Violet: Wait, what’s . . . wrong? You are really fucking pale.
Me: I’m shaking.
Violet: You’re shaking—
Me: I’m . . . just . . . gonna . . . lie down here in the hall.
Violet: What do you want me to do? Do you need a doctor?
Me: No, I just need to rest here.
Violet: Where’s your purse? I’m calling your doctor . . . do you have his number?
Me: Look in my PalmPilot under “Braun.” B-r-a . . .
Theater Manager: Should I call an ambulance?
Me: No, no. I just need a second.
Violet: Hello? I need to speak with Dr. Braun—
Me: Oh God, don’t let me die. I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not with my cheek pressed to smelly, sticky movie-theater carpet, popcorn between my teeth, with a wide-eyed, pimply-faced, teenage theater manager whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
Theater Manager: You look good. Real good. Just hold on.
Violet:—it’s an emergency. I’m with one of his patients, Hillary Fogelson, and she just blacked out and . . . Okay . . . hello, are you the doctor? Yeah, I’m with Hillary Fogelson and we were watching a movie and I think she may have blacked out. And now she’s lying on the floor, she’s shaking, she’s really pale . . . I don’t know . . . Okay . . . he says I need to elevate your legs, get them higher than your head . . . Okay . . . yeah, what else? . . . and move her legs? . . . like how? Oh . . . Okay . . . I’m supposed to move your legs as if you were on a bike . . .
Me:
Violet: Is this doing anything? Is this helping?
Me:
Violet: She’s not saying anything, doctor. Her eyes are really glazed, and—
Me: Yeah, I think it’s helping.
Violet: Oh, wait. She says it’s helping . . . Okay . . . keep doing this . . . for how long? . . . Okay, I’ll call you back if she gets any worse.
Me: I’m not shaking as much. My heart . . . is slowing . . . down.
Violet: I’m supposed to keep your legs up. Five minutes up, then five minutes down.
Me: You can stop now.
Violet: No, he said—
Me: Quit with the legs. Seriously, I’m starting to feel better . . . that was fucking scary . . . I don’t know what happened. I was watching the movie, and then all of a sudden I realized I had missed part of it. Lost track or something . . . that was crazy . . . I think I can stand up now.
Violet: Just wait a second. Get up slowly. You scared the shit out of me. Thought you were dying there, for a minute.
Me: Yeah . . . me too.
Now What?
Yesterday wasn’t one of my finer moments. I’m just relieved the horrid event happened with someone discreet (I’m royally fucked, by the way). And I’m still not sure what happened, either. I’d be convinced I had a brain metastasis if it weren’t for the fact that I had a brain scan right before my surgery. They checked my melon real good. Lungs, too. Evidently, those are the melanoma metastases’ hot spots. Melanoma knows all the best places—summers in the brain, winters in the lungs.
Doc Hollywood
Another day, another waiting room. But this is not your typical, run-of-the-mill, cheaply furnished, fluorescent-lit, disinfectant-smelling waiting room. There are no jumping-dolphin photos hanging on the wall. No silk-flower arrangements or indeterminable buzzing sounds. No one next to me hacking on their own saliva or snotting into a wrinkled hankie. This is a Berber-carpeted, Ming-vase, tropical-fish-tank kinda place. This is not a place for sick people—this is my internist’s waiting room. Doctor to the stars. Doctor to the athletes. Doctor to almost anyone who has lots and lots (and lots) of money . . . And the “Doc,” “Doc Hollywood,” the man himself, is, as one might expect, a little snotty, a tad arrogant, and a whole lotta smart. And I mean really smucking fart. I shit you not.
Dr. Braun: Okay. Tell me exactly what happened. Step by step.
Me: So, my friend Violet called and invited me to the movies. I said sure, because I thought it might be nice to—
Dr. Braun: Just tell me the part where you started to feel funny.
Me: Oh, okay. So, I’m sitting in the theater and—
Dr. Braun: Was it hot in the theater?
Me: Not particularly. Anyway, I was sitting there and I started to feel—
Dr. Braun: Where in the row were you sitting? Middle, end . . . ?
Me: Um, a few seats from the end—
Dr. Braun: Toward the back of the theater?
Me: Yeah, and—
Dr. Braun: Had the movie started?
Me: Well, yeah. It was a couple minutes in, and—
Dr. Braun: Had you just eaten a big meal?
Me: Not really. I had an omelet.
Dr. Braun: Uh-huh . . . and?
Me: Do you . . . need to know what I had in the omelet?
Dr. Braun: Not unless you feel it’s important to the event.
Me: I guess I’m a little fuzzy on what is important to the event. I was finally wearing a bra—is that detail of any consequence?
Dr. Braun: I just want to make sure I have all the pieces to the puzzle. So, you were sitting in the theater, movie had just started, and you felt . . .
Me: I noticed my heart was pounding really fast and my palms were sweating. And then I think I may have blacked out for a second—I don’t know.
Dr. Braun: Sounds like you had an anxiety attack.
Me: What?
Dr. Braun: It was anxiety.
Me: A panic attack? No, no, no. This was something . . . my sister has panic attacks . . . this wasn’t . . . no, no, this was something else.
Dr. Braun: You had all the classic symptoms: racing heart, sweaty palms, shaking. When you started to feel all these things, I bet you jumped up out of your seat—
Me: Well, yeah, I didn’t particularly want to die in the movie theater.
Dr. Braun: And you felt like you were going to die. It was a panic attack.
Me: But I passed out. You don’t pass out during panic attacks.
Dr. Braun: Some people do. And you have really low blood pressure to begin with. You were sitting, so all the blood pooled in your legs, you passed out, your body released all these chemicals, including adrenaline. The surge of adrenaline then caused the shaking afterward.
Me: No. That doesn’t sound like what happened.
Dr. Braun: Have you given any thought to seeing a therapist?
Me: Uh . . . no . . . not lately.
Dr. Braun: You should consider it. Ask your hospital to recommend someone. They might even have a therapist who works exclusively with cancer patients.
Me: Wait, wait, wait. What does one have to do with the other? The melanoma thing is almost over. I mean, on the whole, I’ve been feeling—
Dr. Braun: Your body has been under a lot of stress lately. Maybe more than you realize. I can prescribe an antianxiety drug for when you’re feeling especially anxious—
Me: I’m feeling especially anxious.
Dr. Braun:—but these attacks usually get worse before they get better.
Me: Great. Gives me something to look forward to.
Dr. Braun: You know, a therapist might be able to show you some breathing techniques to help you get through the attacks. You should really think about seeing someone . . . and try not to worry about having another attack. That’ll only make things worse. I’ll have the nurse give you a prescription for Paxil. See if it helps. Take care. And call me if you have any questions. And tell your husband and in-laws I say hello.
Me: Yeah, I will. I’m not worried about having another panic attack . . . if I have another one, I’ ll know what it is, and just wait it out . . . I’ ll just take deep breaths and not let it upset me . . . yeah, okay . . . I mean, it wasn’t that bad . . . it was scary, yes, but only because I didn’t know what was happening . . . now I will . . . good . . . great . . . yeah, it’s kinda hot in here . . . feels stuffy . . . making me dizzy . . . and it’s hard to breathe . . . oh . . . okay . . . st
ay calm . . . I know what this is . . . just relax . . . deep breaths . . . it’s o-kay . . . SHIT MOTHERFUCKER I’M GONNA DIE!
Nurse: Okey-dokey. I’ve got the—are you okay? You’re so pale, sweetie.
Me: I’ve gotta . . . stand up for a second. I—
Nurse: Sweetie, can I get you some juice?
Me: No, no. I just . . . I just got dizzy for a second . . . I’m okay . . . I’ll be okay. I think.
I’m standing at the front desk, auctioning off my firstborn, and I’ve had a mental breakthrough. Breakout. Break-in, actually. Something has fucking broken through. Melanoma doesn’t give you time to heal. The healing is not written into the melanoma proposal. There’s no chapter entitled “Healing Time.” There’s no blurb. Or even a “Time for Healing” footnote. And I mean, it doesn’t give your mind time to heal. At least, it hasn’t given my mind time to heal. To take it all in, make sense of it, accept the change, and then move on . . . I was lucky—I had surgery, and that’s it. No chemotherapy (’cause it doesn’t really work), no radiation (refer back to chemo), no nothing but a load of sunscreen, a good-luck pat on the back, and a “let’s keep our fingers crossed that we got it all.” With other cancers you get the benefit of time. As your body is recovering from some horrible treatment or other, your mind is adjusting to the change. The life change. The “cancer” change . . .
I need more time. I’ve got things to figure out and no time to figure’em. I’ve gotta slow down. I’ve just gotta . . . or else . . . I don’t know what.
DINNER:
Adam: Oh, I forgot to ask: how did everything go at the doctor’s?
Me: Fine.
Adam: Well, what did he say?
Me: About what?
Adam: About the thing at the theater? About the passing out?
Me: Oh, it’s nothing.
Adam: What do you mean, it’s nothing? You blacked out. That doesn’t just happen for no reason.
Me: He said it was a panic attack.
Adam: Bullshit.
Me: No, seriously. He said I had a panic attack and something about low blood pressure and blood pooling or something.
Adam: How can you not know exactly what he said?
Me: He didn’t seem to think it was anything serious.
Adam: Oh, well . . . good. I’m all for “nothing serious.”
Me: Yeah, me too . . . He said (I need to have my fucking head examined) to say hi . . . Hi.
A First Step
This is the message center for Dr. Thomas Lesaux. I’m either out of the office, on the other line, or with a client. Please leave your name and the most efficient way to get ahold of you. I’ ll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a wonderful day.
Beep.
Me: Um . . . hi, my name is Hillary Fogelson. That’s Hillary, with two l’s, Fogelson: F as in “Frank,” o-g-e-l-s-o-n. I got your name from Muriel Hager over at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica. Um, I’m a melanoma patient over there . . . and Muriel said you work with a lot of . . . people like me. So, um, I thought I’d give you a call. Muriel doesn’t have any young people in her melanoma support group right now, so I figured it might be good to, you know, find someone who—
Beep.
Me: Hi, it’s Hillary Fogelson again. I think the machine cut me off. I’ll make this short. The best way to reach me is on my cell. Or you can always leave me a message at home. I check my machine regularly. Okay. Talk to you soon. Bye.
Me: Hi, sorry, me again. I’m an idiot. I don’t think I left my numbers with you. Cell: 310-xxx-xxxx. Home: 323-xxx-xxxx. That’s it. Okay. Call me when you can. And sorry about all the phone calls . . . and I really look forward to speaking with you. I’ve heard such great things about you from Muriel . . . and I’m actually not as insane as these messages have made me sound. Anyway, hope I haven’t used up your whole tape. Okay. That’s it. Hope to talk to you soon. Thanks, I’ll look forward to—
Beep.
Ring. Ring.
Me: Hello, Dr. Lesaux? I’m—
Other: Who is this?
Me: Mom?
Mom: Hi, honey. I thought I had the wrong number for a second. Should I call you back? Are you expecting a call from a doctor?
Me: Oh, no . . . I just left a message for someone, and I thought—
Mom: Who is Dr. Lesaux? I haven’t heard you mention him.
Me: He’s just . . . someone I got referred to.
Mom: Another dermatologist? Because it probably wouldn’t hurt you to have more than one.
Me: Mom, I already have a surgeon, an oncologist, a dermatologist, an internist, an ophthalmologist, and a gynecologist. I don’t need another doctor checking for moles. My moles are getting plenty of attention, trust me.
Mom: Well, you can never be too careful.
Me: Yeah, well—
Mom: How did the appointment go with your internist? You were supposed to call me.
Me: Everything went fine. Nothing to worry about.
Mom: What did he say about the fainting? Did he say you needed a stress test? Did he have you walk on a treadmill? I hope he checked your blood sugar. Diabetes runs in the family, you know, and you might be anemic. You don’t eat enough red meat.
Me: No, all that’s fine. He thought it was a panic attack.
Mom: What do you mean? What are you anxious about?
Me: Mom.
Mom: Those brain scans can miss things. Maybe you should make the hospital do—
Me: Mom, it’s anxiety.
Mom: But—
Me: Mom, seriously, you’re giving me a lot of anxiety right now.
Mom: I’m just trying to make sure nothing was overlooked.
Me: Nothing was overlooked.
Mom: How do you know that?
Me: Because I’ve started to have these attacks all the time, but they only happen in real specific situations. Like, when I’m on the freeway, but only when I’m in the middle lane. I don’t get them driving on side streets, or in the slow lane—only the middle lane. That’s psychological. And I’m getting them more and more often, so that’s why I decided I needed to see someone.
Mom: Like who? Like, a psychiatrist?
Me: He’s a psychologist, actually. I need to try and get this under control. I don’t think these panic attacks are going to go away on their own. The hospital recommended this guy. So, we’ll see if he can help. At this point, I really don’t have much to lose.
Mom: Well, what are you going to talk about?
Me: I don’t really know, Mom. Whatever comes to mind, I guess. Don’t worry. I’m not going to blame any of it on you.
Mom: You can, honey, if you want. If you think it will help.
Me: Is Dad around?
Mom: He’s on a conference call.
Me: Oh, okay. Tell him I said hi. I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.
Mom: I love you.
Me: You too.
The “In My Uterus” Device
I’m only slightly concerned. I’m only slightly concerned because the nurse I talked to on the phone said it wouldn’t hurt. That I wouldn’t need to take a painkiller. That I’d only feel pressure and then maybe a little pinch. Maybe a slight cramp or, maybe, nothing . . . She also said that everyone’s cervix is different.
Dr. Goldberg: How are you? Are you ready for this?
Me: I think so. The baby-faced Angel of Mercy. Dr. Goldberg, my gynecologist, looks like a fourteen-year-old playing dress-up in her father’s work clothes. Rolled-up coat sleeves and oversize shoes to match. Even the pens and #2 pencils in her coat pocket look bulky compared with her diminutive frame. But she’s young, smart, gentle, and understanding. She listens to my questions and concerns. Grabs my hand and tells me it’s going to be okay. She makes me feel like it’s only natural to be spread-eagle, crotch sky high, with my feet in bootie-covered stirrups.
Dr. Goldberg: And you read all the pamphlets I gave you? Of course you did. The one with possible side effects? And what you can expect after the fact?
&
nbsp; Me: Yep.
Dr. Goldberg: I just want to make sure. Don’t want you to have any surprises. And you know there is always the possibility your body will reject it?
Me: What do you mean?
Dr. Goldberg: Some women expel the IUD within the first month or so. Their uterus never accepts it. If this is going to happen, it usually happens with your first or second period after the insertion. The muscle contractions push the device out. After each period, you should check for the strings.
Me: The strings don’t hang out like . . . like tampon strings, do they?
Dr. Goldberg: No, no, no. If the IUD is in its proper place, you will feel them just below your cervix.
Me: My husband won’t be able to feel the strings when we’re having sex, right?
Dr. Goldberg: He shouldn’t. Some men say they can, but I think it’s psychological. The strings are made out of a superfine silica . . . see, here, feel. It’s not like having two pieces of chicken wire hanging inside you.
Me: Good. That’s something to be thankful for.
Dr. Goldberg: So, why don’t we get started? I’ll tell you everything I’m doing as I’m doing it. If it gets too uncomfortable, tell me.
Me: I have a high tolerance for pain, so I’m not worried. And the nurse said I probably wouldn’t really feel anything.
Dr. Goldberg: Some women don’t feel anything, that’s true . . . okay, I’m just inserting the clamps . . . so far, just like a pap smear . . .
Me: Yeah, this isn’t bad at all.
Dr. Goldberg: . . . and now I’m inserting the tool that will open your cervix, and now I’m opening your cervix . . .
Me: Holy Mother Helen of God Jesusfuckingchrist Motherfucker . . .
Pale Girl Speaks Page 5
