a massive heart attack at school. Jan called. She’s at the hospital.”
Michael had been working as a special education teacher. It was the first time he had held a steady job in years. He was popular with the students and had achieved notable success with even some of the most challenging ones. The principal of the school was stunned at the change he had seen in some of the kids.
How could he be dead? The notion of Michael no longer walking the planet seemed impossible. All of his knowledge and ideas and feelings and passions and craziness were gone. I would never see him again. Michael, the man who had changed my life, was no more. The man with whom I had fallen in and out of love, the one who had infuriated me, who had given me two beautiful children, who had made me laugh, who had betrayed me, was dead. I would never talk to him again. How could it be?
I sat down on the sofa and put my head in my hands. I tried to calm myself as I looked down at my one naked foot.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” I said to Sarah and myself.
I thought about calling Jessica at work, but I called her best friend Ellen instead.
Ellen and Jessica were like sisters, and I wanted her there with me when I broke the sad news. I was in no shape to drive, so Ellen picked me up and we left for the jewelry store where Jessica worked.
Jessica’s face lit up when she saw the two of us enter the store and then quickly dropped when she registered my expression.
“What’s wrong?” she asked
“Jessica, honey. Something really sad has happened. Your father died.”
“Oh, Mom. Are you okay?” was the first thing my sweet daughter said to me after I told her.
She came out from behind the counter to hug me. I felt her burning face and her tears through my shirt.
“If I’d only known it would be the last time I’d see him . . . ” she said.
We walked out to the parking lot with our arms around each other and Ellen drove us home.
I called Bob, who was now officially my husband. In 1995, we exchanged wedding vows, again, in front of about fifty family and friends. He got in his car the minute we hung up and soon all of us were standing in my son’s living room.
Jan had identified the body, but we decided we would all go to the hospital morgue. It was as if we all required proof that Michael was dead.
When we arrived, Bob stayed in the hospital lobby with my eleven-month-old granddaughter while the rest of us got in the elevator and descended to the morgue.
The fluorescent light gleamed off of the rows of stainless steel drawers. It was all so cold and impersonal, so uniform. A revolving door of grief swept the ones left behind in and out. It was our turn now. It would be someone else’s tomorrow.
The coroner slid one of the drawers open and there lay Michael. I felt like I was going to faint. The blood had pooled toward the back of his body, and I glimpsed a sliver of purple under his ear. His skin was waxen and his eyes were shut, permanently.
“Oh, Daddy,” Jessica said.
I started crying for myself, for Jessica, for all of us. We each took turns saying goodbye. When it was mine, I knelt down on the floor and kissed Michael’s cold lips. I touched his face and chest. How the fuck did this happen? I thought. I felt guilty, like I shouldn’t be as upset as I was. Michael was no longer my husband and I had a wonderful partner in Bob. Was I being disloyal to him? I’m so sorry, Michael, I whispered.
Then we walked out, each of us reaching for the hand that was closest.
I often wonder how Michael and I would have interacted with the benefit of age and hindsight. Since our divorce, Michael had talked more openly about his emotions and fears than he ever had during our marriage. He once said to me that he marveled at how every time life knocked me down I got back up again. “I wouldn’t be able to do that. I would just curl up in a ball to try to protect myself,” he said. He also admitted that he had never been able to give me the kind of intimacy I wanted. “You loved me so fiercely that it scared me. I was afraid of losing your love, of letting you down.” He wanted to work on himself, to face his fears, and to lower the barriers that kept him from fully loving any woman.
How sad for Michael, I thought. He had so many gifts and so many adoring women in his life, but he missed out on so much by not being able to love. I saw then that, in a way, he had always been alone.
The year after Michael died I lost another person whose impact on me was profound. In 2002, at seventy-seven, my mother died of bone cancer.
After I recovered from lymphoma, I came to a crossroads with Mom. My commitment to staying as positive and stress-free as possible was tested every time we talked. Our conversations typically ended with me sobbing and angry. I was convinced that if I was going to stay healthy, I had to steer clear of the toxic emotions that contact with my mother invariably generated. So, I decided that she and I would change how we interacted or we would no longer speak.
One Saturday in 1995 I made a phone call that changed our relationship. “Mom, I can’t keep doing this,” I said. I had practiced what I would say to her for days, and I was confident. “We need to change,” I continued. There was total silence on the other end. For a minute I thought she had hung up, but then I heard her sigh. Keep going, I told myself. “We can’t continue pushing each other’s buttons. It upsets you and me, and it’s not healthy for either
one of us. I want us to let go of the past. You’ll always be my mother, but now I want to see if we can be friends. When we talk to each other, I want us to stay in the present. Who knows how much longer either one of us has in this life. Let’s not spend it being angry at each other. We can’t change the past, but we can make a different future for ourselves. I forgive you and I want you to forgive me.”
“What have you got to forgive me for?”
I felt a twinge of anger, and reminded myself that I had just suggested that we leave the past behind us.
“Mom, I’m not going to go there. Let’s stay in the present. No more rehashing the past. If you can’t do this, I can’t speak to you anymore.”
My mother was quiet.
“I want you to really think about this,” I said.
After we hung up I didn’t know if I had talked to my mother for the last time. I had worked hard to forgive her and to let go of the rage and resentment that had hung on since childhood. I wasn’t willing to have it rekindled with every phone call.
It was about a week until I heard from my mother again. For the first time in several years, she sent me a letter instead of calling.
When Mom left for Mass on the Sunday morning after our talk, she was rankled. She had done her best as a mother and had worked hard. Why was I so mad at her? Shouldn’t she be the one with a grudge? Was my childhood so terrible? After all, I had never wanted for anything. She was still fuming when the priest began his sermon, which was on forgiveness. He talked about how Jesus Christ had set the example of forgiveness, and about how healing begins with it. It was our duty, and even our salvation, to forgive.
Somewhere in the course of the homily, the idea of calling a truce with me started to seem at first possible, then desirable. By the time she left the church she had started to think more deeply about what I had said. Maybe, after all these years, it was time to move on. She waited a few days before starting the letter to me. “I want to try what you suggested,” she wrote.
An Intimate Life Page 23