I wanted to go home. I wanted to see my puppies. I don’t like being hooked up to things, and there were a million devices attached to me, beeping and whirring, measuring my heart rate and my oxygen level.
One of my earliest roommates was a guy who was maybe in his twenties. I was awake, sitting in bed, doing nothing for hours at a time. All I heard was him cursing, moaning, and calling for his parents. I assumed from the drama on the other side of the room, that he’d been shot in the gut and both his legs had been simultaneously broken. It turned out he’d had toe surgery. Mom got us moved to another room.
26. Complicated Complications
This time I just had a cough.
It was late May. Just four weeks earlier, Nathaniel had come home from Ronald McDonald House with the cumbersome cage on his head. He was finally stable enough that Russel felt confident flying across the country to start his new job.
I figured the cough was allergies, so I stopped by the doctor to get it checked out. He took an X ray and told me he saw a tumor in my lungs that looked cancerous, then promptly referred me to an oncologist. Ridiculous! I couldn’t possibly have cancer again. I barely felt sick and figured all I needed was some nasal spray or an antihistamine.
Besides, I’d been through this cancer fake out thing before. The doctor who’d diagnosed my hip problems had also thought it was cancer at first, and I’d had a very similar cough eight months earlier. When they X-rayed my chest back then, I’d been diagnosed with walking pneumonia and whooping cough. And by the way, they told me, I had scar tissue from previous tumors in my lungs that could be mistaken for cancer. So I was pretty confident this doctor—a family practitioner—was wrong. I spoke to Russel, who was in Connecticut. We agreed that the doctor had seen old scar tissue and Russel called him to cuss him out for scaring me needlessly.
A few hours later I started to get nervous. I called the doctor and begged for a CT scan so I could relax and get some sleep. He kindly let me come back that very night.
The next day, Nathaniel and I went to pick up Jacob from lacrosse. (I wasn’t comfortable leaving Nathaniel alone, so I brought him with me, cage and all, when I had to go out.) The doctor called with the results of the scan while we were driving home. I was so certain there was nothing to worry about that I had him on speaker when he delivered the news that I had cancer. Again.
In the back seat, both kids immediately started crying. “Are you going to die?” they wanted to know.
“They still don’t know what they’re talking about,” I told them. But a dark shadow of dread had already started to come over me.
The next day I called Dr. Newman (no relation), the oncologist who had saved my life in North Carolina.
“I’m coughing, and they think it’s cancer,” I told him. “Crazy, right? I’ve been in such good health. These people don’t know what they’re talking about. Would you mind if I had them send you the scan?”
Dr. Newman agreed. He would review it and call me back before I went to a local oncologist.
At the time, I’d been going through the process of becoming a US citizen. In fact, when I called Dr. Newman, I was on my way to an appointment at the immigration office. I was supposed to give my fingerprints and get my photo taken. Leaving Nathaniel at home, with Jacob to keep an eye on him, I drove to the same office I’d been to a couple times before. At the front door were three beefy guys working security.
“Please silence your phone before you enter the building,” one said, and waited for me to do it. I had no idea how soon Dr. Newman would be calling me back, but I didn’t intend to miss him. I looked around the foyer. There was nobody else there.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “but I’m waiting for a very important call. I’m about to find out if I have cancer.”
“No.” One of them blocked my passage. “Turn off your phone right now.”
Maybe they thought I was joking. I didn’t look sick. In fact, in my Lululemon sweatpants and sneakers, I was a picture of health. Not wanting to argue, I did as they said, near tears.
“If we see you talking on it,” another guard added, “we’ll escort you out of the building.”
When I sat down in the waiting area, a woman sitting near me asked me a question about filling something out. As I helped her, tears sprang to my eyes and dripped onto her form.
She asked why I was crying, and gave me a hug. Receiving sympathy from this stranger made me start crying for real. I sobbed, “I’m scared because I’m about to find out if I’m sick.” Then I saw Dr. Newman’s name appear on my phone. I answered the call, beefy security guards be damned.
I knew from the tone of his voice that it wasn’t good news. I started shaking. “Magda, I can’t believe this is happening,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
I started wailing; I’ve never been quiet when I get bad news. “Am I dying?” I asked.
“I hope not,” he said, “but this is bad luck. You were about to be ten years cancer-free.” Being in remission for ten years is a major milestone, marking the end of oncology visits and scans. Dr. Newman continued, “The good news is that it looks like lymphoma.” My cough had me worried that it was lung cancer; lymphoma was more treatable.
And that’s how I found out I had cancer again: with strangers, in public, about to get my picture taken for my citizenship. An older man who worked in the office came over to me—my anguish had gotten everyone’s attention—and as he did, I saw that the evil security guys were also approaching us.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I just found out I have cancer.” Then I pointed down the hall at the advancing troops. “Those guys want to kick me out for using my phone. They think I’m lying.”
He called his supervisor, who came out and called off the guards. I heard him say to them, “What were you thinking? You can’t treat people like that.” Then it was time to have my photo taken, in spite of the fact I was still crying.
“I look terrible,” I said to the old man as I was leaving, laughing through my tears.
“If you hate it, come back,” he said. “We’ll do another.” Then he walked me out of the building. As we passed security, he warned them, “You and me, we’re gonna talk.”
He escorted me all the way to my car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I called my mother and told her the news. Then I called Russel and said, “This is real. You have to come home.”
It was day three of Russel’s new job. I’d had a cough when he left for Connecticut, but the last thing that had been in either of our heads was the possibility that I had cancer again. I had been in remission for so long.
Russel called Brian, the friend who had been our salvation when he was unexpectedly fired. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “Magda was just diagnosed with cancer.” He was afraid Brian would think that he had started work—three days earlier!—knowing I was sick, angling for health benefits or something. Russel told Brian he should rescind the offer. We didn’t know if or when he would be able to return to work.
Brian replied, “Listen to me, and listen good. Go home and take care of your wife, and as far as anyone else is concerned, you’re here at work every day.” Knowing my husband, I’m sure he wept in gratitude. It was only through the goodness of Brian’s heart that Russel kept his job through everything that came next.
The day after Russel got back to Reno we went to a local specialist. She said, “You need to go to a top oncologist. I just don’t have the resources here.”
Russel looked at the diplomas on her walls. “You have an impressive resume. I’m sure you’re capable of treating her. What are you doing in Reno?”
She smiled and said, “I have young children, and my family is here. I’m capable—” she looked at me “—but this looks like lymphoma, and because you’ve had cancer before, you need to be at a research hospital.”
Russel thanked her for being honest and open with us, then I said, “I’m trying to get an appointment with a doctor, but he’s too busy to see me. What should I do? Sh
ould I pack up and go without an appointment?” True to character, Russel had already been on the phone with Dr. McCarthy at NYU and Dr. Hopper at Seattle Children’s, and they’d recommended Dr. Oliver Press at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle, who was supposed to be one of the best lymphoma doctors in the country.
She replied, “If I were you, yes. I would go to the hospital and try to get in.”
I bought a one-way ticket to Seattle, not knowing how long I’d end up staying. First thing the next morning, I went to Fred Hutch and handed the folder with my medical history to a woman that Russel had spoken to. “I’m here,” I said, “and I’m waiting for an appointment.” I told her about Nathaniel’s situation, unabashedly playing the pity card. Then I sat down and coughed in the lobby for an entire day. When the office closed, I went to the closest hotel, then returned the next morning to resume my vigil, staring at the receptionist with the pleading expression of my dogs watching me eat steak. Finally, she called me over. “Dr. Press will see you the day after tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”
Two days later, I met with Dr. Oliver Press who, among many other accolades, was the acting director of the Clinical Research Division of the hospital. He was the best, and we had heard that he was no longer seeing patients. I gave him a grateful hug and said, “Who made this happen?”
He said, “Your son’s doctor. He told me your story and I had to see you.”
I didn’t find out until later that he was struggling with his own cancer. That was why he wasn’t seeing any more patients. He had already tried every drug, every trial, every option. At that point he was doing all right, but over the next month or two I would see his condition decline. I felt blessed to be in the skilled and caring hands of someone who was dying from the same disease.
Dr. Press said the fact that I had gotten a second, different type of lymphoma was a medical mystery. He theorized that my first diagnosis, nine years earlier, was off, and that my treatment had been missing one key drug. Regardless, we had to deal with the situation in front of us. This go-around would require very intense five-day rounds of chemotherapy in the hospital that I would receive every three weeks for four months. Five days of chemo every three weeks for four months: a protocol that was impossible to internalize. Thanks for nothing, chemo protocol creators.
God had brought me cancer twice. Was I cursed? I had worked so hard to become healthy and strong. We were hopeful that we were about to turn a corner with Nathaniel. He would gain freedom, and with it I, too, would achieve a new level of independence. This wasn’t a minor obstacle on that path—it might well be the end of it. I felt envious of people who were healthy and had healthy children, people whose decisions revolved around whether their children had good teachers and where to go on vacation. I was jealous of the women around me, wives and mothers who built their dream homes and actually got to raise their families in them.
My mother, the devoted Catholic, had begged me to go to church to pray for my health, so I went the next time we were in Seattle. The first thing the priest said to the congregation was, in effect, “Let’s blame Jews and Muslims for all the bad in the world. So many wars! Let’s pray for them because they’re stirring the pot.” As I sat there listening, I wondered what good it did to spread anger at other religions. That was all I took away from that mass, and I never went back.
I couldn’t say why this was my fate, but I refused to think that God was cruel. Instead, I chose to believe he had a plan. I believed my illness had been triggered by the stress of the night when Nathaniel flatlined, just as I believed that the stress surrounding his botched surgery had caused it nine years earlier.
The cancer was similar. The circumstances were similar. My prognosis was equally grim. But this time was different because I refused to believe I would die. I was as strong as I’d ever been, and I was ready to win.
After I filled Russel in on my meeting with Dr. Press, he told me a realtor would meet me in the lobby at lunchtime. Our days of commuting from Reno had to end. Now that half of our family was in treatment in Seattle, we needed to be there full-time.
Two years before Nathaniel’s big surgery, when we were still meeting the doctors and they were examining him, Russel had taken him to a restaurant near Seattle Children’s hospital. As they were eating, a woman approached them and said, “Hey, I just read a book called Wonder . . .” They struck up a conversation that culminated with her asking if Nathaniel could visit her son’s third grade class to sign books. The next day, between appointments, Russel and Nathaniel went to the school and talked to the kids.
Two years later, on the day I was diagnosed, Russel dug up that woman’s business card and called her. Ann was the only “friend” either of us had in Seattle—a woman he’d met over a milkshake at a burger joint. He asked if she could somehow help us find a place to live in Seattle. Immediately. Without hesitation, she connected Russel with a friend who was a realtor, and that woman canceled all her afternoon appointments in order to meet me and find us a new home. There are amazing people in the darkest moments.
I found a house that very day and signed a lease, and we told the children we were moving to Seattle, uprooting ten-year-old Jacob for the fifth time in his life and twelve-year-old Nathaniel for the seventh. Then we bought a second car from CarMax and stuffed everything we could fit into the two cars—including three dogs and Nathaniel with the cage around his head, needing to be fed every three hours through a tube—and moved ourselves to Seattle in time for my Monday morning biopsy. It was June 6th. For anyone keeping count, that was seven weeks after we left the Ronald McDonald House, eleven weeks after Nathaniel’s big surgery.
We put the house in Reno up for sale. I left it spotless, walking out backwards as I swept so there were no footprints.
27. Muscle Memory
The first time I got cancer, I went to a wig-maker in Charlotte who studied my face and coloring and then created a $250 custom wig for me from real hair, a horrible old-lady bob. Then I waited for my hair to start falling out.
This time I didn’t hesitate. The day before my first round of chemo, I went to a hairdresser. I didn’t tell her I had cancer. I just said, “I want to shave my head!”
Excited, she asked, “Have you ever done it before?”
“No!” I responded.
I ordered a few fun wigs from Amazon: a purple one, a short one, one with long blonde hair coming out from under a baseball cap. Cheap wigs made from fake hair, not high-quality expensive wigs of church-ready hair. That’s how I went into cancer #2: like a purple-haired warrior.
Elizabeth Vargas told me that when I called to tell her I had cancer, she was sure we were pulling out of the show.
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“You have so much stress right now,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d decide this wasn’t worth it. You’re not getting paid and you’re putting your life out there.”
The truth is it never crossed my mind to quit 20/20. As upset as I was at the diagnosis, muscle memory immediately kicked in. I’d done cancer already; it was part of my journey. Our family was doing the show to draw attention to the craniofacial community, and the value of that hadn’t changed, and besides, maybe the drama of my illness would make the show a little spicier.
Chemo was a dream. The first round required me to spend five days in the hospital. It was like being at a spa: I had a quiet room to myself with Wi-Fi, my iPad, and books. The first night, I got the best sleep I’d had in two months. They let me bring my resistance bands so I could exercise. I put some Les Mills on my iPad and quickly developed a routine with the bands. On my second day I offered to lead a workout for the entire oncology floor, but there were no takers.
I make it sound like a walk in the park, but Russel remembers that time a little differently. It must be part of my survival mechanism to block out my darker moments because when he reminds me of them, I say, “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.” But I do remember thinking my life sucked, and
seeing people living perfect lives all around me made me mad at everybody, even God. There were days when I wanted to die, when I screamed at Russel, “I hate you! I hate my life! I’d rather be dead.” Most of the time I pushed my anger aside—who had time for such indulgences?—but it would build up, as these things do. By Russel’s calculation, 85 percent of the time I smiled, danced, and loved my way through life, but the other 15 percent was scary enough that he hid the steak knives.
I never released my rage when I was with the kids, but eventually I would explode. When I was growing up, if my parents had something to say, they didn’t fume silently; they went all out. If they had a disagreement, we all knew about it. Russel’s parents aren’t exactly quiet either. Some people see a therapist once a week to talk through their problems. I handle stressful times differently: I’m good for six weeks or so, then we’ll get a huge medical bill or something else will go wrong and I have a moment. Then I’m good again. Venting helped, 100 percent—it was healthy for me, like a mental shower. Russel had his moments too, but he would sit and cry. I never cry. I scream.
I used Russel as a punching bag because he said I could, but also because it infuriated me that he had a life apart from the mess of our family. In the morning, he’d leave for the office, where he had his work and his friends, but I didn’t have that option. Everywhere we’d lived, starting with Hal’s basement, I was stuck, but Russel wasn’t. Deep down, I hated him for having his independence and wished I could start over again in a life where I was healthy and perfect, and we lived in a house with a white picket fence.
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