Pale Girl Speaks

by Hillary Fogelson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  And So It Began

  What Dreams May Come

  The Sweet Smell of . . . Hospitals

  Operation “Cancer Removal”

  Let the Healing Begin

  Baby Steps

  Bad Day

  Heads Up . . . Checkup

  On My Own

  Nice Talkin’ to Ya

  My Savior, My Dermatologist

  Sun Protection Factor

  And So It Begins

  Life Goes On

  Mellary

  Now What?

  Doc Hollywood

  A First Step

  The “In My Uterus” Device

  The Fine Print

  The Shrink

  N.E.D.

  One Big Cookie

  Worst-case Scenario

  News

  The Sun’ll Come Out . . . Tomorrow

  Tadpole Baby

  The Way Things Work

  The Waiting Game

  Left to Lose

  Good Game

  Cake

  Can’t Hurt

  Battle Cry

  Stitches

  September 11

  Why I Hate Fridays

  Weekend Fun

  The Craziest . . .

  No News Is Bad News

  St. John’s Hospital (a.k.a. My Club)

  My Really Big Pupils

  First Day of School

  No . . . What?

  Giving the Finger

  The Day of the Birth

  The One-Day Itch

  Competitive Waiting

  A Positive Appearance . . . Center

  Dr. Bach’s Blue Thread

  Making Myself Sick

  Trying and Not Trying

  Very Official

  The Instigator

  A Taste of the Big Apple

  The Parents Are Coming! The Parents Are Coming!

  The Trial

  The Positive Appearance Center and Rose’s Hair

  Dinner at Eight

  . . . Tomorrow

  The Shakes

  On the Rocks

  The Big Day and Car Trouble

  And Then There Was Light

  Just the Two of Us

  A Rose by Any Other Name

  Nothing Left to Stand On

  Pen and Ink

  Positive Appearance Center: Free at Last

  Being “Brave”

  Enough Said

  2010

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Selected Titles from Seal Press

  Copyright Page

  For Dr. Bach, Randy,

  and Sherry

  Introduction

  I always thought I was adopted. Strangely, there were no Polaroids of my birth. My supposed hospital baby picture looks more like an Asian boy than anything else, and by the age of thirteen, I shamelessly towered over my mother by a solid five inches. Her brown hair and olive complexion just barely reached the bottom of my white, white chin. The evidence was overwhelming . . .

  And so I often dreamed of what my real parents were like. I wondered who gave me my carrot orange hair and translucent skin. I questioned why they gave me up, and I always hoped they were looking for me. Because, of course, I was looking for them. I remember tailing red-haired women in the supermarket, hoping they might turn around and recognize me as their long-lost loved one. I imagined tearful reunions and heart-wrenching goodbyes. It was all very dramatic. The stories became more and more elaborate over the years.

  I eventually drew family trees and lined the branches with people who looked just like me. Every member could have easily been mistaken for an albino, or an anemic, or, as it turns out, someone with melanoma. But back then, they were beautiful—at least, they were to me.

  And so I played out this fantasy, month after month, year after year, right up until I turned fourteen. At fourteen, my fine features finally made their way into a face so closely resembling my father’s, it was scary: high forehead; pronounced brow; small, pursed mouth; and the inevitable short, short upper lip—a family trademark. By fifteen I could pull my hair back and image how my father must have looked at the very same age. Kinda eerie.

  And so I guess it all should have been clear back then. It was in the cards for me: a lackluster complexion mixed with years of glaring abuse. I should have seen it coming. And yet I sat, passive and unaware, wonderfully oblivious to the obnoxious endgame. Life slowly burned and poisoned me as I sat idly by, twiddling my thumbs and sucking down gin and tonics. Ah, to be young. To be clueless.

  To be . . . free.

  And So It Began

  I have two hours before my mother arrives from Ohio for a visit. Two hours before her rental car peeks its turquoise nose around the bend of my Hollywood Hills street. Two hours and counting before she trots up my front steps, throws open my front door, and spots something she needs to clean. I’ve been having hot flashes all morning as I scrub toilets and wash molding. Hot flashes, flashbacks, backaches. And I can’t stop sweating. My mind is flooded with the memory of my mother spotting a ball of pubic hair in the corner of my New York apartment bathroom and using it as a point of reference for the rest of her Big Apple visit—“Honey, my filet is about the same size as that hairball of yours . . . ” Shit, one hour fifty-eight minutes. Okay okay okay . . . left to do: a list.

  1. Wash windows around front door (both inside and out)

  2. Sweep stairs leading to front door (want her to have a debris-free walk to house)

  3. Swiffer hardwood floors

  4. Mop hardwood floors (if time permits)

  5. Arrange fresh flowers in guest bedroom

  6. Final Swiffer of floors (to be done two minutes before she arrives)

  7. Shower (I smell)

  Shit. Fuck. Deep breath and . . . go.

  The mother figure is en route, on her way, gettin’ kinda close. Okay, most of the “to do” list is complete, with the exception of sweeping the outside stairs, but I can’t be held accountable for the untidiness of nature. I guess I could use that argument for the accumulation of hairballs and dust, along with the collection of some undeterminable substance in all my outdoor votives. Anyway, the house is as good as it gets—oh, that makes me think of Helen Hunt. I love her.

  Ring, ring.

  Shit. Mom is lost. She is most definitely lost . . . I’m coming, I’m coming. Jesuschrist, already. (That’s right—“Jesuschrist”: one word. A statement, really. The end-all, be-all, and “enough said” of curse words. Usages range from the perfect expletive when one stubs one’s toe to the necessary precursor of the much-loved statement “[ ], can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?” And in my house growing up, it was the word of choice. “Jesuschrist” has power. Even more so than “fuck” or “shit” or even, dare I whisper it, “shut up.” Our house would not have been the same without my father using the famed word at least five times between the time he got home from work and bedtime.)

  Ring, ring.

  I’m coming. I’m coming.

  Me: Hello, Mom?

  Other: No, is Hillary there?

  Me: Yeah, this is Hillary.

  Other: Oh, hello, it’s Dr. Bach.

  Me:

  Other: . . . your dermatologist.

  Me: Of course, sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice.

  Dr. Bach: I didn’t recognize yours either. I’m actually away from the office, but I wanted to give you a call. I got the pathology back from the mole I biopsied from your stomach two weeks ago—

  Me : Oh yeah, I forgot about that—

  Dr. Bach: I wanted to call you right away because the mole is
malignant.

  Me: What . . . what do you mean?

  Dr. Bach: It’s a malignant melanoma.

  Me: Like, skin cancer? Melanoma? Is that the bad one?

  Dr. Bach: Well, yes, it’s the most serious form of skin cancer. I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’m actually on vacation, but I went ahead and called the surgical oncologist I recommend to my cancer patients and made an appointment for you for tomorrow morning for a consultation. I would like you to have surgery as soon as possible. The surgeon’s secretary thought he might be able to squeeze you in Monday morning.

  Me : Um . . .

  Dr. Bach: I know this is a lot to try and take in. I’m so sorry. I really am. I want you to know that we caught this early and your odds of a full recovery are very good. Do you have any questions you might want to ask me now?

  Me: Um, no—I’m sorry. I just need a second. Um, you want me to meet with a surgeon tomorrow?

  Dr. Bach: That’s right. It’s best to move quickly. I don’t want to scare you, but—I recommend surgery as soon as possible.

  Me: . . . and so I have surgery to remove what? I thought you removed the mole when you biopsied it.

  Dr. Bach: I didn’t get it all, and depending on the size and depth of the mole, there must be a margin of skin excised around the mole in order to guarantee all the cancer cells have been removed. You have to understand that melanoma can spread very quickly once it has penetrated the dermis, because—

  Me: But my mole didn’t, right? Mine didn’t, um, go into my dermis.

  Dr. Bach: Yes, it did, but we still caught it early—

  Me: Uh-huh, but spread where?

  Dr. Bach: . . . to your lymph nodes.

  Me:

  Dr. Bach: Dr. Gregory will be better able to answer all your questions. I’m going to connect you to the surgeon’s receptionist. He’ll tell you everything you need to know about tomorrow.

  Me: Okay . . . yeah, ok.

  Dr. Bach: I’ll talk with you soon.

  Click.

  Ring, ring.

  Other: John Wayne Cancer Institute.

  Me:

  Other: Hel-lo?

  Me: Uh, yes, um, my dermatologist told me to call. I think I have an appointment set up for tomorrow—

  Other: Which doctor?

  Me: Oh, I don’t know. My dermatologist scheduled the appointment and—

  Other: Name?

  Me: Bach. Jovanka Bach.

  Other: I don’t see any appointment here for a Jovanka.

  Me: No, I thought you wanted my dermatologist’s name.

  Other: What’s your name?

  Me: Hillary.

  Other: I’m going to need your last name.

  Me: I’m sorry. Fogelson. F as in “Frank,” o-g-e—

  Other: I’ve got you down with Dr. Gregory for tomorrow morning at ten forty-five. You know where St. John’s Hospital is?

  Me: Yes.

  Other: Come in the main entrance and take the west elevators to the cancer institute on the third fl—ring, ring. John Wayne Cancer Institu—

  Click.

  I can’t stop gripping the phone. For the first time in my life, my brain and fingers aren’t cooperating. Maybe I’ll just walk around a little bit, holding the phone. Or maybe I’ll sit right here where I am. Yeah, sitting is good. No, I need to stand. Standing might help. Okay okay okay. Breathe in, then out. I’m dizzy. My lips are numb, and my heart is pounding out of my chest cavity. I’m having a heart attack. I may very well be having a heart attack. Great—“Woman with ‘good’ chance of recovery dies of heart attack upon hearing melanoma diagnosis, phone in hand . . . ” I am sweating. My face is really sweating. No, I’m crying. I am crying the biggest and fastest tears ever. I’ve never seen tears like these tears. I’m Alice in Wonderland, drowning in a pool of tears. I could win some award, maybe, for these tears. I should get a picture of these bad boys. I need to cry for just a second . . . okay, no, wait . . . okay. Call husband. That’s easy, since I’m still holding the phone.

  Me: Is Adam there?

  Adam’s assistant: I think he’s down the hall in Jim’s office . . . oh, wait, here he is.

  Adam: Hey, babe, what’s up?

  Me: Um . . .

  Adam: Are you crying? Tell me what’s wrong. What happened? Are you okay?

  Me: I just talked to Dr. Bach . . . she says . . . she says that that mole she biopsied, the one on my stomach, is melanoma and I need surgery immediately . . . I—

  Adam: What? What do you mean?

  Me: The mole. The mole she removed a couple of weeks ago. It was malignant. The mole was malignant. Cancer. Dr. Bach said “cancer.”

  Adam: I’m coming home.

  Me: No, no don’t.

  Adam: I’m leaving right now. I’ll be home in—

  Me: No, wait. You don’t need to come home . . . oh, shit, it’s the other line. It’s probably Mom. I’m sure she’s lost. Hold on—hi, Mom?

  Mom: Honey, did you say a right on Hollywood Boulevard, because I—

  Me: No, a left. Left then an immediate right. Just keep heading uphill. If you’re going downhill, you’re going the wrong way.

  Mom: Left then right. Oh, okay. Are you okay, honey? You sound weird, sweetie.

  Me: Mom, I have Adam on the other line. I’ll see you when you get here. Adam? . . . Hello? . . . Shit.

  He’s on his way. She’s on her way. The whole fucking world is on their way to my house, and I have cancer. I have cancer I have cancer I have cancer. I need to say it one more time. I have cancer. I feel like Chevy Chase before he jumps into the swimming pool with Christy Brinkley. This is crazy this is crazy this is crazy. Okay. I’m just going to sit here in my den with my dog at my feet—licking my feet—and wait . . . it’s that word that’s bothering me so much. The one Dr. Bach used. The one . . . ya know, the “c”-word. When I think of “that word,” an old person springs to mind, with yellow skin, hollowed-out eyes, brown teeth, and a cough that sounds sick enough to hack up several pieces of lung. But that’s not me. That’s not even close to me. I’m young and healthy. I use whitening strips regularly, and my skin, albeit pale, has a rosy undertone. And yes, I admit I have the occasional nervous cough, but nothing deep or hacking or mucus-producing.

  “That word” always seemed fairly easy to say when I’d used it in stories about other people. Stories about older people. It used to slip out, flow freely, along with a whole slew of nouns and adjectives. It was just another word. It’s just another word when you’re talking about someone else. But now, I don’t have . . . that word. I just can’t.

  It’s so weird. I’m sitting here on my couch and everything around me looks the same as always. Same coffee table, same TV, same light coming through the same French doors hitting the Berber carpet in the same old way, yet I feel like everything is so completely different. I am completely different. I feel like a completely different person than I did ten minutes ago. Shit. Fuck. Motherfucker. I am totally freaking myself out right now. I need to breathe. Need to focus on my breath. In . . . two, three, four . . . out . . . two, three, four. Okay, now I’m really light-headed.

  Mom is right outside the front door. I can hear her panting, her body ready and in wait. A bundle of raw nerves set to burst the moment her size 5½ feet hit my recently swiffered hardwood floors. A modern-day June Cleaver on speed. Carol Brady with a perverted sense of humor and a southern drawl. She’s passive-aggressive in the way all great mothers are: She can compliment and criticize all in the same breath. She’s often distracted, walking into rooms and then immediately forgetting what she wanted to get in the first place. She can remember neither movie titles nor actors’ names, and yet she insists on asking if I’ve seen “that movie. You know, the one with that actor. You know who I’m talking about; he has a brother who was in that movie that you just saw.” I have never seen her drink a hot cup of coffee or finish putting on her mascara in any place other than the car. She makes the world’s best carrot cake, assuming she hasn’t left out s
ome vital ingredient—like sugar. She can clean a house like no other. And she is a giver, through and through. The kind of mother I aspire to be. She is selfless. She would do anything for all of her children. And she has given everything, all of herself, for all of these years, to all three of us . . . and she is currently jumping up and down, desperately trying to peek in the upper panes of my front door, her coarse, dyed blond hair floating in and out of frame. I hate to let her in. I hate to let her into my world right now, into my “new” life, this new existence. I’ll just pretend I’ve gone out . . . knock . . . knock . . . knock, knock, knock, KNOCKKNOCK. Okay. Be strong and smile . . .

  Me: Hey, sorry, I didn’t hear the door. I was—

  Mom: Hi, honey. Your garden looks beauti—oh, the house smells so good. You’ve been slaving away on your hands and knees all morning, haven’t you?

  Me: No, not really. I—

  Mom: Are these the new chairs you were waiting for? They must have cost a fortune. The leather is so soft. Oh, the life you lead. Your father and I sat on egg crates in our first house. I hope you realize how lucky you are to—

  Me: Yeah, Mom, I know—

  Mom: So many people never get to live like this. Never in their whole life. You are so fortunate.

  Me: Yeah, well . . . let me take your bags. I have you set up in this room here. I cleared—

  Mom: I think I hear . . . is that Adam? He’s home for lunch? He’s so lucky he has time to do that. Your father worked so hard, he never had time for a lunch break.

  Me: I remember. Hey, honey . . .

  Adam: It’s going to be okay. Shh-shh-shh. I’m not going to let anything happen to . . . I’m . . .

  Me: It’s okay . . . I’m okay.

  Adam: Honey, you’re shaking.

  Mom: What’s going—

  Me: Mom, why don’t we all go sit down in the kitchen . . .

  I told her. I told her everything. Everything I know. Which isn’t much. The few tidbits of disturbing information. The unfinished CliffsNotes version. I kept it short and precise and told her I was going to be okay, even though I’m not so sure myself. I did my damnedest to hide my fear and calm the sudden twitch that had started in my upper eyelid. I told her everything a child never wants to have to tell a parent. And at first she was strong. And then . . . well . . . she wasn’t.