We were determined steel beams. We had decided we would both survive his illness intact, but neither of us knew how. It was that simple and I didn’t even know why. Michael didn’t either. It was something else but something formidable. We were consumed by this powerful force that was so good and all-powerful in its nature we didn’t even have a word for it.
Michael in his chair and me in mine, holding hands, immersed, covered up, buried in the deepest love we could imagine. He had brain cancer. We said no, we won’t have this kill him; it just can’t be. This thing can’t have him! It just can’t. He has work to do, cures and treatments to discover and a world of his own fascination to change. This disease has no place in the body of Michael Higgins—it has to go. Sorry, but it has to go. It just can’t stay. It just can’t.
It cannot stay.
It cannot be.
I began an internal dialogue with Michael’s cancer.
Have we met? I’m sorry, I’m Al Russo’s daughter, Big Al’s princess. My name is Maria Graziana—Big Al’s girl—and Maria Graziana Russo wants to let you big bummer from hell know that you had better just go. Just go and don’t look back. That’s right. Start moving. Yeah, you. Go. Our love is way stronger than your lousy whining cancer cells.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
STAND BY
So when’s your next trip?” Michael said.
“A week from Tuesday. Taking a bunch of guys and their wives to Vegas.”
“On the same trip? Isn’t Vegas where you are supposed to go to fool around?”
“Yeah, but this trip was booked as a family vacation. They’re bringing kids, nannies—the whole family. Grandmothers, too!”
“Play the slots for me—I’m feeling lucky.”
“Yeah, right. You’ve got a string of idiots telling you that you have a very ugly brain cancer and you feel lucky? How crazy are you?”
That was how we had come to talk of Michael’s disease—as something we would only have to suffer for the short term. Michael was going to be fine. It was Wednesday and we were on the way to see our third neuro-oncologist. They all said pretty much the same thing. Michael has a malignant glioblastoma that is almost always fatal. The problem with this particular kind of brain cancer, they said, with their somber faces and starched white jackets, was that the tumors were like hot peanut butter spread on English muffins—they sank into your nooks and crannies. So you operated and removed what you could, but because the tumors left roots, they grew back. And you could only operate on a brain so many times before it turned into a cauliflower.
Well, that was an unacceptable response. I mean, it wasn’t that we didn’t recognize that Michael’s future was in jeopardy; we just wanted to massage the odds to be in our favor as much as we could.
We were looking for the neurological team we believed would be the most aggressive in surgery and afterward with the radiation and chemo. The other two doctors we had seen wanted to delay chemotherapy for as long as six months to a year, or longer, because they thought radiation and surgery would probably be enough. They only wanted to administer chemotherapy if the tumor recurred.
But Dr. Christian Papenburg, lately of the Duke brain-cancer center, the chief neuro-oncologist there, relocated to Charleston for the climate and to bring the MUSC team of brain-tumor experts up to speed. And to save Michael Higgins.
“The most infuriating part of this is that in five years, stem cells will probably cure this,” he said to us from across his massive desk.
“I don’t have five years to wait around,” Michael said.
“No, you don’t,” Dr. Papenburg agreed.
I reached over, took Michael’s hand and squeezed it, and to my surprise, his hand was pouring perspiration.
“So what’s next?”
“My team has gone over your MRI and the pathology. Surgery is first, followed by radiation and then chemotherapy. If that doesn’t wipe it out, there are a few new therapies we can try. There are some fast-track drugs out there we can get our hands on.”
“What’s a fast-track drug?” I asked, thinking, Let’s talk about this.
“One that they are rushing for FDA approval. Fortunately, Michael, you’re young and in good health. My personal recommendation to the radiologist will be to be extremely aggressive.”
“What are my odds of survival?”
“Odds?” Dr. Papenburg got up from his chair, came around to the front of his desk and stood very near us. “Look, your odds may be slightly better than most for a couple of reasons. Your age and health, as I said. And our diligence.”
“That’s it?”
“Michael, I’m sure you’ve done your homework on this. The biggest problem won’t be removing the tumor. It’s the regrowth. But we are going to watch you very carefully. I hope you enjoyed your MRI experience because you’re going to have them every sixty days for the next three years.”
“How long will all of this take?” I said. “I mean from surgery to the end of chemotherapy?”
Dr. Papenburg looked at me and smiled. “Because of his youth? We can probably have the whole treatment over with by the end of October, middle of November.”
“And then we watch and wait?” Michael said.
“Yes. We watch your brain for the slightest changes and pray there are none.”
I was still uncertain about the nature of glioblastomas and why they were so much worse than other brain tumors, so I asked Dr. Papenburg.
“The cancer cells in glioblastoma are hypoxic, which means they have low oxygen content.”
“Meaning?”
“Radiation and chemotherapy just work better with higher oxygen levels. But there are some drugs in trial now that appear to enhance oxygen delivery to hypoxic cells. We’ll see.”
“When do you want to do the surgery?” Michael said. “Is after lunch good for you?”
Papenburg smiled. “I have you penciled in for Friday morning. Is that good for you?”
“I’ll miss Jerry Springer,” Michael said.
“I’ll TiVo it,” I said.
“My nurse will give you all the particulars,” the doctor said, and returned to the other side of his desk to buzz her on the intercom.
We all looked at one another, knowing that moment might well mark the date of the end’s beginning. But neither Michael nor I was ready to surrender to anything.
I left Michael to the reams of paperwork that had to be done and walked out into the morning air. God! The day was gorgeous! The sky was the shocking blue of robins’ eggs and the huge downy clouds seemed to roll and slide. In fact, all around me was such great beauty that I felt encouraged.
But I was foolishly numb to what Michael and I were facing. The terror I had felt over the weekend had vanished and in its place was an exquisite bubble in which I now moved from one day to the next. We had a plan. We had engaged the best doctors we could find. Those doctors were very on top of their medicine and knew what was available in clinical trials. There wasn’t anything more we could ask for. And I didn’t know what else to do.
The Las Vegas trip was almost a week away and Michael would be back on his feet by then. I’d be home by Saturday. Radiation couldn’t begin for two weeks. It would all work in my tidy schedule. Yes, it would all work.
Las Vegas. All that glitz and glam would certainly be a good diversion for me. We were staying at the Ritz-Carlton, which was my all-time personal favorite. There would be shopping, a Cirque du Soleil production, shows and, of course, gambling. I had no use for gambling. It wasn’t that I had anything against it. I just didn’t believe in it. I didn’t believe in it because I never had enough spare cash to consider it. But if people wanted to go throw money away, it was a free country. So I was thinking about all this as I drove back to the office and almost slammed right into Bomze in the parking lot on George Street.
“Hey!” he said, and then he saw it was me who’d almost taken the back fender off his Lexus as I came screaming across the lot to grab a space. “Grace! Wait!”
<
br /> I parked, got out and locked my car. “Sorry, Bomze! I didn’t see you.”
“Come with me to the Haven, little girl. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“I’m yours for a Philly cheesesteak and a diet soda.”
“No Charlestonian says ‘diet soda.’ You may say Diet Coke or Pepsi, but the generic term of soda immediately identifies you as a, pardon me, Yank.”
“Wha’evah, yo.” I gave him my best Jersey accent.
Bomze chuckled. “So where were you all morning? Bob Ellis Shoes?”
I hesitated because he had sort of growled at me when I was in Napa, and then I decided to tell him. When I was finished with the bulk of the story and had wiped up the last bit of ketchup with the last soggy french fry, I noticed he hadn’t touched his burger.
“Bomze? You’re staring at me like I have salad hanging from my teeth. What’s the matter?”
“Well, first, Miss N.J., I think I just heard you choke back tears at least five times in the last fifteen minutes. I didn’t think anyone north of Baltimore had tear ducts. Secondly, I had no idea Michael’s situation was so serious. You wouldn’t even know this talented young man except for the extreme kindness and generosity of your Bomze and his Baroness. So we accept some modicum of responsibility in all of this.” Bomze wiped his lips and sat back. “When did you say Michael was having his surgery?”
“Friday morning.”
Bomze drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay, here’s how you are going to earn your keep until the end of January.”
“What are you talking about?”
“First of all, you’re not going to Lost Vegans. Sprout eating and slot playing indeed. That group is not our style anyway. I’ll send somebody else.”
“Bomze, I can handle this. I have everything figured out.”
“Hush. Bomze’s wheels are turning…Okay! Yes! Here’s what you are going to do. I gave a trip for twelve to Mexico City next January to St. Mary’s Church on Hassell Street. I don’t know what possessed me, but the priest there is from Poland and that’s almost the same thing as Romania. Well, he and the Baroness were cocktailing at a birthday party for the bishop, who was planning this fund-raiser for St. Mary’s, and he needed a raffle prize. Well, you know me! The next thing you know I’m saying, ‘Sure! Why not?’”
“Oh, Bomze!”
“So, listen to me, my little cannoli, your mission is to research the living doodle out of Mexico City and figure out how this isn’t going to cost me a dime, okay? Find some charming B and B where they can stay, and just…you know what to do!”
“Make it fabulous but make it cheap.”
“Cheaper than cheap. And meanwhile, I don’t want to see your face at the office until after New Year’s Day. Got it? Take care of Michael and figure out how you’re gonna save me twenty thousand dollars, okay?”
All at once it registered that Bomze was really giving me almost five months off with one little trip to plan and full pay. I burst into tears and covered my face with my hands. Bomze reached across the table and touched my arm while he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. He shook it out, offered it to me and sat back.
“Use it,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. Throw it away. I have hundreds of them. The Baroness has an aunt in Budapest who loves to monogram and embroider.”
I blotted my eyes and then opened the handkerchief and blew my nose like a tugboat captain.
Bomze smiled. “Grace? If you save me money on this little trip, I’d like to send you and Michael to Cancún for a few days at the end of the trip. My treat.”
“Thanks, Bomze.”
“It’s the least I can do. I am very fond of Michael. So is the Baroness. You have a rocky road ahead of you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“The rockiest.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Call me if you want to talk or you want another doctor or anything…”
“Thanks. Michael’s doctor, this neuro-oncologist, ran the Duke brain center for like ten years. They practice the same medicine as Sloan-Kettering or anywhere. Maybe even more cutting-edge. His colleagues here and elsewhere have already reviewed Michael’s biopsy and MRI. They all say if they don’t operate, Michael will surely die. If they operate, give him crazy radical radiation and superdoses of chemo, they might be able to get it all. Meanwhile, somebody might figure out a stem-cell solution to this or something. We just have to keep Michael alive and healthy long enough. And there are already some new treatments that look pretty promising…What?”
“Oh, Grace. You poor baby.”
“Yeah, poor me. But poor Michael.”
“True. But poor you, too. Let’s get out of here.” Bomze paid the check and we stepped out from the coffee shop into the brilliant light of the afternoon.
“Wow,” he said.
“Wow, what?”
“Oh, I guess it’s just hard to understand how the world can be so beautiful and tragic at the same time.”
“I had the same thought about an hour ago, Bomze. But maybe this won’t be a tragedy. Please be optimistic for me and for Michael.” I smiled at him, put my arms out to give him a hug and he hugged me like mad.
“I’ll pray for Michael and for you, too,” he said.
On another day at another time I might have said, Prayer is a waste of your good breath, but recently, with everyone offering to pray, I just said, “Thanks. I didn’t know you were religious.”
Bomze looked up and down the street, perhaps to see if the devil himself was lurking around. “In times of trouble? I’m on my knees like everybody else!”
“Well, yeah. You never know. Prayer might help.”
At least it would make Bomze feel better.
Michael was admitted to the hospital on Thursday afternoon. He had a semiprivate room, and thankfully, the other bed was empty. I brought him dinner and hung out with him for a while, and around nine that night he decided it was time for me to go home.
“There’s no point in hanging around, baby. You go and get some rest. By ten o’clock tomorrow this whole thing will be behind us. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Grace? I have full confidence in Papenburg and his guys. Really. I don’t want you roaming the streets late at night. Now go. What if some lunatic grabs you?”
Naturally, he grabbed me and threw me down on his bed.
“Who’s the lunatic now?” I said, and over the next few minutes there was some heavy-duty hooking-up in play.
We rolled around those hospital linens like sweaty wrestlers, knowing perfectly well we were misbehaving but not caring about decorum one bit. And P.S., if the sheets smelled like bleach, I didn’t notice.
The door opened and there stood a forbidding-looking, gasping nurse holding a tray with a pill cup. We looked like two kids on lovers’ lane busted in the bright beam of a patrolman’s flashlight. My shirt was unbuttoned, Michael had his hand inside of my dislocated bra, and I had my hand inside the front of his pajama bottom.
“Ahem,” she said. “Visiting hours are over? Sorry y’all.”
It was just a little bit awkward.
“Sorry,” Michael said, and stood up in front of me to give me a chance to adjust things. But Michael was standing, facing the nurse, and the awkward moment was now hers. It was a romance-novel revelation of the “equipment” and its potential.
The nurse diverted her eyes and cleared her throat. “I think I’ll just step out and, you know, give you kids a moment to, you know, cool down, um, I mean off. I mean, I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”
“She called me a kid! I love that,” Michael said when the door whooshed to a close. “Here, take my watch and my wallet.”
I took them and thought about him having no belongings to distinguish him from any other patient. Except for his plastic patient’s bracelet. I kissed him on his forehead and said, “I’ll be here bright and early.”
When I put my key in the lock, the house phone was
ringing. I hurried in to grab it.
“Grace?”
“Oh, hi, Mom,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Nonna. She wants Juicy Couture velvet exercise clothes. Can you imagine such a thing? Doesn’t Saks carry that line?”
Nonna wanted Juicy Couture sweats? “Yeah, but not in her size.”
“Well, she’s got her heart set on Juicy Couture. I just can’t see my mother with JUICY plastered across her backside. But you know how she is, now that she has George in her life…”
Mom went on and on. I thought my head was going to explode from listening to her stupid ramble about what, once again, Nonna wanted her to do. At some point I put the phone down to grab a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. By the time I found the corkscrew and a glass and picked the phone up again, she knew what I had done and was annoyed.
“Grace? If you don’t want to talk to me, you could just say you’re busy or something. You don’t have to insult me by—”
For the third or fourth time in the last forty-eight hours, I started crying again.
“Grace? What in the world? Darling…”
“You know what? You and Daddy and Nonna and Nicky and that stupid Marianne…you think you’re the only people in the world. You have no idea what goes on in my life.”
“We do not think that!”
“Yes, you do. It’s like every time I come down there I’m a bit player in some kind of reality show that’s real to everyone else, but when I walk out of there it’s into some kind of a fake life or something…”
“I do not!”
“Mom? Yes, you do.” I didn’t know how to say it as this whole conversation wasn’t rehearsed, so I just blurted it out. “No one, you included, has ever recognized my relationship with Michael. You don’t know him, but he is brilliant and talented and—” I really broke down then and I couldn’t help it. I sobbed and sobbed. I had finally fallen in love and I had fallen so hard it was shocking. It was such an improbability that I would be in love that even my own family never gave it a second thought, except to criticize and second-guess it. How could I explain how I felt to my mother, who seemed oblivious to everything except the shackles she wore? And the possibility that I might lose Michael was leading me to utter hopelessness. I was exhausted from the seesaw of up one minute—making a plan, going through the paces—and down the next—putting him in a hospital, considering the odds.
Full of Grace Page 18
