Guy in Scrubs: I’m your anesthesiologist, and I’ll be administering your drugs.
Me: Hi. Thank God for the drugs. Make sure you use enough. I’m pretty tall, so I might need more than most people—
Anesthesiologist: You’ll just have to trust I know what I’m doing. Would you like me to turn on some music?
Me: Yeah.
Anesthesiologist: What station would you like?
Me: Um, 106.7 would be great, but if you need something a little more mellow to work—
Anesthesiologist: KROQ it is. Okay. So, now I’m giving you the sedative. You will start to feel . . .
Light. Bright light. Fluorescent light flickering above. A head. It’s a face. An Adam face. Blue eyes. Tan skin. A warm hand holding my hand. Other faces sprinkled around my bed. Mom. That’s my mom. Hi, Mom. A ponytail. Doc, saying something about me. I love my doc . . .
Orange. No apple. Apple juice from a box. It’s a tricky little striped straw. I feel Adam next to me. And a nurse. A different one. Nurse #3. Hee hee. Funny . . . to . . . me.
Me: Thank you, Nurse #3. For the juice.
Adam: You did great. It’s all over . . . walk around a little. I can . . . home.
Me: Ok. I’m ready. Home now.
Adam: Soon.
How did I get in the car? It’s bright outside. Cars drive fast. Just rest my eyes. My lids. Just my lids. Heavy lids . . .
My own bed. Cool sheets. Soooooooo cozy in my bed. Good night.
Me: Mom. Mom? Mmooom. Adaaaaaaaaaaaaam? Could somebody bring me some water, please?
Mom: You’re up. How ya doin’?
Me: What time is it?
Mom: I think it’s around four.
Me: I can’t believe I slept that long. So, did you talk to Dr. Gregory? How did everything go?
Mom: He said the surgery went fine and he’ll call with the pathology as soon as he gets it.
Me: I want to look at it—
Mom: Well, you won’t be able to see anything, because it’s all bandaged up. Here, let me help you . . . don’t—
Me: I got it. Huh, the bandage looks a little . . . low.
Mom: What do you mean?
Me: Low. It looks low. Where the gauze is. The melanoma was just below my breast, and the bandage is, like, an inch below my breast.
Mom: I’m sure it just looks that way because of how you’re lying.
Me: I know where the fucking spot was. You don’t think I paid attention to where the fucking cancer was on my stomach? He removed the wrong fucking chunk of skin! Goddamn it motherfucker! I knew I should have circled it. Why wouldn’t they let me? I don’t understand—
Adam: What’s wrong? What happened?
Me: They removed the wrong place!
Adam: What are you talking about?
Me: Look. Look where the bandage is. The melanoma was much higher. You know. You saw where it was.
Adam: Honey, that looks like the right place to me . . .
Me: You’re just saying that. I can tell from your eyes you think it’s wrong, too.
Adam: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Call Dr. Gregory If you’re so sure it’s wrong. I can’t wait to hear this conversation.
Me: Fuck you. Mom, hand me the phone. Give me that sheet with Gregory’s number on it . . . hello? Is Dr. Gregory available? . . . could you please have him call Hillary Fogelson as soon as possible . . . yeah . . . regarding a melanoma surgery he performed this morning.
So now we wait. How could this have happened? I’m not just being paranoid or crazy or losing my mind, even though I feel like I am. I feel nauseous. And not from the anesthesia. It’s a helpless, hopeless, this-can’t-be-happening kind of nausea. Juice. When did I drink apple juice? Apple juice and stomach acid swirling around, working their way up . . . this bandage is not in the right—
Ring.
Me: Hello? Hi. Yeah, sorry to bother you. I know that is going to sound slightly crazy, but I think you may have removed the wrong spot.
Dr. Gregory: Why would you think that?
Me: Because I just looked at where the bandage is, and it looks lower than it should. My melanoma was just below my breast, and it looks like—
Dr. Gregory: It looks lower because, remember, we took out an elliptical-shaped section of skin. When we sew you back up, we pull and stretch the top of the ellipse to meet the bottom of the ellipse. That’s why it might seem like there is a larger space between the bottom of your breast and the incision. It’s why you’re going to have a sensation of tightness until the skin stretches out. I’ve been doing this a long time. You’re going to have to trust that I removed the correct thing.
Me: It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just . . . thank you for explaining it to me.
Dr. Gregory: Not a problem. I’ll see you next week.
Me: Thanks again. And I really do trust you . . . I . . . just. I don’t know. I freaked out. I’m better now. See you next week. I’m an idiot.
Dr. Gregory: Take it easy. Try to get some rest.
Me: Yeah, okay. Thanks. Sorry. See you soon.
Click.
Adam: Feel better?
Me: Yeah. Much. It is low, though.
God, I hate this. I hate this feeling. I’m supposed to be proactive, right? That’s what the Today show and 20/20 and 48 Hours keep telling me. The horror stories—doctors amputating the wrong limb, contaminated blood, organs mismatched—it all leads me to the same disturbing, insecure place of distrust. I’m trying the best I can to navigate this new world full of new terminology, and yet I feel totally ignorant and alone and confused. Tripping over myself and looking like an ass—so much for grace under fire. I can’t help but wonder if this is how everyone feels. This can’t be new territory.
Let the Healing Begin
Hardly slept last night. Hate sleeping on my back. How do people do it? I feel so . . . exposed. So . . . out there. I’ve been in bed all morning, watching TV. I’ve never really watched morning television past the Today show. I feel like an explorer who is hoping earth doesn’t actually turn out to be flat. From what I’ve had to sit through thus far, I already wish I had fallen off the edge of the world. Mom has been cleaning all morning. The vacuum started around 7:00 AM, and since then I’ve heard the faint whisper of a Swiffer, a spray bottle, and something that sounds a hell of a lot like a chain saw. What the fuck is she doing down there? With a good, solid four hours under her belt, she may well have built a screened-in porch off our living room.
Mom: Knock, knock. Are you awake? Your father’s on the phone.
Me: What are you doing down there?
Mom: Just trying to get up some of the dog hair. I’ll come get the phone when you’re done.
Me: Hey, Dad.
He’s scared. I know he’s scared because it’s 11:00 AM, and it’s the second time today we’ve talked. And my dad’s not much of a talker. Not much of a talker at all. Not when it comes to these kinds of things. Not these kinds of talks. The stock market, he can do. What the market’s doing, why, wherefore, bull, bear, and all the rest of it—that, he can handle. He can quote you Hemingway or lyrics to Neil Young songs, spout off the rules of fencing, or tell you the perfect condition for growing tomatoes—but sickness, he doesn’t do. Matters of the heart, he keeps to himself. Under lock and key. And so he is awkward and stiff. Often formal and curt, even with his children. Especially with his children. But I have accepted all this long ago. I have stopped wishing he were different. I have given up on things changing. I have shifted my expectations so as not to be disappointed, and just enough to sometimes be pleasantly surprised. See, he’s a man’s man. A hunter-gatherer man. A “provider,” an Orvis-catalog, Eddie-Bauer, fly-fishing, never-been-sick-a-day-in-his-life kind of man. A tender-heart-with-a-tough-J. Peterman-canvas-covering type of man. That’s my dad.
Dad: How are you feeling?
Me: Uh, pretty good. Same as an hour ago.
Dad: Good. You’ll bounce back quickly. You’re tough. I know you. You won’t let
this slow you down.
Me: Yeah . . . well . . . I’ll try not to.
Dad: Get some rest, and I’ll check on you later.
Me: Okay. Thanks for calling. Bye. I love you.
Sometimes “I love you” is so hard to get out. Sometimes, with certain people, the phrase gets stuck somewhere between the tongue and soft palate. And then it gets swallowed down. Along with everything else.
Baby Steps
Today’s a big day. I’m out of my sweats and into real clothes . . . well, sort of. I’m not in formal wear or anything, but I put on a pair of underwear. So that’s good. That’s progress. Still no bra, though. I’ve got a while before that happens. Tomorrow I hope to take a shower. I don’t really smell; it’s just that I’d like a chance to shave my armpits before my pit hair is long enough to French braid.
Oh, and I’ve made a decision. I’m not taking any more Vicodin. That shit is good. And addicting. Not that I have an addictive personality. I mean, I smoked on and off for ten years, but then I was able to quit. I had a brief addiction to laxatives, but that was typical college shit. I used to drink a little too much. Nothing crazy. A couple drinks in the afternoon. A couple more at night. I’ve picked my cuticles since I quit sucking my thumb.
Yeah, I’d better lay off the pain pills. They are good, though. They do help take the edge off. And help me relax. And sleep . . . yeah, I’m not taking any more Vicodin . . . unless I really, really, really need to. Really.
Bad Day
Me: Hello?
Other: Hi, sweetie, it’s Kim. I didn’t expect you to answer.
Me: Oh . . . well . . . I did. What’s going on?
Kim: How are you? How do you feel?
Me: Oh, you heard . . . yeah, I’m doing pretty good. Still a little sore, but nothing too serious.
Kim: It’s sooooooo good to hear your voice. You sound so healthy, so strong.
Me: Yeah, well, thanks. I feel good . . . considering. What’s up with you? How’s the play going? I was really bummed I had to drop out, but there’s no way I would have been able to perform by Thursday.
Kim: Everything’s fine. There have been a couple of blow-ups, but nothing, you know, major. I’m just so happy to hear you’re doing well. The cast has been asking about you.
Me: Tell everyone I say hi.
Kim: I will. Definitely . . . anyway, I should let you go, get your rest. We’re all thinking of you.
Me: Thanks. I’ll call you next week. Take care.
Kim: Yeah, you too. Bye, sweetie.
Okay. That was fucking weird. I’m not dying, people. That was depressing. I’m fine. I’m going to be fine.
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello?
Other: Hi, it’s Clara.
Me: Hey, what’s up?
Clara: Oh, not much. What’s up with you?
Me: Well—
Clara: Did you hear that Ronny is getting married? Can you believe that? I always thought he would end up with someone younger. She’s six years older than him, you know. Do you think you’ll get invited to the wedding?
Me: I doubt it. Ronny and I don’t really—
Clara: God, I hope I’m invited. Do you think I’ll be invited?
Me: I really don’t know.
Clara: How are you feeling, by the way?
Me: Oh. Fine. Sore, but making progress. I just assumed you didn’t know.
Clara: No, Tess told me. You must be relieved.
Me: Why?
Clara: You know, that it was only skin cancer. So many people in my family have had a skin cancer removed, and—
Me: They had melanoma?
Clara: Yes, I think. Well, actually, I’m not sure. I think my aunt had basal . . . is that the same thing?
Me: Well, no, not really. Basal and squamous rarely spread to other parts of the body. Melanoma, on the other—
Clara: I’m just glad you’re okay.
Me: Yeah. Whatever. Oh, I think my mom’s calling me. I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later. Bye.
Clara: Call me . . .
Okay. That was fucking weird, too. What an ass . . . That’s it. No more. I’m not going to answer—
Ring.
Me: Hello? Cancer Survivor’s Network, may I help you?
Other: Is this Carrot Top?
Me: Yeah, it’s me, Grandpa.
Papaw: Does anyone else call you that?
Me: No, just—
Papaw: How ya’ doin’, babe?
Me: Pretty good, actually.
Papaw: Your dad called us yesterde’ and tol’ us. You know your great-grandmother, Hassie, had skin troubles.
Me: Oh, really? Did she have melanoma, because I didn’t think there was any family history. My oncologist was asking—
Papaw: No, hon. Not melanomas, but she did have somethin’ removed from her face this one time.
Me: Was it basal or squamous cell skin cancer?
Papaw: Hon, I don’t really know. But you know who else . . . ’member Charlie, who used to come into your parents’ store when you was a kid?
Me: Oh, yeah. With the scarf around his neck because of the throat cancer. That guy?
Papaw: You know he had skin problems.
Me: Huh . . . I never knew he had melanoma, too.
Papaw: His wasn’t melanoma. It was somethin’ else.
Me: Oh . . . well . . . um . . . actually, Papaw, I’m getting kind of tired. So, tell Mamaw I love her. I’ll call you guys in a couple of days.
Papaw: Take care. Bye, hon.
So, what he really said was that he hasn’t known one fucking person in his whole life who ever had melanoma. Wow. That was a great conversation! I feel soooooooo much better. Too bad I didn’t talk to him earlier. Maybe I would have killed myself by now. No more phone calls for me. Whoever wants to talk to me is gonna have to come to my house and sit in front of my cancerous ass and insult me face-to-face. I’m just having a bad day. I’m pissed off, feeling sorry for myself, I don’t know. I just want everything to go back to how it was before. I liked it all better before. Why are people such assholes? I feel like everyone I’ve talked to in the last couple of days has been speaking to me through one side of their mouth because a big fucking foot is sticking out the other side. It’s like Debra Winger in Terms of Endearment: “It’s okay to talk about ‘the cancer.’” My problem is, no one seems to know diddly squat about melanoma, so I end up defending my illness. “People die from melanoma, ya know.” “Melanoma spreads throughout the body faster than any other cancer.” “Melanoma is the number one cancer among women twenty-five to twenty-nine.” “Second to lung cancer, melanoma is the fastest-growing cancer in the world.” “If not caught early, melanoma is almost always fatal.” “Melanoma doesn’t respond to traditional chemotherapy or radiation.”
Yeah, that’s right. I’ve been doing some online research. So fuck you!
Sorry. Like I said, bad day.
Heads Up . . . Checkup
I’m back on the third floor. The “Cancer Floor.” In the last five minutes I’ve watched four people get off the elevator, glance at the enormous JOHN WAYNE CANCER INSTITUTE sign, and sheepishly slink back into the elevator like they’re afraid to breathe the air up here. Terrified they might come down with a bad case of breast or prostate cancer. It’s been going around lately, ya know. I’d love to have a bodysuit made to look like I’m covered in oozing boils and, just as some unsuspecting fool is sliding back into the elevator, spray a horrible hacking cough on them. Yeah, that would be funny—fucking hilarious.
Dr. Gregory: Hello there. So, are you still convinced I removed the wrong place?
Me: No, uh, sorry about that. Momentary lapse of judgment—the cancer made me do it.
Dr. Gregory: Not a problem. Not a problem. So, let’s get a look at this thing . . . uh-huh . . . healing nicely. Stitches look good. You can just let this tape come off on its own.
Me: Yeah, I’m not in any rush to pull that off.
Dr. Gregory: And you heard the pathology came back
. Clean margins all around. So . . . how are you doing?
Me: Just a little sore, but nothing major.
Dr. Gregory: No, I mean, how are you doing dealing with all of this? It’s a lot to absorb in a couple of days.
Me: Overall, I think I’m handling things pretty well. I have my moments, but—
Dr. Gregory: I want to say something to you. And I’m only going to say it once.
Me: Wow, that sounded so . . . theatrical.
Dr. Gregory: You’re not going to like it.
Me: O-kay?
Dr. Gregory: I want you to know it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to feel . . . whatever it is you are feeling. Just don’t act like you’re fine when you’re not, because everything will catch up with you. It always does. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times. Men are usually the worst offenders. They come in here after surgery, all ready to put everything behind them, deal with nothing that has happened, ready to forget they ever had cancer. Most of them end up having a nervous breakdown within a couple of months. You’ve got to deal with your emotions. Deal with them now. You’ll have to sooner or later. All this “stuff ” isn’t going to just go away. Trust me on that. You’re very witty—you know that. You use your humor to cover how you feel. So, just know . . . I’m on to you.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 3
