I don’t want to die.
I don’t think I’ve ever thought that before. Just now, just as I was visualizing myself stone cold, dead as a doornail, I started to feel like I may have been laboring under a gross misperception for the last twenty-five-odd years of my life. Something I thought I knew about myself, something I always took quite a bit of comfort in, may in fact be something of a lie. Until several minutes ago, I think I may have been fooling myself into believing that I wasn’t afraid to die.
But I am! I am afraid. I really am. I don’t want to die! I don’t!
There, I’ve said it. It’s out there, and I can’t take it back. I really, really, really, really don’t want to die. And the worse part—the real kicker, the undies-in-a-bunch aspect of this whole fucking thing—is, I know I will die. I am absolutely convinced of it. It will happen to me. As much as I’d like to believe the contrary, I would be remiss to dismiss the actual, inevitable end. My end. The end. Well, not the end end. I mean, things will go on long after I have gone—which may be the hardest part to accept. I think I’d somehow feel better about all this death-and-dying stuff if I thought we were all going at once. It sure would be a hell of a lot easier to go if there wasn’t anything left behind. If there weren’t people to leave behind. If we could all just hold hands, count to three, and jump.
I think that’s where I got screwed up before. I had somehow convinced myself that I was only afraid of other people dying. People close to me. People I love. I thought that that was the worse thing that could happen, much worse than my own death, because if someone I love died, I’d be left behind to miss them. But the piece I’ve been missing this whole time—my whole goddamned life—is that if I die, then I’m leaving everyone behind. So it’s either get left or be the one doing the leaving. Both are horrible. Both put equal-size knots in my stomach and lumps in my throat. I don’t want anyone I know and love to die—and that includes me!
I think I thought not fearing death would make life easier. But, in actuality, the not fearing has maybe kept me from fully appreciating. I couldn’t fully commit to life because I always had one foot placed casually in the grave. I was saying, see, see, I’m not afraid. Look at me. Look over here. I’m ready to go . . . whenever. See, look how brave I am. See?
But what if Terry isn’t blind? What if she knows the end is near and still she embraces it? What if she’s made peace with her story? It’s the fear of death that keeps us fighting. And maybe she isn’t afraid. Not anymore. Not like the rest of us. Not like me. And so she can give up the battle. She can throw in the towel, wipe the sweat from her brow, nod slowly and purposefully, and with dignity and strength say . . . “Good game.”
Good game, Terry.
Cake
I couldn’t sleep last night. Not that that really distinguishes the night from any other. I sat in bed sipping a Corona and watching a program on a “revolutionary hair-removal system: It works with the heat from your own body,” until I finally passed out around three thirty.
I’m expecting my mom’s call any moment. Dad was scheduled for a 2:00 PM surgery, so that’s 11:00 AM my time. I figure two hours in surgery, plus an hour in recovery, another half hour waiting to talk with the doctor, ten minutes to get to the car, and two minutes for my mom to locate her cell phone. That puts us at 2:42, Pacific Time. So any min—
Rin—
Me: Hello? Mom?
Mom: Hey, honey.
Me: How’d it go? How’s Dad? Did they get clear margins?
Mom: Yes, they did. Your father did great!
Me: O-kay. Why do you sound so weird? Is he sitting next to you?
Mom: Yes!
Me: I see. I’ll make this easy. Does he seem okay?
Mom: Yes!
Me: Did you see his scar? Is it big?
Mom: No, I didn’t see it!
Me: Did his doctor say anything about his lymph nodes? When does he find out about them?
Mom: Friday. Do you want to talk to your father?
Me: Yeah, I didn’t think he’d be able to talk.
Dad: Hel-lo?
Me: Hey, Dad. You did it!
Dad: Piece . . . of . . . cake.
Me: Yeah, see, it was over before you knew it. Get some rest. You need to get a lot of rest. Okay? I love you . . . Dad? Hello?
Mom: He fell asleep.
Me: How’d he really do?
Mom: I could tell he was scared. His doctor said everything went fine. They took five lymph nodes from under his right arm.
Me: How does the incision look?
Mom: I can’t see much. He’s all bandaged up. But they took a lot of skin. The incision goes from shoulder to shoulder, and he’s got drains attached to it. They showed me how to empty the drains and how to change the dressing. I don’t know how he’s going to take a shower.
Me: Make sure he gets some rest.
Mom: He seems pretty knocked out at the moment.
Me: I know, but, knowing Dad, he’ll be trying to mow the grass within the week.
Mom: Your father has a lot of pride.
Me: How are you holding up?
Mom: Good . . . I’m okay. Your father looked so weak when they wheeled him out.
Me: It’s major surgery. You should try and get some rest, too. You sound exhausted.
Mom: Now, don’t you worry about me. You have enough to think about. We’re almost home. I’ll call you tomorrow with an update.
Me: Okay. I love you.
Mom: Thank you for all your support. That package you sent meant so much to your father. You have no idea.
Me: I’m glad. I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow. Bye.
Can’t Hurt
I’ve been praying a lot lately. Not like on-my-knees-with-my-hands-clasped-under-my-chin praying—more like quiet whispers to myself as I make my bed, Swiffer the floor, wash dishes . . . like a continuous chant or something. Reminiscent of Franny’s Jesus prayer in Salinger’s Franny and Zooey, except slightly less incessant. I started about a week ago. I wouldn’t say I’ve found God or anything, I just lump the praying into the “it can’t hurt” category. See, the lymph nodes are a big deal. If they’re clean, my dad has one whole set of options, including the vaccine trial. If they’re not clean, well, there are options, but none of them is great. None is all that promising. So I pray. In hopes it will make a difference. In hopes I didn’t start too late. In hopes.
Battle Cry
Whoever is listening, make it be okay. Make my dad be okay. Make his nodes be clear. No cancer in his nodes. No cancer no cancer no cancer. What can I do? Tell me what I can do to make everything okay. Good thoughts, Dad, I am sending you good thoughts. I am filling you up with health. You are healthy you are healthy you are—
Ring.
Good thoughts good thoughts—
Ring.
You are healthy, Jon is healthy.
Ring.
Me: Hello?
Other: Hi, sweetie.
Me: So?
Mom: They’re clear.
Me: All of them?
Mom: All five of them were cancer free.
Me: Oh my God. I can’t believe it. I thought for sure . . . I mean, the odds . . . what are the odds? Holy shit, I can’t believe it. I can breathe. My chest feels so much lighter, my shoulders looser. The nagging pressure between my eyes—constantly causing me to furrow and unfurrow my brow—gone. I’m even standing taller. The sandbags I’ve been lugging around, balancing on either shoulder, have been lifted. I’m a new woman. I’m a happy woman. I feel like running a marathon. I want to hug a stranger. I’m going to give my dog a big, fat kiss right on her wet, sloppy lips. Thank God. I almost can’t believe it. I—
Mom: I know. I’ve . . . I’ve, uh—
Me: It’s okay, Mom . . . it’s okay.
Mom: I was so worried. I’ve been so worried about your father. I haven’t been able to sleep, I haven’t been able to eat—
Me: I know, me neither. Can I talk to Dad?
Mom: Yeah, let me get him—J
on, Hillary wants to talk to you—you wouldn’t believe your father. He got up this morning and started working at his computer. Can you believe that? And he won’t take any of the pain medication. And I know he’s in pain. The incision—I have to whisper; I don’t want your father to hear—it looks pretty bad.
Me: How long is it?
Mom: About sixteen inches or so.
Me: Jesuschrist.
Mom: You wouldn’t believe the pus that’s draining out of it.
Me: Yummy. How long does he—
Dad: Hello?
Mom: I’ll get off now. I’ll talk to you later, Hill.
Me: Dad, congratulations!
Dad: Thank you. How are you? How are you feeling?
Me: How are you feeling?
Dad: Fine. I feel good. A little sore, but nothing too bad.
Me: Yeah, right. How do you feel about the news?
Dad: Good. I’m not surprised. We’re tough, right?
Me: Yeah, well . . . God, this is such great news. I feel like a weight has been lifted. You must feel so relieved. You know, now that your nodes are clear, there’s a vaccine trial out here that you can qualify for. I was talking to Dr. Gregory about it. It’s a phase-three trial. St. John’s has been testing a version of this vaccine for, like, twelve years, and they’ve had a lot of success with it.
Dad: I think I’m done with doctors and hospitals for a while.
Me: But this vaccine, it could really, really reduce your chance of a recurrence.
Dad: We can talk about it later. Why don’t you do the trial?
Me: I would in a second, but I don’t qualify. You have to be a Stage II.
Dad: We’ll talk about it later. I don’t want to think about it right now.
Me: Okay. You’re never gonna wanna talk about it, are you? But Gregory said the trial is filling up fast, so—
Dad: I’m feeling tired . . . I’ll talk to you later.
Me: Oh, um, okay. Remember, don’t do too much. You need your rest. I love you.
Click.
The battle has just begun. The war paint is tacky; the battle cry still echoes for miles: “Never give up! Never surrender!” He will do that trial if I have anything to do with it. I will not turn away from the facts. I will not totally disregard the numbers and charts and statistics that say my father, with a level IV melanoma, will most likely have a recurrence within the next five years. I will not close my eyes to all arrows that point to the fact that it’s only a matter of time before the cancer makes its way to his nodes. Because even though the numbers and charts and statistics don’t mean everything, they mean something. He will put up the good fight, even if I have to stand behind him, holding his dukes high in the air. He will do anything and everything to remain cancer free. Because there is one thing I know about melanoma: It never gives up. And so neither will I. And therefore, neither will he.
I wonder which will be harder to overcome—the cancer or my father.
Stitches
Number of moles removed by Dr. Bach: 3
Number of stitches: 14
Number of days I’m likely to wait before calling to get the pathology, even though Dr. Bach promised to call me the moment she gets the results: 5
Odds of my calling Dr. Bach’s office before number of days listed above: 8/5
September 11
I reached for my glasses, accidentally smudging the lenses with cuticle cream that I’d put on my fingers the night before. As I used my flannel pajama shirt to wipe the lenses clean, I turned the television to Channel 4. Just as my glasses came to rest on my nose, I watched a very large, very tall building disappear into a cloud of smoke. I pushed my glasses farther up my nose with the tip of my index finger, and I watched in horror as an open space was revealed that had, only moments before, been filled with two giant towers.
I’ve been glued to the television all day, flipping from news channel to news channel, listening with my mouth open and my eyes partially shut. No one seems to know exactly what happened or why, but everyone has a theory. I keep hearing newscasters question in disbelief, “How could this have happened? How does something like this happen? I can’t believe this is happening . . . ”
I’d like to join in on all the disbelieving. I’d like to say I’m shocked that something so horrible, something so tragic and unexpected, happened. I’d like to say I’m surprised that this horrific event took place with so little warning, creating such devastation, but somehow I can’t. I feel somewhat numb to it. I have sat in a waiting room with a sixteen-year-old girl dying from melanoma. I have talked to a forty-year-old mother of two who has an army of cancer cells eating away her torso. I have heard a woman I hardly know tell me I have cancer. I have heard a man—who just so happens to be my father—tell me he has cancer. So if someone asks me if I’m surprised by these events that happened today, if anyone wants to know what I think about 9/11, I think I’ll keep my comments to myself. Because I’m not surprised or shocked. Because I know bad things happen. I know bad things happen all the time, for no apparent reason, to completely innocent people, and if you haven’t already learned that for yourself, you’re damn well lucky.
Why I Hate Fridays
4:30 PM:
Other: Dr. Bach’s office, how can I help you?
Me: Yeah, hey, Julia, it’s Hillary Fogelson. Wait, where’s Terry?
Julia: Her son got sick, so I’m doing double duty.
Me: I was calling to see if you guys got the pathology back on the moles Dr. Bach removed.
Julia: No, sorry, not yet. I promise I’ll call you the moment I hear something.
Me: Okay—I just don’t want to have to wait over the weekend.
Julia: I understand, but there’s nothing I can do.
Me: Does she always send the slides to the same place? Do you know?
Julia: No, there are several places she uses.
Me: Oh. Like . . . where? Like, St. John’s, or . . .?
Julia: Sometimes she sends them there. Sometimes she sends them to a private practice in Beverly Hills. She has several places she works with.
Me: Oh.
Julia: First Dr. Bach reads the slides; then she—
Me: She reads them first? Before she sends them out?
Julia: Yes, usually. She writes up her report, then sends the slides out for a second opinion.
Me: Is Dr. Bach available? I’d like to talk to her.
Julia: No, she’s not in the office today. She’s at a conference in San Diego. Dr. Ward is filling in.
Me: . . . okay, well . . . call me as soon as you hear anything.
Julia: I promise. And try not to worry. Remember how I had that lump in my breast and it turned out to be nothing? Try not to get too worked up.
Me: Remember how I had that mole and it turned out to be something? Yeah, okay.
One minute later, and a bad idea:
Other: St. John’s hospital, pathology, this is Rachel.
Me: Hi, yes, I’m calling to get the pathology for a patient, last name Fogelson. F as in “Frank,” o-g-e-l-s-o-n.
Rachel: Fogelson, you said? Let’s see here . . . ah, here it is. Okay . . . it looks like . . . what doctor’s office did you say you’re calling from?
Me:
Rachel: Hello?
Me: Um . . . white lie. Little white lie never hurt anyone, right? It’s like telling the truth, only slightly different. A half-truth, really. Part reality, part . . . not . . . um . . . Dr. Jovanka Bach’s office.
Rachel: And you are? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.
Me: Um . . . Hillary. Shit motherfucker. Not good. This is not good. I’m undeniably in over my head.
Rachel: Let’s see here . . . I don’t see your name on the approved . . .
Me: Abort. Enemy is in sight. I repeat, abort mission! Move to Plan B. Plan B is now under way. Stand by for further instructions. Um . . . I’m not actually from the doctor’s office. I’m the patient.
Rachel: Oh, I can’t disclose—
Me: No, of course you can’t, but this is a special circumstance. See, my doctor is out of town for a while, and her office told me I should call—they’re really busy—so I was hoping you could just tell me the results over the phone. I already had melanoma, as you can see from your files—my files—and I need to get that report right away so my doctor can remove anything that um . . . might need to be . . . removed.
Rachel: I’m sorry, I can’t help you.
Me: Plan C! I repeat, Plan C! Do not repeat Plan A or B. Look, I don’t need specifics. Just, generally speaking . . . do I have melanoma?
Rachel: I can’t disclose that information . . . I’m really sorry.
Me: Oh God, why is she so sorry? Sorry? Sorry for what? Was that a sorry like, “Sorry you have cancer” or just a plain ol’ “Sorry, I can’t help you” kinda sorry? Her voice most definitely went down at the end of the sorry. Does down inflection mean bad? Maybe down’s good. Or maybe she’s trying to throw me off the trail. Maybe up inflection actually means bad, but she’s trying not to give anything away, so she gives me the down instead. Although . . . she knows I tried to illegally obtain medical records—a risky move by anyone’s standards—so maybe she inferred that I’ d presume the worst, so she gave me the down inflection, which would counteract the worst, thus forcing me to expect the best, which I would never expect, so . . . I don’t understand. The slides are of my moles. This is my body we’re talking about here. Look, if you tell me what the report says, I promise I won’t tell anyone. You would be doing me a huge favor. Pretty please.
Rachel: I’m sorry, it’s against hospital policy.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 11
