Me:
Dr. Gregory: That’s it. That’s what I wanted to say.
Me:
Dr. Gregory: Do you have any questions for me?
Me: No, I don’t think so.
Dr. Gregory: Then I will see you in a couple of weeks. You can head on into the lab now, and Howard will take your blood. Call me if you have questions or concerns. And remember, you need to talk to someone about how you feel. I don’t care who, but you need someone you can confide in.
Me: Yeah, okay.
Dr. Gregory: Take care of yourself.
Me: Yeah, okay, you too.
Mom: How’d it go?
Me: Fine.
Mom: What did he say?
Me: Nothing.
On My Own
Mom’s going back to Ohio today. She’d stay longer if I asked her to. She’d . . . do anything if I asked her to. It’s the asking that’s hanging me up. I mean, I’ll be okay without her. I have Adam. And the dog. They’re all I need . . . yeah, I’m gonna be fine. And she needs to get back anyway . . . I don’t need her to . . .
Mom: . . . stay? I can, you know. Your father is fine. He can take care of himself. You—
Me: I’m fine. Totally fine.
Mom: Just don’t do too much. You work too hard.
Me: What are you taking about? I’ve been lying in bed for the last week.
Mom: Just don’t push yourself. You’ve had so much to deal with—
Me: Mom, really. Fly safe, okay?
Mom: I just wish you didn’t have to go through all this. It’s so hard to see you in pain.
Me: Don’t—
Mom: I wish I could go through it for you.
Me: Yeah, I know you do. I love you. Thank you . . . for everything.
Mom: I love you so much. You’re so strong. Bye, sweetie.
I’ve got a lump in my throat and it’s killing me. It’s that lump that keeps all the sadness from coming up, from spewing out, spilling onto the sidewalk, down the street and onto . . . everything. It’s that lump. The lump of all lumps that has ever been created. The lump that I hate. If I could swallow it down I would, but I’m choking on it. And I can’t breathe . . . and I can’t stand up . . . and I can’t . . . hold . . . it . . . down . . . anymore. So . . . I’m . . . not . . . anymore . . . I’m . . . not . . .
It feels good to let go. Let the tears run down my cheeks in a thick, hot stream, drip off my chin and onto my favorite worn-out NYU tee. I stick out my tongue and try to redirect the salty stream into my mouth so I can taste everything. Everything I’ve been trying to keep down. My eyes feel sticky, and I can tell my mascara is starting to give under pressure. Drip, drip, drip. I reach my neck high and to the left just in time to catch my mom’s taillights disappear around the corner. She’s gone. She’s really gone. So . . . now what? I guess I could just sit here, wet and pathetic, and wait for Adam to get home. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. He’ll definitely want to see me like this—everything dripping.
Nice Talkin’ to Ya
Me: Hello?
Dad: How are you feeling?
Me: Hi, Dad. Good. I’m feeling good.
Dad: Good.
Me: How are you?
Dad: Good.
Me: Good.
Dad: Do you want to talk to Mom?
Me: Sure.
My Savior, My Dermatologist
I know that guy sitting over there. From somewhere. It is driving me fucking insane. Think. Focus. Okay, he looks to be about my age. Did I go to school with him? Did I go out with this guy? I haven’t slept with him—at least, I don’t think that’s how I know him. High school. I’m fairly sure I went to high school with him, but what the hell is his name? A, b, c Craig, d, e, f, g Greg Garry, h, i, j Jerry Jim Josh, k, l, m Mike Mike Mitch, no, n, o . . . shit. He’s looking at me. Yeah, he knows me, but he can’t figure out from where. I can’t believe he doesn’t remember me. I’m unforgettable . . . what the fuck is his name? And he’s with a girl. I definitely don’t know her. A girlfriend? He looks kinda gay. I don’t remember him looking so gay in high school. A recent development. Huh . . .
Nurse: Hillary, you ready?
Me: Yeah.
Nurse: And what are you here for today?
Me: I think Dr. Bach is just doing a follow-up.
Nurse: Let’s see here . . . what does your chart say? You had a melanoma removed.
Me: Yeah.
Nurse: So, why does Dr. Bach want to see you? You had the mole removed, right?
Me: Rrriiiight. Déjà vu.
Nurse: I’m sorry. I just don’t know much about melanoma. I assumed—
Me: What?
Nurse: That once it was removed, that was it.
Me: No, it’s not like basal or squamous cell. Melanoma is more like, um, breast cancer or . . . lymphoma. It has the potential to, uh, spread very quickly throughout the body, so—
Nurse: You know, I had a lump in my breast once. Scared me to death. They did a needle biopsy. I was flipping out. Thinking about having cancer and everything. I just started thinking about my future and my family and how my life would suddenly be so different if it turned out to be cancer.
Me: What happened?
Nurse: Turned out to be nothing, thank God. Just a fibrous cyst.
Me: Oh. Lucky.
Nurse: Dr. Bach should be with you—
Dr. Bach: Hi. How did everything go?
Me: Theeere she is. Ms. Ameeeerica. Dr. Bach, my hero . . . a no-nonsense kinda woman. A down-to-business-in-no-time-flat kinda gal. In nearly a decade of visits, I’ve learned close to nothing about her personal life. I’ve heard neither hide nor hair of a spouse, of children, of trips she’s taken, or of things she’s proud of. I’ve gathered tidbits from discussions of dermatology conferences she’s been to, heard about the occasional skin cancer screening she has participated in, but that’s it. It’s like she exists only within these walls. Like she’s visible only when confined to this office. If Dr. Bach removed a mole in the forest and no one was around to read the pathology . . .
Pretty good. Dr. Gregory is great.
Dr. Bach: I’ve sent a lot of patients to him . . . so, I want to do another full-body check, make sure there isn’t anything else we should biopsy right now.
Me: Whoa, sorry . . . your hands are cold.
Dr. Bach: Did Dr. Gregory go over everything with you? Did he discuss the genetic factor in all this?
Me: No, not really. I mean, I told him no one else in my family has ever had melanoma—
Dr. Bach: Well, everyone in your family needs to start going to a dermatologist for regular skin checks. Because you’re so young, you were probably genetically predisposed, which means—
Me: No one in my family is as fair as me, though.
Dr. Bach: I just think it would be a good idea. Also, did Dr. Gregory talk to you about birth control pills?
Me: No.
Dr. Bach: How long have you been on them?
Me: About ten years.
Dr. Bach: There have been a lot of recent studies looking at the relationship between melanoma and estrogen. Nothing is definitive at this point, but I would discuss other birth-control options with your gynecologist.
Me: Like what, condoms? Adam, honey, I have something to tell you.
Dr. Bach: You might want to investigate the new IUDs. Particularly the copper one.
Me: What does IUD stand for?
Dr. Bach: Intrauterine Device.
Me: Intra, meaning “in”? As in, “in my uterus”? In it? As in, “not out”?
Dr. Bach: I would ask about it . . . well, I see a couple more places I’d like to biopsy, but nothing that can’t wait a week or two. Give you a little break. I’ll tell Julia to schedule you for two weeks.
Me: Okay. And, you know . . . I wanted to say . . . thank you. Thank you. I wish I could come up with something better to say. Something more meaningful. More emotional. Something more. Something better. I just don’t know what it would be.
Dr. Bach:
It’s my job . . . and you’re welcome.
Wow, that was like out of a movie. “It’s my job,” the doctor says matter-of-factly, leaving the patient feeling foolish for trying to express her innermost feelings. Then, just as the doctor reaches for the door, she turns, slowly, purposefully, and with a warm smile adds, “And you’re welcome.” Exit doctor. Close-up on patient, who is left feeling awestruck from being in the presence of such a remarkable lady. Cut to—
I wonder if Fred’s still in the waiting room. Fred—that’s it. That’s his name. Fred Freddie Fred-man. The Mayor of Fredville.
Fred: Hillary? It’s me, Fred. From Thousand Oaks.
Me: Hey, I didn’t even see you.
Fred: And this is my girlfriend, Melanie.
Me: Hi, nice to meet you. He’s gay, right? Your boyfriend’s gay?
Fred: We were about to head out. Let’s chat on the elevator.
Me: So, what have you been up to?
Fred: Melanie and I are just finishing up law school. And we have a place together in Westwood. What’s up with you? Weren’t you dating some teacher or something? He was a lot older than you, I think. I don’t remember the whole story.
Me: I married him. We’ve been together eight years now.
Fred: Oh. Great!
Melanie: Have you been going to Dr. Bach long? This was my first time with her.
Me: Yeah, I’ve been seeing her about . . . nine years. I started seeing her in ninth grade. Yeah, I guess it was ninth. I got a pimple and freaked out, and so my mom found Dr. Bach. I never really thought about it before, but I guess it’s kinda weird that I’ve kept coming once a year. Dr. Bach always said I should have a full-body check at least once a year and . . . for some reason, I listened. She’s amazing, isn’t she?
Melanie: Well, I don’t know. She’s a little dry.
Me: She just likes to get down to business. She’s an extraordinary doctor, though.
Melanie: I was actually thinking of looking around for someone else.
Me: Well, you won’t find anyone more thorough. That I can guarantee.
Melanie: Huh. You really trust her?
Me: Yeah. With my life.
Melanie: That’s saying a lot.
Me: I know I’m going to regret saying this. Yeah, well, she actually found a melanoma on me, pointed it out, thought it needed to be biopsied. So, yes, I really do trust her.
Fred:
Melanie:
Me:
Melanie: Wow, so . . . how’s the cancer going?
Me: The cancer’s . . . going good. Yeah, it’s going great. Couldn’t be better. Love the cancer. Love it! You should get it. It’s fabulous, just fabulous! I don’t know who’s the bigger idiot, me or her. Wonder how long it will take the rumor mill to start up. I’m sure by tomorrow evening I will be dying from inoperable testicular cancer, according to my high school gossip committee . . . I need a drink. Or a Vicodin. Whichever.
Fred: P3—this is us. It was so great seeing you. Here, give me a big hug. Hope to see you soon. Take care of yourself, okay?
Melanie: So nice to meet you.
Me: Yeah, you too. I will remember it always.
As I search through my purse for my keys (going deep past the three tubes of sunscreen and cherry Chapstick), I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been seeing Dr. Bach. How long would I have waited? How big and deep would I have let the cancer grow before I smartened up? It’s not like I even knew what I was supposed to be looking for. It’s not like the mole was holding a little red flag, waving and flapping CANCER. It’s not like I’d grown a third nipple or had a little baby club foot sticking out from my chest! It was a small, dark, unassuming spot, as far as I could tell. A speck of dark chocolate. A chocolate kiss strategically placed under my breast. A mole. A nevus. A dot. Why was I still seeing Dr. Bach after all these years? That’s the fucking million-dollar question. I really don’t know.
Habit.
Loyalty.
Fate.
Sun Protection Factor
I’ve got to find a way to cut back on my morning routine. It’s fucking killing me.
7:30: Wake up (standard procedure).
7:35–7:37: Pee and check moles for any signs of change.
7:37–8:15: Green tea, vitamins, high-fiber (low-tasting) cereal—yummy.
8:15–8:45: Strip down and check for any new moles (moles formed in last twenty-four hours).
8:45–9:15: Shower and recheck existing moles for a: asymmetry; b: irregular border; c: variation in color; d: diameter larger than a pencil eraser’s.
9:15–9:30: Dry off and re-recheck for any new moles since last check (refer back to 8:15–8:45).
9:30–9:40: Check for swollen lymph nodes (which, of course, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish from an aggravated sweat gland, angry mosquito bite, or infected pimple).
9:40–10:00: Apply sunscreen (to every crack and crevasse).
10:00–10:30: Apply SPF makeup over sunscreen.
10:30–10:50: Pick out long-sleeved shirt and pants that don’t look too freakish to wear in the middle of the hottest part of the summer.
10:50–11:00: Find hat that doesn’t make me look like a deck umbrella.
11:15: Start my day with a smile. (Fuck this. I’m ready for lunch already.)
I soon hope to create a morning routine that blends seamlessly into an evening routine, thus avoiding the need for sunscreen.
And So It Begins
Ring ring ring ring ring.
Mom: Hello?
Me: Hey, it’s me. How’d it go at the dermatologist?
Mom: Oh, fine. The doctor said I looked good. He didn’t see anything he thought needed to come off. I pointed out a couple places for him to look at, but he said they’re just age spots. He took one place off your father’s back but said it was nothing to worry about. He said if it’s anything it could be basal cell, but nothing serious . . . I wish he could do something about all the age spots on my hands. I have the hands of an eighty-year-old.
Me: Why don’t you try a bleaching cream?
Mom: Oh, honey, I’ve tried all that stuff. None of it works.
Me: You never use any of it long enough.
Mom: Who has the time?
Me: Well, if you want them to go away—when did the doctor expect the pathology report back on Dad’s mole?
Mom: I don’t know. Honey, do you remember when the path—. . . your father thinks he said it would be in on Monday.
Me: Good.
Mom: Do you want to say hi to your father?
Me: Uh . . . um . . . sure. Hey, Dad.
Dad: How are you feeling?
Me: Pretty good.
Dad: Good.
Me: Here we go again . . .
Dad: You sound tired.
Me: It was just a long day . . . I saw my ophthalmologist this morning and my gynecologist this afternoon. I’m just ready to be done with all this stuff. Apparently, you can get melanoma almost . . . anywhere. I don’t know. I’m just—
Dad: It must be frustrating for someone like you, who is so driven and task-oriented, to have to deal with something you have no control over.
Me: Yeah . . . exactly. Yeah, exactly.
Dad: Well, I just wish you didn’t—
Me: I know. I know. I’m okay, though.
Dad: Well, call if you need anything.
Me: I will.
Dad: Take care.
Me: I love you, Dad.
Dad: You too.
Me: Bye. That was . . . I don’t know what that was. It felt . . . easier. He seemed . . . different.
Life Goes On
Can’t wait for tomorrow. I have a date with a girlfriend. We’re going to lunch and a movie. She said I could pick the film (cancer-survivor perk) . . . Can’t believe I’m going to venture out into the big, bad, sunny world and enjoy a day with someone who doesn’t have an “MD” following her name. I can’t wait! I may actually wear a bra tomorrow.
Mellary
; This is it. I’m back. Back in the real world. You know, just sittin’ eatin’ chattin’, waitin’ for the movie to start. Violet is a fucking gossip machine. From the concession-stand line to the first preview, she has covered all the new relationship stories: recent breakups (high school friends and celebrities), who’s fucking whom, who fucked over whom, and who’s just plain fucked, why, and if they deserve it. All the important things in life. I get such joy in hearing about others’ misfortunes. She can turn the worst story—with the goriest details—into a masterpiece. She knows about everything that is happening, with everyone, all the time. She knows it before it happens . . . or it happens because she knows it. I never tell her anything I don’t want repeated at least a thousand times to anyone and everything. Yeah . . . she sure can tell ’em . . . she sure can. Wonder what she has said about me lately. Wonder what spin she put on my story of late. Wonder if she has found a way to turn my ordeal into a one-liner . . . or if she secretly refers to me as Hillary-noma or Mellary? Yeah . . . yeah, that’s not all that funny.
Violet: . . . stuck in her ass, and the cop—
Me: Shut up, it’s starting . . . This is nice. Nice and normal. Just me, some overly salted buttery popcorn, and a movie. Yeah, this is real nice. I’m normal again. I love feeling normal again. Yeah, this is great. Just hangin’ out like a normal person. I mean, not normal normal, but as normal as I’d like to be . . . This popcorn tastes kinda stale. There’s too much salt on it. It’s kinda’ making me nauseous . . . too much butter . . . It’s hot in here. I’m sweating . . . my palms are sweating . . . I can’t see! I can’t see anything! . . . Whoa, what happened? . . . I think I just blacked out or something . . . fuck, that was so weird. Okay. Okay. I’m okay. Breathe deep . . . my heart’s racing . . . I’m having a heart attack . . . I can’t feel my fingers . . . or my feet . . . I can’t breathe . . . I’m gonna throw up . . . or pass out . . . or . . . I’ve gotta get out of—
Pale Girl Speaks Page 4
