Tadpole Baby
Me: Will you spoon me? Ad? Ad? Adam? Adam?
Adam: Huh?
Me: Spoon me. I had a bad dream.
Adam: Your feet are freezing.
Me:
Me: I just had such a crazy dream.
Adam: Shocking.
Me: Can I tell you?
Adam: In the morning.
Me:
Me: I’ll forget it. So, it starts out in this auditorium. It’s like a high school theater or something, with lunch tables set up everywhere. And I’m walking around in this theater or wherever it is, and I’ve just had a baby. And there’s this big stage, and all these people, all these friends from high school, like Stacey and Violet and I don’t remember who else, are all up onstage giving a slide-show presentation about why I’m going to be a great parent. And they’re using one of those things where you write on the thing and it—
Adam: Overhead projector.
Me: Right. They’re using an overhead projector along with the slide show. And I’m walking around and I’m holding my baby. Except my baby is like a little worm or something, and it’s in a test tube. I’m going up to people, and they’re asking to look at my baby and saying congratulations, and they’re holding the test tube and talking to the little tadpole baby inside. And then, all of a sudden, my parents are there. And my dad takes the test tube and he says he’s going to fix it up for me. And when he hands it back, he has made a little outfit for the test tube. He put, like, pipe-cleaner arms on it, and a little pair of shorts and a little shirt. And a hat, too. Because the tadpole baby was a boy. Then, let’s see . . . oh, then my mom and dad and me are all standing in this kitchen. Yeah, we’re in this long, narrow kitchen, and my dad is holding my tadpole baby, and he drops the test tube, and the tadpole, like, slithers under the refrigerator, like a little worm or something. And I start sobbing and screaming, “My baby, my baby,” and we try to move the refrigerator but it’s too heavy. We can’t move it. And I’m sobbing and sobbing. And my mom is saying something about “It’s going to be okay,” something like that, but all I keep thinking is that one day we’ll move out of this house and someone will move in and find my poor little shriveled-up tadpole baby under the refrigerator, dead . . . Adam, are you awake?
Adam: That is the most fucked-up dream I have ever heard. Jesus Christ, honey.
Me: Good night.
Adam: How am I supposed to go back to sleep after that?
Me:
Adam: Hill? Hill?
Me: Yeah?
Adam: I love you.
Me: I love you too . . . I don’t think I can go back to sleep.
Adam: I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go back to sleep.
Me: Ad?
Adam: Yeah?
Me: Do you think my dad’s gonna be okay?
Adam: . . . I really don’t know.
Me: Squeeze me tighter. You’re more like a knife back there. Don’t flatten out. Put your chest to my back and your knees in the back of my knees . . . yeah, like that. Just like that.
The Way Things Work
I’m sitting here waiting for my “head” doctor, frantically biting my cuticles, trying to distract myself from my life. I’ve been doing a lot of biting the last two days. I stare off into space while I gnaw on my digits, the sounds of Adam pleading, “Stop it! Quit picking!” echoing in my ears . . .
Oh, looks like I made it just in time. Reindeer slippers is in the building. She just jingled past me sporting a faded pink T-shirt with a picture of a kitty on it and the words GET WELL SOON stretched across the front. Her hair, somehow looking worse than last week, is gathered into two slept-in ponytails. She is clutching the same mangled teddy bear as before, except now it’s dressed in an oversize shirt that reads DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD, PUT ME ON HUG.
I feel so sad looking at her. I wonder who gave her the kitty shirt. Whoever it was was disappointed long ago that the message never helped. And the bear. How long has she had him? It’s like this woman is mentally frozen in time. Like she’s completely unaware that any time has passed since she was six and getting tucked into bed by her father . . . my father . . .
Dr. Lesaux: Hi, Hillary. Come in.
Me: Would you mind opening the blinds? It’s a little dark in here.
Dr. Lesaux: Of course.
Me: And could you turn on the lights?
Dr. Lesaux: Do you want the fluorescents on as well?
Me: Yes.
Dr. Lesaux: So, let me see where we left off last week . . . looks like we were talking about you getting pregnant and if—
Me: My dad has melanoma.
Dr. Lesaux:
Me: I just found out. He’s having surgery in a couple of weeks, so I don’t know if he has any lymph involvement yet. It was really deep. His melanoma was five times deeper than mine. I’m trying to prepare myself for the possibility it has gone into his nodes, but . . . I . . . I don’t know.
Dr. Lesaux: I’m sorry to hear that.
Me: I’m scared he’s going to die. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep thinking about all this shit I’ve read online, all these numbers and statistics, charts and graphs I’ve seen. And the worst part is, I don’t think my parents are telling me everything.
Dr. Lesaux: Why do you say that?
Me: Because my dad doesn’t want me to worry. It’s like pulling teeth getting any information out of him or my mom. I had to yell at my mom before she would even tell me his tumor thickness. I keep telling them I worry more not knowing everything. I figure if you know, you can make informed decisions. You can know all your options.
Dr. Lesaux: It sounds like your father is dealing with his diagnosis much differently than you did.
Me: Totally differently.
Dr. Lesaux: Well, he has the right to.
Me: But he’s in denial.
Dr. Lesaux: Is he not doing something that he needs to do?
Me: Well, not yet, but . . .
Dr. Lesaux: Give him some time. Sounds like he’s just trying to look out for your best interest.
Me: My best interest is to know what’s going on. If I don’t know, I assume the worst, not the best.
Dr. Lesaux: Have you explained to your parents how you feel?
Me: I tried to tell my mom, but she’s a fucking wreck. And my dad won’t even talk about it with me. He keeps telling me I need to think about my health. He keeps saying he feels fine. Well, no shit, Sherlock! I mean, if he already felt sick or was in pain, it would be over. It would mean the cancer had spread, and he would be dead. Melanoma’s not like other cancers. There are no Stage IV melanoma survivors. Maybe a couple percent of Stage IV patients survive. And that’s not even long term. That’s, like, a year or something . . . I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s going on. I . . . I . . . don’t understand why all this is happening.
Dr. Lesaux: Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s take this one step at a time. Is it possible your father’s cancer hasn’t spread to his lymph nodes?
Me: Of course it’s possible. Unlikely, though.
Dr. Lesaux: And when will you know anything?
Me: Not till after his surgery.
Dr. Lesaux: Let’s wait until then to worry about it. I know that’s hard to do.
Me: Yeah, you could say that.
Dr. Lesaux: How did your father know he had melanoma?
Me: His dermatologist. This guy—who I don’t trust in the least—removed the mole. He told my dad it was nothing to worry about. The doctor thought it could be basal cell or something. Nothing serious. And then it took fucking forever for my dad to get the pathology. I want him to come here for his surgery.
Dr. Lesaux: And why did your father go to the dermatologist?
Me: What do you mean?
Dr. Lesaux: Did he just decide, on his own, he should get checked out?
Me: He and my mom both went.
Dr. Lesaux:
Me: . . . I told them they had to go.
Dr. Les
aux:
Me: My doctors said I was probably genetically predisposed since I got it so young. It tends to run in families.
Dr. Lesaux: How do you feel about the fact you saved your father’s life?
Me: I don’t know if I saved his life.
Dr. Lesaux: Your father doesn’t sound like the type of man who would go to a dermatologist of his own volition.
Me: Yeah . . . well. . . . A couple nights ago I remembered something that happened the last time I visited my parents in Ohio. I guess it happened almost a year ago. I was sitting in the living room with my dad. We were both reading. I can picture it so clearly. I was on the couch. I remember he was over by the fireplace. He was wearing a blue dress shirt. It looked like it had been starched. I remember noticing that because Adam never gets his shirts starched and his wrinkle so quickly. We were about to go out to dinner at my parents’ country club, I think. My mom was upstairs, finishing getting ready, and my dad kept glancing at his watch. He’s like me—we hate to be late. We have to be on time. We need to be early . . . anyway, my mom yelled downstairs that she wanted me to look at a place on my dad’s back. She wanted to know if I thought it looked funny. I yelled back, “Okay.” I distinctly remember looking over at my dad, and before I could say anything, he said, “Later. We don’t have time now. We’ll be late for dinner.”
Dr. Lesaux: So, what happened?
Me: I never looked at it. I forgot. And of course he never brought it up to remind me or anything . . . a year, a whole year, went by, and that fucking thing was growing, and all I can think about is, why didn’t I insist on seeing it right then? How could I have forgotten to look at it? How? Maybe I was embarrassed. Maybe I was afraid I would embarrass him. I don’t know. I mean, looking at a mole on my dad’s back wouldn’t be at the top of my “Things I’d Like to Do” list. But if I had seen it, I’m sure I would have known it was something worth removing . . . a year, a whole year . . . you’re the first person I’ve told that story to.
Dr. Lesaux: It’s not your fault.
Me: I know, but . . .
Dr. Lesaux: Even if you had looked at it, who’s to say you would have even thought there was anything wrong with it? Would you have even known what a melanoma looked like a year ago?
Me: I don’t know. Probably not. But, I mean, if it looked really gross and black and abnormal, then maybe.
Dr. Lesaux: Is that what your father’s looked like?
Me: No. His was pinkish, I think.
Dr. Lesaux: You saved your father’s life by getting him to go to the doctor.
Me: I feel so guilty.
Dr. Lesaux:
Me: Maybe I had to get melanoma in order to save my dad from dying from it.
Dr. Lesaux: Maybe. Something to think about.
The Waiting Game
I’m starting to get the strange feeling I’m waiting my life away, bit by bit, moment by hellish moment, and I can’t seem to do a good goddamn thing about it. Once again, I am waiting for a phone call that may or may not change the course of my entire life. My father’s life. A call with which the news will most definitely be some version of bad, no matter how the information is delivered to me—packaged for my consumption by my well-meaning mother. I’m waiting to hear about my father’s doctor’s appointment, and I can hardly keep from pulling my eyebrows out, one by precious one (several of which are still stuck to my fingertip from my last vicious attack). My eyes are glazed, my arms are crossed, my feet have been asleep for nearly an hour, and still I wait by the phone, staring, believing that my looking at it will have some telekinetic impact on its ringing.
Rin—
Me: Hello, Mom?
Mom: Hi, sweetie.
Me: What’d the doctor say? Did you like him? Do you think he’s good? What does he specialize in? When’s Dad having surgery? Can he get him in this wee—
Mom: He can’t operate till the third.
Me: The third! Of September! Are you fucking kidding me!
Mom: It’s the soonest he had an opening.
Me: Dad’s coming here, then. That’s ridiculous. The third, my ass. I’ll call Gregory, and I bet I can schedule something for next week, at the latest. Dad is not waiting two weeks to have surgery. The third. That’s totally crazy.
Mom: You think Gregory could see him sooner?
Me: Definitely. I’m sure.
Mom: Well, I don’t know if your father will like the idea—
Me: I don’t give a shit . . . what else did the doctor say—the third . . . who is he kidding?
Mom: He didn’t really have that much to say.
Me: Mom!
Mom: What?
Me: Jesus, what did he say?
Mom: . . . your father doesn’t want you to worry. He doesn’t want you to make a big deal out of this. You know how he hates people to fuss over him.
Me: Mom, Dad’s sick, so he’s gonna have to get over it. This is not something he can fuck around with, you know.
Mom: I know. I know.
Me: Well I don’t feel like you’re making this any easier. You’ve gotta stand up to him.
Mom: I don’t want to scare him.
Me: He’s already scared, trust me.
Mom: He seems to be doing fine. I’m the one who’s a wreck.
Me: What else did the doctor say?
Mom: Well, he’s going to do the dye thing.
Me: To his lymph nodes?
Mom: Yes. He said he can inject the tumor with a dye and then track where it drains. I think that’s what he said. Some of it was hard to follow.
Me: If the cancer has spread to his lymph nodes, the dye allows them to remove the smallest number of lymph nodes. One of the doctors at St. John’s developed the technique.
Mom: What happens if the cancer has spread to his lymph nodes?
Me: What do you mean?
Mom: What do they do then?
Me: They’d remove all the cancerous nodes and then . . . I don’t know. It depends. It depends on how many are positive. It depends on a lot of things. Did they say what Stage they think Dad is?
Mom: I think they said Stage IV.
Me:
Mom: Is that bad?
Me:
Mom: Are you still there?
Me: He’s dying. My father is dying, and at this very moment, all I can picture is my dad next to me, holding my hand, as a surgeon tries injecting a vein between my little piggies in order to numb my broken leg. I’m fourteen, I’m still in my muddy soccer uniform, I’m shaking with fear, and I’m squeezing my father’s hand for dear life. I’ve been squeezing it for two hours. I can’t even tell where my hand ends and my dad’s begins anymore . . . his hand is rough, callused from refinishing an old canoe that hangs, waiting oh so patiently to be finished, from the ceiling of our garage. I hear his voice, over and over: “You’re going to be okay, you’re going to be okay . . . ” Why do they think he’s a four? Do they suspect he has metastases? His breath smells like a mixture of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and halftime Gatorade.
Mom: They didn’t say anything about that. What stage were you?
Me: I was a stage I. He chants, like a mantra, “The pain is going to be over soon . . .”
Mom: I thought you were a II.
Me: I was a Level II, Stage I. And I squeeze harder.
Mom: Oh, I thought they were the same thing.
Me: Jesus, Mom, no—they’re totally different! The drugs are slowly creeping into my veins, after what seems like a lifetime of waiting.
Mom: Oh, well, then, they said your father is a Level IV, not Stage IV.
Me: Oh my God, Mom, Jesus fucking Christ—you scared the shit fuck piss out of me. My eyes are heavy with the weight of the drugs.
Mom: I’m sorry, I thought they were the same.
Me: Stage IV would mean the melanoma spread to other parts of his body. Like, he had tumors in his brain or lungs or something. The pain in my leg seems distant now, separate from my body.
Mom: No, no, no, they don’t think that.
Me: You know what, let’s not waste any more time. I’ll talk to Gregory and then I’ll get back to you.
Mom: Okay, but I still don’t know if your father would go for the idea of coming to L.A. for the surgery.
Me: I just want to see if it’s an option. I’ll call you later.
Mom: I can call. I don’t want you to have to worry about this. I can—
Me: I should do it because I know all the questions to ask. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve talked to Gregory.
Mom: I love you, sweetie.
Me: Love you too.
It’s funny, the things that pop into one’s mind at what seem like the most inopportune moments. How strange that hearing “Stage IV” triggered a memory from eleven years back, most of which I thought I had long forgotten, some of which I never knew I had noticed in the first place. I mean, coffee breath? But it all came back so clearly just now, like the whole mess happened only the day before yesterday. Maybe hearing that from my mother made me feel small again, or helpless, or . . . I don’t know. But something happened, and I had a moment just now, brief as it was, where I knew my father was going to die. Someday he is going to die. There, I’ve said it. And by someday, I mean to say any day. We’re all gonna die, as hard as it is to believe. But it seems to me most of us don’t really know it, or think it, or ever really believe it—until it happens. I understand the natural progression of things—the cycle of life and all that. I know people die. I know parents die all the time. I just don’t think I ever believed mine would. . . . Until just now.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 9
