Me: Can you at least tell me if the slides have been read?
Rachel: I’m sorry.
Me: Could you say sorry one more time for me? Fine. Look, if the slides have been read, could you please fax the report over to Dr. Bach’s office?
Rachel: I’m not in charge of that.
Me: Could I talk to the person who is in charge of that?
Rachel: I’m sure the report will get faxed before the end of the business day.
Me: Today? By the end of today? What time is generally considered the end of the business day?
Rachel: I really don’t know. I’m—
Me: Sorry.
Click.
ENOUGH TIME LATER TO KNOW BETTER:
Other: Hello, Dr. Bach’s—
Me: Hey, Julia, it’s Hillary again. Sorry to bother you. I’ll make this quick. I know you’re really, really busy. This probably sounds crazy, but I was wondering if you could call over to St. John’s—or wherever Dr. Bach sent the slides—and see if my report is finished. It’s getting kinda late, and I’d hate to have to wait until Monday.
Julia: They haven’t faxed me anything. Not since you called a couple of minutes ago. I’m sure they’ll send the report over as soon as it’s ready.
Me: It would be great if you could call and check.
Julia: They might already be gone for the day.
Me: I bet they’re still around. Could you at least try for me? I’d do it myself, but—
Julia: Oh, no, they won’t give you that information.
Me: Yeah, I know.
Julia: Okay. I’ll call over there if it will make you feel better. I’m really busy, though.
Me: Oh, thank you so much. I really appreciate it.
Julia: I’ll call you back if I hear anything.
Me: Call me back no matter what, even if you don’t speak with them, just so I don’t worry, because—
Julia: I will. I will. Give me a couple minutes, though. I have patients I need to take care of.
Me: You bet. Thank you so—
Click.
4: 48
4: 52
4: 56
4: 57
4:58 PM
Other: Hello, Dr. Bach’s—
Me: Hey, Juli—wait, who is this?
Other: This is Dr. Bach’s answering service.
Me: I need to speak to Julia. It’s urgent.
Other: Everyone’s gone home for the day. Can I take a message?
Me: It’s not even five o’clock yet!
Other: There’s no need to get excited, miss. Would you like me to take a message?
Me: Julia was supposed to call me with a pathology report. Maybe you could look around the office and see if you see anything. It should be a fax from St. John’s. It might still be in the fax machine. It’s for a patient, last name Fogelson: F as in “Frank,” o-g—
Other: Miss, I’m just the answering service. I’m not actually in her office.
Me: Oh . . . well . . . do you have some emergency number where I can reach Dr. Bach?
Other: If this is a life-threatening emergency, hang up and dial 9-1-1.
Me:
Other: Either you can call back Monday morning at eight thirty or I can take a message.
Me: Yeah, could you take this down: Go . . . fuck . . . yourself. Um, no. No message.
Weekend Fun
It has taken all of my willpower, all of my good sense and head-on-straight-ness, not to track down Dr. Bach’s home number and pry the information out of her. My information. I hate her. No, I take that back. I hate my life. No—shit fuck piss—I take that back as well. I hate . . . I don’t know . . . something.
The Craziest . . .
Me: You awake?
Adam: Not really.
Me: I had the craziest dream last night.
Adam: You say that like you’re surprised.
Me: Can I tell it to you?
Adam: If you feel like you need to.
Me: I don’t want to forget it. It was so fucked up . . . it started out in a bathroom, and I was brushing my hair. Except it wasn’t my hair, it was actually a long blond wig. So I’m brushing the wig, and then I take it off and start brushing my own hair, which, in the dream, was medium length—like, to my shoulders. So, I’m brushing and these huge chunks of hair start to come out in the brush, like, massive clumps of hair, but I’m thinking it’s just because I’m wearing a wig and haven’t brushed my hair for a while. So I start running my hands through my hair, and I’m, like, parting my hair in different places, and I see all these bald spots. And then, like, one whole side of my head is practically hairless. And then the dream gets really fucked up, because I notice all these big moles on my scalp. They’re really big, and gross, and I just know in the dream that the rest of my scalp is covered with these moles, so I decide to shave my head, and sure enough, my scalp is covered with moles and I know one of them, at least, is going to be melanoma. So I call Dr. Bach and I tell her I have to come in immediately, but it’s late Friday, in the dream, and she says she can’t see me till Monday. So I’m on the phone, explaining to her what I found on my head, and I’m pleading with her to let me come in on Saturday. I tell her I could come over to her house or something, but she says no. So I hang up.
Adam: And then . . .
Me: Um . . . I don’t know. It kinda got weird after that. I decided to go shopping with my mom, I think. And I was looking for hats and scarves and stuff because I thought my head would get cold.
Adam:
Me: Since I had no hair.
Adam: Uh-huh, right. Of course.
No News Is Bad News
I have been staring at the phone since eight twenty-nine this morning. I’ve checked its batteries twice. I even made sure the phone was hung up. Of course, to do that, I had to pick it up, thus blocking potential callers from getting through. I just hope Dr. Bach’s office didn’t try to call in those few precious moments when I had the phone pressed to my ear, listening for a dial tone. Two hours and fifteen minutes, and still nothing. And still I wait.
As crazy and as paranoid as I may be (as I am), there is some legitimacy to my craziness. See, melanoma isn’t easy to diagnose. This I’ve learned. This I know. Tricky-looking cells prompt second and third opinions and all that. So, the longer it takes to get a pathology report, the more likely the outcome is to be melanoma. But, of course, no one tells you that. You won’t read that in some melanoma brochure or even overhear nurses whispering about it in the sterile hospital halls. You can only find out about the correlation, about “the secret,” the hard way. Sad, but true. So, with four and a half working days behind me, I’m feeling less than confident about the outcome of the impending result. Not that four days is a long time, mind you. It’s just that Dr. Bach would have already called me to say everything is fine—if everything is fine—’cause she knows who she’s dealing with. She knows all too well I can be a little too . . . involved. A tad anxious. A touch obsessive. A bit of a fucking nut basket. So, as I sit here with the phone in my lap, I’m feeling slightly . . . fucked.
TWO HOURS LATER:
Ring, ring, ring, ring.
You’ve reached Adam and Hillary. We’re not in right now, but leave us a—
Me: Hello hello hello?
—message and we’ll get back—
Other: Hillary?
Me: Yeah. Hold on. Let me turn this machine—
—to you as soon as . . . beep.
Me: Hello? Are you still there?
Other: Hi, it’s Dr. Bach.
Me: Be cool. Remain calm. I’m healthy. Hillary Fogelson is healthy. I am full of health and free of cancer. Free of cancer free of cancer free of cancer. Hi. Sorry, I was in the bathroom and I didn’t hear the phone, for some reason. I was shitting my brains out from the thought of having melanoma.
Dr. Bach: I wanted to call you and talk about the places I biopsied last week.
Me: I’m healthy I’m healthy . . .
Dr. Bach: I know you’ve been worried. I would ha
ve called you sooner, but I wanted to get a second opinion before I spoke with you.
Me: I totally understand. Not a problem.
Dr. Bach: Before I go any further, I should tell you that none of the places were malignant. None were melanoma. But—
Me: I knew it! No cancer no cancer no cancer!
Dr. Bach: Two of the three were severely dysplastic. So I need to go back and do wider excisions because—
Me: Whatever you need to do. I trust you. No cancer no cancer no cancer!
Dr. Bach: I want to make sure we got all the cells.
Me: Of course. Yeah, definitely. Wouldn’t want to miss any cells. Thank you for calling. I was starting to get a little worried. I mean, I figured everything was okay, but, you know . . .
Dr. Bach: Julia told me you called several times, so I wanted to get back to you.
Me: Oh.
Dr. Bach: Do you have any questions for me?
Me: I don’t think so. As long as I don’t have melanoma, I don’t care what you have to do to me.
Dr. Bach: Well, you don’t have melanoma. I’ll let you go. Look at your calendar and figure out a good time to come in for the excisions. I’d like to do them sooner than later.
Me: Sounds good. I mean, not good, but . . .
Dr. Bach: How’s your dad doing?
Me: Good, so far. Thanks for asking. I was so relieved when his nodes came back clear. I think it’s a miracle, considering how deep his melanoma was. I’m trying to get him to come out here to do a vaccine trial over at St. John’s.
Dr. Bach: I think that’s a really good idea. I’ve got . . . let’s see . . . four patients who’ve had wonderful results with the vaccine.
Me: Really?
Dr. Bach: They all got the vaccine in one of its earliest trials at St. John’s, and they’re all still alive. I guess it’s been close to twelve years now.
Me: What level melanoma did they have?
Dr. Bach: They were all level IV.
Me: That’s amazing. And none of them had a recurrence?
Dr. Bach: One patient had satellite tumors around the site of his original melanoma, but none had distant metastases.
Me: Wow. That’s unbelievable.
Dr. Bach: Anyway, schedule something for next week, if you can.
Me: Will do. Thank you. Again.
Click.
St. John’s Hospital (a.k.a. My Club)
I feel good today, dare I say happy. I don’t know why, particularly. Maybe I’m still flying high from last week’s clean bill of health, or maybe I’m just starting to assimilate to my new existence. I’m not sure what it is, exactly. I mean, I know I’m about to get poked and prodded, felt up with cold hands, inspected from my tippy-toes to the top of my head and back down again, in my crack and between my legs, and still I feel giddy.
As I showered this morning, I caught myself smiling at the thought of coming here, the corners of my mouth turning up—if only slightly—picturing Howard take my blood while I squeeze a foam object meant to resemble a cell phone. I was looking forward to scanning the photos that cover the walls of the lab, pictures of pale patients and their beloved pets, all done up in doggie do-rags and kitty raincoats. I even giggled with anticipation as I thought of sitting in a freezing hospital room in my gownette—back open for all those who care to see—staring at the tarnished cross above the goddamned double-thick door—and none of it seemed so bad. I was half looking forward to coming here this morning, as crazy as that may sound. The hills are alive with the sound of fucking music—it’s the damnedest thing. I have a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye. I’m not ashamed to say it, but I don’t know why I do.
Me: Hey, Tom. How are you?
Tom: I’m doing good. And you?
Me: Really good, thanks.
Tom: Let’s see. I’ve got you down for ten forty-five with Dr. Gregory, correct?
Me: Yep. Your family’s good?
Tom: They’re great. The girls are growing so fast, I can’t believe it.
Me: Oh, I bet.
Tom: So, here’s your chart. You can head on back to the lab when you’re ready.
Me: Great, thanks—
Tom:—also, we’ve got a new chaplain introducing himself around this morning, just FYI. He might come say hello.
Me: Okay, not a problem. Thanks for the heads-up.
Everyone’s so friendly here, in a “Great to know ya” sort of way. I don’t know why I never noticed it before. Guess I had other, more pressing things on my mind. Tom’s a really nice man, quite receptive for a receptionist. He makes me feel important. He makes me feel like I’m a part of something. A part of something big—really big, bigger than I’ve ever been a part of before. He looks at me and—for some reason—I feel like I’m a member of an elite club or something. It’s strange, the way he stares at me, but strangely comforting, too. He looks at me as if to say, yes, I understand. I don’t really know if he actually understands fuck-all, but he sure as shit gives the impression that he understands a lot.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why I feel so good—why I felt so excited to come here today. Maybe I smiled at the thought of all this freakishness because I knew I was going to the one place where I can let my guard down. The place where people are like me, where I fit in. The third floor. It’s like a club. A cancer club . . . except I shouldn’t call it that. I’ve got to work on a title. I’ve never really been in a club before, besides my high school ski club and drama club, but those more closely resembled mixers or even loose gatherings. I was briefly a member of the debate club, but that really had more to do with my preoccupation with a guy than it did with any actual skill or keen interest in debating. But now I’ve got me a club and a big-ass clubhouse. I even have a club secretary, who meticulously takes minutes and schedules meetings. Yep, life is good. Gotta love club livin’.
Me: Hey, Howard, how’s it hangin’?
Howard: Can’t complain. What about you?
Me: I’m doing really good, thanks.
Howard: Okay . . . you know the routine . . . your blood pressure looks good . . . your temp . . . normal . . . weight . . . one twenty—
Me: Don’t tell me, don’t tell me.
Howard: Right. I forgot. Sorry.
Me: It’s stupid, I know, but I just can’t help myself.
Howard: You’re not the first woman to not want to know her weight, believe you me.
Me: I see you’ve got a new squeeze toy. What happened to the phone?
Howard: One of my vaccine patients took it. Can you believe that? I’m using this globe till I find another phone.
Me: I’ve got the whole world in my hand. I’ve got the whole wide world in my hand. I’ve got the . . . hum hum hum hum hum hum . . . I’ve got the whole world in my hand.
Howard: . . . I’m all done here. You can head on over to your room. Dr. Gregory should be with you in a minute.
Me: Thanks, man.
As I stroll down the hall to my room, I look around and am surrounded by all things familiar. I close my eyes, and I know there is a poster to my right—WHEN TO MAKE A MOUNTAIN OUT OF A MOLE—decked out with colored photos of benign and malignant tumors. To my left, a “What Cancer Can’t Do” poem, its type faded and the page yellowing with age. I know this because I have read it, studied it with every visit. I have stood centimeters from it and stared till my eyes crossed and blurred. There is a bathroom straight ahead, a nurses’ station up and to the left. Recognizable voices float up and down the hall, bouncing off the gray carpet below and fluorescent lights above, and I feel safe. I feel safe in my clubhouse. I feel for my membership badge, just under my left breast. It is there; I can feel its texture through my cotton shirt. I belong. I belong here, anyway.
Knock, knock.
Me: Come in.
Other: Hello, it’s so nice to meet you. I wanted to introduce myself. I’m the new chaplain, and I wanted to meet all the wonderful patients on the third floor.
Me: “Wonderful,” no less. Oh, yeah,
hi. We’re a club up here, did you know that? I’m in a clu-ub and you’re-re no-ot.
Chaplain: I’ll be here on Mondays and Thursdays.
Me: Great.
Chaplain: It’s such a pleasure to meet you.
Me: Hillary.
Chaplain: Peter.
Me: Nice to meet you.
Peter: So, how long have you been a patient here?
Me: Oh, about three months. I was diagnosed with melanoma in June.
Peter: You look like you’re doing well.
Me: Yeah. Thanks. Are you referring to the fact that I’m still alive?
Peter: I haven’t met many patients who have been here that long.
Me: Really? Not many longtime members?
Peter: You must be doing very well.
Me: I am. I am. I’d like to take a vote: All those in favor of never having chaplain Peter back as a guest speaker, say aye . . . aye aye aye aye aye!
Peter: I’m so thrilled to hear that.
Me: And I’m hoping my father will be a patient here as well. He was diagnosed with melanoma a few months after me. He had surgery in Ohio—my parents live in Ohio. I’d like to get him in one of the clinical trials that the hospital is running. I think we can go ahead and schedule a next meeting. Thanks for coming, Peter . . .
Peter: I see. Ohio, huh? The Western Frontier. Have you ever heard it called that before?
Me: No, I don’t think I have.
Peter: It’s strange, huh, to refer to Ohio as the Western Frontier, when in the olden days Ohio was as far west as one could go?
Me: Oh, wow, that is hard to believe.
Peter: Yes.
Me: How interesting.
Peter: Isn’t it, though.
Me: I never knew that. This is a test. God is testing me.
Peter: Well, more accurately, I should say, it was as far west as most people had gone. In the late seventeen hundreds, when Thomas Jefferson wrote Notes on the State of Virginia, many blah blahs in America, as well as in Europe, knew little about blah to the west of the Appalachians . . .
Pale Girl Speaks Page 12
