NOT MUCH LATER:
Ring.
Me: Hello?
Other: It’s Dr. Gregory. Is this Hillary?
Me: Yeah, hi. Thanks for getting back to me so fast.
Gregory: I’m really sorry to hear about your dad. So, on the machine, you said you wanted to talk about any openings in my calendar.
Me: Yeah. My dad’s surgeon doesn’t have an opening for, like, two weeks, and I don’t think he should wait that long. If you could operate sooner, I was thinking I could try and convince my dad to come here. Also, I haven’t been impressed with the care my dad’s been getting in Ohio. I’m not all that confident in his doctors.
Gregory: Well, I talked to my nurse, and I could see your father in about a week and a half, but—
Me: Oh, that’s great. That would be awesome—
Gregory:—but if he has surgery here, he’s going to have to stay awhile for all the follow-up visits.
Me: He can’t do those in Ohio?
Gregory: No, I’d want to see him myself.
Me: Oh. Well, it might still be worth doing. I think my dad should have surgery as soon as possible. I think I said on your machine, his tumor is over two millimeters deep.
Gregory: To be honest, Hillary, an extra few days, an extra few weeks—at this point—isn’t going to make any difference. He’s probably had that melanoma for years. Two weeks isn’t going to change anything.
Me: Oh. For years? Really? So, you’re saying a couple months wouldn’t make much of a difference?
Gregory: No. Probably not. Why?
Me: . . . um . . . nothing . . . from what you know about my dad’s tumor, what other treatment options does he have? I mean, besides surgery. Would that interferon treatment be good for him to do?
Gregory: I doubt it. Let’s wait until after his surgery to talk about options. Are they doing a sentinel node biopsy?
Me: Yes.
Gregory: Okay, so we need to wait until he gets those results back, which will be after the surgery. If the cancer hasn’t spread to his lymph nodes, he might qualify for one of our vaccine trials. We’re doing one for Stage II patients. But that means his nodes have to be clear.
Me: God, that would be great if he could qualify. Does he need to get on a waiting list or anything?
Gregory: The trial is filling up fast. I’ll see what I can do.
Me: Thank you so much. Do you have information on the vaccine that I could read? I could come by your office and pick it up.
Gregory: I’ll tell Dana to pull some stuff for you.
Me: Oh, and 2.43 is deep. Right?
Gregory:
Me: I mean, the odds are good it has spread to his nodes, right? I’m just trying to be realistic. I need to prepare myself for the possibility. I want to be optimistic, but . . . I don’t know. How did no one notice it before? That’s what I want to know. How come, with all his regular checkups, no one thought it looked suspicious?
Gregory: I don’t know. Fair question. And yes, 2.43 is fairly deep. Much deeper than yours, obviously. But it’s not impossible that it’s still contained. Try not to get ahead of yourself. We’ll talk after his surgery, after they get the lymph node pathology. Okay?
Me: Yeah, okay. I . . . I’m just really, really worried. I know too much about this cancer now, is the problem. I know what he’s up against . . . wish I hadn’t done so much reading.
Gregory: I know. And don’t believe everything you read on the Internet.
Me: I don’t, I don’t. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I’ll call you when I know anything new.
Gregory: I’m sure you will.
Me: Talk to you later. Thanks again.
Why do I do that? Why do I have to know every little thing about every little thing? Why can’t I leave well enough alone? I’ve royally fucked myself. All my research has jumped up and bit a big ol’ hole in my informed ass. I know too goddamn much, and it’s my own fault. I have no one to blame but myself. But I can’t help myself. I must know. All of it. The bad and the ugly. Because without it, I’m . . . I’m . . . lost. Without it, I’m helpless. And I won’t be helpless. Not if I can help it.
Left to Lose
I’ve been staring at a blank piece of linen stationery for the better part of an hour and a half. Actually, to be perfectly honest, I have sweat through two pages already; the linen buckled under the moisture coming off my hand. So, in an attempt to save my digits from an inevitable cramp and—truthfully—from completing this project without running out of this overpriced, thinly sliced tree, I have rightly chosen to keep my hand away from said paper until I have something worth penning. See, said paper is part of said project, which makes up half of unsaid care package I’m sending to my dad. I had this brilliant (if not unrealistic) idea of writing a simple letter of encouragement to my father, along with a few items that might come in handy after his surgery.
Care package consists of:• New Stevie Nicks CD
• For Whom the Bell Tolls—first edition, thank you very much
• Pine-scented candle
• Three bottles of sunscreen
The only person my dad loves more than Hemingway is Stevie Nicks, so I’ve got the major bases covered. As for the candle, I was hoping for a “fresh-cut grass” scent. I remember my father saying one time that there’s nothing better in this world than the smell of a freshly cut lawn. Maybe the smell has more to do with memories of his youth than anything else, but, as far as I can tell, no one, and I mean no one, makes a fresh-cut-grass scent. The floral scents are in abundance, all dessert foods are easily sniffed out, and even fruits are amply represented, but God forbid anyone should want “grass,” just good ol’ salt-of-the-earth, between-my-toes ground cover—you’re shit out of luck.
So my dad will have to recover to the healing aroma of pine—ah, pine. I’m really hoping the candle doesn’t remind him of some camping fiasco, or, worse, take him back to a time he’d just as soon forget . . . And then, of course, you haven’t sent a care package—at least one of any substance—until you’ve sent one containing sunscreen. So I’ve given him three bottles, with explicit instructions on how, when, and where (everywhere) to apply. So all I have left to do is this goddamned letter. Maybe I should make it a note. I could get a teeny tiny note card and just scribble, “Thinking of you.” Or what about, “My thoughts are with you,” “Good luck,” “Take care of yourself,” “Love ya,” “Get better soon”? Better yet, I could mail the fucking thing without a card at all. Just pop this sucker in the ol’ box and move on with it. Oh God, I’m such a chickenshit, I can’t even believe it.
Okay. Let’s just take it slow. Slow and steady wins the race . . .
“Dear Father . . . ” God, that sounds so stilted.
“Dearest Dad,” Why am I so fucking lame?
“Dear Dad . . . ” Yeah, that sounds right.
Dear Dad,
To be fair, I’ve been having the toughest time coming up with the right, or appropriate, or—I guess—adequate words to fill the better part of this letter. In my head, I know what I want to say (it all seems so perfectly clear), but I can’t seem to get the ideas from my head to travel the distance down into my fingers and onto this piece of paper. If I could write all that I feel, I’d start by saying how sorry I am you have to go through all of this. I wish, like hell, I could have taken the burden for both of us. Having been in a somewhat similar position as yourself, somewhat more recently than I would have liked, I can say with some certainty that I know you are scared. I know with complete certainty I was. So I write this letter in hopes that you can share how you feel with me, as hard as that may be. I know you don’t like to talk about any of this, and that’s why I think it so desperately needs to be addressed. You can’t go through this experience alone—so don’t. I love you, respect you, and want you to always remember that being sick and being weak are not the same thing, not even close. Know you can tell me anything, anytime, and that I want to hear it, always. So as you recover from this surge
ry, gain strength and knowledge from listening to Stevie, hearing Hemingway’s words—and bells—and smelling the always inspiring pine.
Love forever,
Me
I don’t know. I just reread what I wrote, and I sound like a complete freak. My words of “wisdom” sound like I gathered them up from random Hallmark cards, like the ones with a father and daughter strolling hand in hand through a field of hay or something equally nauseating. I’d better load this shit into a box before I lose my nerve and throw the whole thing into my “waiting to (never) be sent” pile. Fuck it. What do I have to lose? I guess the answer could sometimes be—everything.
Good Game
As part of my continuing effort to distract myself from my father’s impending surgery, I’ve decided to scour my melanoma networking list in search of at least one woman who had children soon after a melanoma diagnosis. I’ve highlighted possible candidates, establishing thirty-five as the diagnosis cutoff age. Taking age and year of diagnosis into consideration, I’m left with four possibilities. F-o-u-r. That’s it. Three of whom I’ve already called. Two of whom had children before getting “the cancer,” one of whom never had children—“I always kinda regretted it, though.” So I’m down to the nitty-gritty. The short and curlies. In other words, I’m desperate.
Ring, ring, ring, ring.
Young Child:—let go—hew-wo, Peterson wesidence?
Me: Bingo. Yes, hi. Can I please speak to Terry?
Young Child: Okay. Mom! Mommy!
Me: Okay. Don’t get overexcited. (Yippee, yippee, yippee!). Don’t overwhelm the poor woman right off the bat. Take it slow.
Terry: Hello, this is Terry.
Me: Hi! You don’t know me. My name is Hillary and I’m a melanoma patient at St. John’s, and I got your name off their melanoma networking list and the reason I’m calling is, I was recently diagnosed—Stage I, Level II—and my husband and I would like to start a family and I was told I needed to wait a couple of years. So I’m trying to find women who had successful pregnancies soon after being diagnosed, and I saw you were diagnosed at thirty-three, and I thought maybe you had kids after the fact.
Terry: Oh, hi—
Me: Yeah, I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. Do you have a second to talk, or should I call back later? Is there a better time? Because I can definitely call back again or . . . not? I’m sorry. I’m talking a mile a minute.
Terry: No, no, this is fine. But, unfortunately, I don’t think I can help you with anything. I had all my kids before I was diagnosed. I remember, though, my doctor asked me if I was planning on having any more kids. My husband and I were considering it before I got sick. We always wanted a big family. My husband and I both come from big families. But . . . well, we decided I needed to focus on my health. Focus on getting better before having more kids—God had already blessed us with two beautiful children. Two can be a handful as it is.
Me: I bet. Well, thank you for your time. Good luck with everything.
Terry: God bless you. Children are the most wonderful gift. If you want to have them, have them. That’s what I say. I thank God every day for my family. They give me such strength.
Me: Yeah . . . well . . . thanks. You were first diagnosed what, five years ago? How have you been since then, if you don’t mind me asking? You know, since God blessed you with melanoma.
Terry: A lot’s changed. I was originally diagnosed as a stage II.
Me: Uh-huh. Did you discover the mole, or—
Terry: No, it was really strange how the whole thing happened. A parent from my son’s soccer team needed a bone marrow transplant. So all of us—all the other parents—decided to get tested to see if any of us were a match. I went to my internist and when my blood workup came back, it showed I was anemic. My doctor didn’t really think it was anything to worry about, since I don’t eat a lot of red meat, so we decided I would try and change my diet a little bit and come back in a month or so to test again. Anyway, just as the doctor was leaving the room, this place on my back started itching—a mole I’d had for years. The doctor noticed me scratching it, and when he saw it, he must have known what is was. He had me meet with a dermatologist right away. They biopsied it, I had a wide excision, and they took several nodes from my groin, which all came back negative.
Me: That must have been a major relief.
Terry: Yes. Although, looking back, I didn’t really know much about melanoma.
Me: So, you said a lot has changed since then? I’m sorry—do you mind me asking all these questions?
Terry: No, no, not at all. I’m just trying to remember the order of things. So, let’s see. Yeah, so, the nodes came back negative. And because they were negative, I was able to participate in one of the vaccine trials at St. John’s. Only it was a double-blind study, so I didn’t know if I was getting the drug or a placebo. And then, maybe a few months later, I started having problems at the site of the groin incision. It almost looked like a keloid, like a lump. When I went in for my next appointment, Dana—I’m sure you know Dana—she took one look at it, and I knew from the look on her face something was seriously wrong.
Me: What was it?
Terry: It’s kind of difficult to explain. See, we have several layers of lymph nodes, which I never knew. Apparently, the cancer had spread to the deeper nodes. These nodes were growing and moving up toward the surface of my skin.
Me: Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. I see.
Terry: Anyway, I was dropped from the trial. I would have dropped out anyway. It was clear I was getting the placebo. So, I had another surgery to remove the deeper nodes. It was much, much more involved than the first one. And because so many nodes were positive, my doctors recommended I do chemotherapy. Maureen Reagan and I started chemo at the same time, actually.
Me: Really. And look how good well turned out. So, did the chemo take care of it? I didn’t think it was effective in treating melanoma.
Terry: Well, it wasn’t. At least not for me. After my first two treatments, I started getting these tiny blue dots all along one side of my body. Turns out, all these melanoma cells were in my lymphatic tract. It looked like an army of ants running from my original site around my side and down into my groin. So they stopped my treatment. My doctor said it obviously wasn’t working. I mean, if the cancer was showing up even with all the chemo . . . then, let me see, next I did radiation. It’s been about a year and a half now since I stopped radiation. I had to quit the treatment earlier than planned, because my skin wasn’t able to take anymore. It got really hard, the skin on my side. And it’s incredibly sensitive. My kids can’t really hug me anymore. Not on that one side.
Me: . . . and now? Where are you with everything?
Terry: Well, after the radiation my husband and I took a long vacation. I really needed some time away from everything. We went to Hawaii. My doctor said it was okay. I think he figured, what could it hurt?
Me: But now are you n.e.d.?
Terry: Well, no. My latest scans showed a mass in my stomach. And possibly something in one of my lungs.
Me: So, what are you going to do?
Terry: I’ve been praying a lot. I believe God has a plan for us all . . . there isn’t really much medicine and doctors can do for me. Not at this point.
Me: But what about trials? There must be some clinical trials out there? Something?
Terry: Well, maybe. I heard of something at USC that I might qualify for. I just don’t know if I want to go through anything else. The treatments I’ve had have been much harder to bear than the cancer itself. And plus, my family suffers so much when I’m in the hospital. I was in the ICU for weeks after the first two chemotherapy treatments . . . I’m just enjoying time with my family.
Me: But if there’s a trial out there . . . something that could help you . . .
Terry: You’re right. I know I should contact USC, but God has given me so much: two wonderful children, a loving husband . . .
Me: I don’t think yo
u should give up.
Terry: I’m not. I don’t see it that way.
Me: But if there’s—
Terry: I feel really good. With the exception of my side, I’m not in any pain—
Me: But what about your husband? What does he say about all this?
Terry: He supports me in whatever I choose to do.
Me: I see. I don’t see! I really don’t!
Terry: I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. Good luck on your search. And check out the melanoma patient information page online. You could post something on one of their bulletin boards.
Me: Yeah, yeah, okay. That’s a good idea, thanks. Please call USC.
Terry: I’ll think about it. God bless you.
Me: . . . you too.
I wanted to shake her just now! If I had been sitting in front of her, I think I would have leaned in, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shaken the shit out of her. It took everything I had not to scream and yell and say, “Wake the fuck up!” I wanted her to see that it’s her life that’s slipping away! She’s the one who will leave her husband and two “beautiful, wonderful gifts” behind! And all the prayers and all the “God bless yous” aren’t going to change that. Only she can change that . . . she can’t see what’s right in front of her. Death. At arm’s length. Closer, maybe. One misstep, a slight shift to one side, and she will be face-to-face with her own mortality.
And yet she doesn’t seem to be afraid. She’s dying and she knows it, and she doesn’t seem to be afraid. Quite the opposite. She seemed peaceful. Strangely peaceful, like she’d seen something that wiped all the fear and pain and horror from her memory. Like it was all someone else’s story. Like the events belonged to someone she just met or knew only briefly.
But why isn’t she fighting? Fighting for her life? For a life with her family? If I were her, I would fight like hell. If it were me, I would battle till my last half-breath, till my heart arrested and my skin got cold and pale—er. Because if I sense death is right around the corner, I will push it away as far and as fast as I can. Because I don’t want to die.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 10
