Dancing on Broken Glass

by Ka Hancock

  I think Mickey must have read the change in my mood, because he gathered the pictures and handed them to me. “Okay, Mom, that’s enough staring at our faceless daughter. We have paint to buy.”

  “Have fun,” said Jared as he walked out.

  “Finally,” I said, standing up. But then Mickey’s phone rang and I could see that he wanted to answer it. “I’ll wait in the lobby.”

  “I’ll only be a minute,” he promised.

  I walked out of the club and headed into the hotel lobby, where a plushy sofa faced the big fireplace. Just as I rounded the corner, I saw Lily walk into the Brubaker. When we saw each other, for a split second I think we both wanted to turn the other way. Instead, she offered me an anxious little wave and bit her lip as she walked over to me. “I saw you come in here a few minutes ago,” she said. “And I just . . . I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m good, Lil. I’m glad I ran into you, I was going to come over. At least, I thought about it.”

  “What’s new?”

  My eyes filled with tears because hers did. And because she was brave enough to come find me, I didn’t hesitate. “I want to show you something, Lily.” I took her hand and we walked over to the sofa.

  “What is it?”

  We sat down close to each other, and I pulled the ultrasound pictures from my pocket. “I want you to meet your niece.”

  Lily coughed out a little squeak as she took the pictures from me, her hands shaking.

  I put my arm around her and leaned my head into her shoulder. “She’s not much to look at right now, but I think she’s beautiful.”

  Lily nodded and I saw her tears fall as she studied the images. For a long time she was quiet. “She is beautiful,” she finally said. “But . . . where is she, Lu? What am I looking at?”

  I laughed. Lily laughed even though she was crying.

  “This is her profile.” I pointed. “Here’s her legs and that’s her I’m a girl. There’s her little clenched fist.”

  “Oh, she is beautiful.” Lily shook her head. “I didn’t know until this very minute how much I’ve always wanted a niece.”

  “Really?” I rasped.

  Her arms came around me. “You’re having a baby. A baby girl. How wonderful is that?” she said into my hair. “No more of this avoiding each other, I can’t stand it. I can’t. I want every single detail, every single day. Can I please have that?”

  “Well, that’s the second-best sight I’ve seen today,” Mickey said, walking across the lobby toward us.

  Lily and I unhugged, and my sister pushed the tears off her face. “I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting your daughter,” she said, as she stood and put her arms around Mickey. “Nice work, Mic. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Lily. You okay?”

  “I’m just fine. I’m gonna be an aunt for heaven’s sake!” She kissed his cheek. “I have to get back to the store now. I’m pretty sure I’m being robbed blind this very minute by Muriel’s sister—don’t be fooled by the walker, that old gal can get around.” She chuckled as she wiped her nose. “I just had to come over when I saw you.” She turned to me. “Remember, Lucy: every detail.”

  “Okay,” I promised, relief washing over me.

  She kissed my cheek and walked out.

  Mickey’s arms came around me from behind and he pulled me to his chest. “It’s a good day, Lu,” he said into my ear.

  “It is. It’s a very good day.”

  fourteen

  AUGUST 4, 2011

  The cycle. Familiar in every way. Part me, part my medication. It’s been almost two months since I was discharged from the hospital and I’m recovered from my ascent. I’m so grateful I didn’t fall too fast or too hard back to level ground, because if that happens, I can dive through it and into depression, a place dark and draining where nothing matters and I don’t care. But life is too good right now for this to be a concern. Even if it weren’t, my serious depressions have been blessedly few and far between. This is probably because I am highly responsive to antidepressants—so much so that with little warning I can be pushed into mania. I am a brittle bipolar. I strive to live in the pocket of sanity known as the safe edge of hypomania. If there’s an upside to bipolarity, that’s it—the energized state of being that unfortunately can’t really be sustained. It’s not static, it has a destination. Eventually—if left unchecked—it leads to what Gleason calls “the point of undeniability,” a state in which I am helplessly psychotic but don’t know it.

  For me the cycle goes like this: a small disruption in my sleep pattern, moods that begin to bleed together, a subtle shift in my reality, ideas that strike me as unusually brilliant, more disruption in my sleep, more brilliant ideas that flow fluidly, slowly at first, deceptively so, but then gush through the sieve of my brain, thoughts I try to catch because they are so good, but which slip through my fingers like water. More disruption of sleep, not tired, wired, still thinking clearly but starting to second-guess myself. My course can be corrected when I’m standing here, right here—not one inch further in. But it feels so good here, to work like a demon, no time for sleep, no desire for sleep, alive to the extreme, I need more hands to get it all done. All what? It slips away. Muddled thinking, but aware that I’m losing it. I need sleep, but I am now incapable of sleep because I am incapable of shutting off my brain. This is the edge. Another step is to fall, lose touch with reality but not know it, angry because everyone seems critical of me, telling me how to live, what I should be doing, what I shouldn’t be doing. What do they know? I can fix this on my own with pills that for some reason have stopped working. In my brilliance, I double up on some and eliminate others that are surely the reason for this spiral. The edge of sanity: one foot in, one foot out.

  I know this cycle: the fall and rise, the leveling out. I’ve learned trust is the secret. I can’t trust me, which has taken a lifetime for me to grasp. But I trust Lucy and I trust Gleason. Ron and Jared have not lied to me either. All of them tell me to trust the pills to get me back to the speed limit. Back to level ground or hovering just above level but not lower; if at all possible, not lower. I do what I can to not dip below the fault line into despair. But then that, too, is part of the cycle.

  I looked around Charlotte Barbee’s inner office and tried to control my shaking. It had been three days since I’d been here with Mickey, gushing over a perfectly normal ultrasound. Charlotte hadn’t even been the one to call this afternoon. She’d had Bev Lancaster do it, and Bev said she had no idea why Charlotte wanted to see me. It took my breath away, and now I was waiting, filled with dread. What had happened in the last three days to fill me with this much anxiety?

  Finally Charlotte came in and took her seat across the desk from me. She cleared her throat a couple of times and avoided my eyes. “Thanks for coming in, Lucy.”

  My hands stiffened around each other. “Charlotte, what’s going on? Is there a problem?”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t think so. I really don’t, Lucy.” Her tone was clear and confident, all business. “It’s just that I’ve been comparing your mammograms with this most recent ultrasound, and I think this last one might be just a bit off. I’d feel better if a colleague of mine could double-check it.”

  “Okay,” I heard myself say.

  “Lucy, I’m almost certain it can be explained by your pregnancy. I’ve looked at the images a hundred times and . . .” She shook her head. “I just want to be sure we have nothing to worry about. It’s only because of your history, which is the reason we’re checking so often anyway. I’m just going to be suspicious until I know otherwise.”

  “And you’re suspicious now?” I wanted to be clear.

  She shook her head, but said, “Just a little. I sent your films from last week to another radiologist; one more specialized than the doctor we usually use. I just wanted a second interpretation, and he agreed with me that what we see can probably be attributed to your pregnancy. Here, let me show you.” She hu
ng three sets of images on the white screen behind her desk and flipped a light switch. “These are from a year ago, these are from two months ago, and these are from last week.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “It’s hard to see, but this area is just a bit darker.” She pointed. “Do you see that?”

  I leaned over to get a closer look. “Maybe.”

  “It’s probably nothing, Lucy. Pregnancy imposes a number of physiological changes that naturally result in the enlargement of breast tissue—increased glandularity, water content. But those normal things can also make it difficult to evaluate small changes that might be serious. When you came for your regular checkup two months ago, when we found out you were pregnant, I didn’t see anything problematic.

  “And then, just to be on the safe side, I ran the comparative ultrasound when you came in on Monday. That’s this one.” She pointed to the third picture.

  I stood up and leaned over Charlotte’s desk. “I’m not sure I see a difference.”

  “I know, me neither. But I felt something the other day.”

  My legs tingled and I had to sit back down as I took in the sight of my doctor—serious features, capable bearing, white lab coat over a black linen dress. “You felt something? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I really didn’t think it was anything outside of the norm, and your labs didn’t indicate a problem—in fact, nothing really points to a possible problem except your history. That’s why I want another opinion. It’s just a little thickness in the area that coincides with this dark area.” She pointed again to the bottom of one of the images. “Lucy, as I said, if it’s just tissue engorgement, it’s a completely normal finding.”

  “But?”

  Charlotte flipped off the light and turned back to me. “But we want to be sure, right, darlin’?”

  “Okay, yes,” I said shakily. “So now what?”

  “I’d send you back to Dr. Stevens who treated you last time, but he’s moved to Fort Worth, so I’m sending you to Dr. Matthews over in New Haven. He’s at Women’s Oncology, specializing in everything we’ve been talking about. I know him. He’s very good.” Charlotte scribbled an address on a slip of paper and handed it to me. “Can you go this afternoon?”

  “Today? I thought you weren’t worried.”

  “Lucy, he’s there now, and as a favor to me, he said he’d squeeze you in. He’s just going to look at these pictures and examine you, maybe run a test or two. It might take a few days for him to get back to me with his findings. And when he does, we can all just get on with this pregnancy breathing easier. Okay?”

  I stared at Charlotte. She was not smiling. I tried to read her. “Charlotte, do you think I should tell Mickey? Should I have him go with me?”

  Charlotte’s gaze stayed steady. “That’s up to you, Lucy.”

  If I called, I knew Mickey would drop everything to go with me. He would be here now if I would have asked. Charlotte came from behind the desk and put her hands on my shoulders. “Lucy, this is just a precaution. And we’re not going to worry about this until we know if there’s anything to worry about.” I nodded but couldn’t seem to find my voice.

  Charlotte handed me a large manila envelope that contained my images, and I somehow got myself out of her office and into my car, her words echoing in my head. My first impulse was to call Mickey. I wanted his strength right now. But he was in such a great place, relaxed and stable, so excited about everything. Did I really need to disrupt that before I knew anything? Wasn’t that just selfish? It was probably nothing and I would have worried him for no reason. This is how I rationalized the decision not to call my husband.

  I leaned my head against the headrest, closed my eyes, and tried to stop trembling. Surely this could not be happening to me again. I replayed everything Charlotte had said, and all that she hadn’t said, and I couldn’t make it any softer.

  I sat in my steamy car wondering if anyone else would be up for a drive to New Haven. Lily was as big an impossibility as Mickey and for nearly the same reasons. For a fleeting moment, I thought of Ron. As brothers-in-law go, I couldn’t be luckier. Ron was not an alarmist, nor did he overreact. He was laid-back and solid and real and he wouldn’t ask me any questions. He’d just hold my hand and share all the silent possibilities with me. But then we’d have to tell Lily, and she might not forgive him for being a better candidate than her. I couldn’t put him in the middle.

  In the end, I just drove my perfectly capable, big-girl self to the New Haven Center for Oncological Research Hospital. The huge, multibuilding complex was sterile and unfriendly right down to the receptionist in Building D, Suite 410, Office of Reproductive Imaging Studies. I walked into a crowded waiting room and told the girl at the desk who I was. She scanned her computer screen and told me I didn’t have an appointment. I said I knew that. I told her I’d been sent by Dr. Charlotte Barbee in Brinley—I might as well have told her I’d come from the moon. Tina Pulsifer, according to her name tag, told me that there was no way I was going to be able to see a doctor today. “No one has a free second for a walk-in,” she said, like I was there for a haircut.

  “Not a doctor—Dr. Roland Matthews.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

  “If you knew why I was here, you’d know I wasn’t kidding, Tina. Dr. Charlotte Barbee spoke with him directly. I don’t mind waiting, but please tell him I’m here.”

  Her perfect little lips parted again, and a perfect little sigh escaped as she picked up the phone. “It’s going to be a while. Dr. Matthews is in surgery. Do you have your films?”

  I handed her the envelope. “Surgery? I thought he was a radiologist.”

  “He’s not a radiologist—he’s the head of the department.”

  Panic, formerly swaddled in cotton, stretched awake in me.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Chandler. I’ll have him paged,” Tina said, dismissing me. I stumbled, just a little, over to a chrome-and-leather chair, ultramodern, uncomfortable.

  As I sat for an interminable amount of time in that awful chair, I replayed the suddenly questionable calm in Charlotte’s voice. I retraced her words and tried again to hear her tell me I had nothing to worry about. Somewhere in the midst of this exercise, I heard my name and looked up to find a tall, thin boy coming toward me. “Lucy Chandler?”

  I nodded.

  He smiled. “I’m Owen Peters, Dr. Matthews’s PA. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you up to surgery.”

  “What?” I said, suddenly unable to get to my feet. “I’m not here for surgery.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, no. I meant I’m here to take you up to Dr. Matthews. He’s in surgery, but he wants to see you.” Owen was holding my images.

  “I appreciate him squeezing me in like this,” I said, trying to tamp down my anxiety. I followed the tall physician’s assistant to the elevator. Neither of us spoke as we ascended the six floors to the surgical suites. I studied Owen’s indifferent reflection in the smooth doors and wondered why he wasn’t nicer, more talkative, why he hadn’t been trained in ways to put nervous women at ease.

  When the elevator stopped, he escorted me to an office and told me Dr. Matthews would be right with me. I looked around. The bare office didn’t seem to belong to anyone; it was cold and impersonal and felt hard against my nerves. Thankfully, I was only there a few minutes before Owen Peters returned. He smiled his insincere smile again and said, “Mrs. Chandler, if you’ll come with me? Dr. Matthews looked at your images and he’d like to examine you.”

  “Really? Did he find something?” I asked, trying to match his stride.

  “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  I suddenly regretted not bringing Mickey. Owen deposited me behind a curtain and politely asked me to take off my blouse and put on a hospital gown; then he was gone again, and I broke out in a sweat.

  I waited in the exam room for nearly a half hour, imagining the unimaginable. When I didn’t think I could stand to wait another moment
, I decided to leave. I was reaching for my blouse when the curtain parted and a short man in surgical greens walked in. “Mrs. Chandler?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Matthews.” He extended his hand and I shook it. “Dr. Barbee had some concerns and asked me to take a look at you. Would it be okay if I examined you?”

  “Oh, okay.”

  The doctor lowered the gurney until I was positioned to his liking, then he kneaded my tender breasts with his ice-cold hands. He was thorough, I’ll give him that, but not one bit gentle, and not talkative. He spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of time pushing my engorged tissue around in a circular motion. He apologized once when I grimaced but continued without adjusting his pressure. He seemed to zero in on the backside of my left breast, close to my ribs. He kneaded and flattened and pushed and dug with his nimble fingers. I was left to concentrate on his breathing, attuned to concern. Finally, he sighed and let go of my breast.

  “Hmm. I can see the dilemma.” He sat down on a rolling stool and seemed to be organizing his thoughts. “How is Charlotte these days?”

  “What?” I asked, taken aback. “Fine. She’s fine. She’s a good doctor.”

  “One of the best. We were in medical school together.” He tapped his chin. “Well, I can understand her concern, given your history. And I agree with her that nothing seems all that out of the ordinary.”

  I exhaled a lungful of relief.

  “But we don’t want to overlook anything, either.” Dr. Matthews’s demeanor changed ever so slightly. “Lucy, as long as you’re here, I’d like to do a biopsy. Just a fine-needle aspirate. Let’s make sure there’s nothing to be concerned about.” He stood up. “I’ll send Owen in to get you prepped and I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  I nodded dumbly as the room grew smaller. As he disappeared on the other side of the curtain, I was suddenly cold and a bit light-headed.

  As if in slow motion, I got off the exam table, walked to the trash can by the sink, and threw up. All my substance came up hot and violent until there was no strength in me; not in my legs, not in my arms. It was such a strange feeling to step aside and watch myself slump to the ground as the cold, white room shrank to the diameter of a quarter. I just shut my eyes and let go.