Pale Girl Speaks

by Hillary Fogelson

  Me: I think it’s time to adjourn this club meeting. Thanks, Peter, for finding the time to talk to us today. Clearly, many of us won’t be here next meeting, according to you, so I guess this is goodbye . . .

  Peter: . . . won by the U.S., so, like I was saying, the first American west was the Great Lakes to blah blah Florida and from the crest of the blah blahs westward to the Mississippi river.

  Me: That is really fascinating. Wow.

  Knock.

  Me: Come in. Please.

  Gregory: What’s going on in here?

  Peter: Hi, I’m Peter, the new chaplain. I was just getting to know Heather here.

  Me: We’re just . . . having a little party.

  Peter: All we need is one more person for a foursome.

  Me: Golf? You’re talking about golf? Please say you are, because all I can picture is me, you, Gregory, and some snagglepuss from next door, all buck naked, having a pillow fight in the lab.

  Gregory: Well, it’s nice to meet you, Peter. Thank you for stopping in.

  Me: Don’t encourage him.

  Peter: Take care, Heather. It was a real pleasure speaking with you. May God bless you and your father. You’ll be in my prayers.

  Me: Nice meeting you . . . I don’t even know what to say. He was making me so uncomfortable. He started saying something about how it was great I’ve been here so long—like, alluding to the fact that most patients don’t make it to their three-month anniversary—and then he went into Ohio, and I can’t tell you what he was saying about that except that it was in the west or something. And something about the Appalachians.

  Gregory: He was nervous. It was his first day up here, and he saw some very sick patients today. I’m sure he had a rough morning. I don’t think he’d spent much time up here before today.

  Me:

  Gregory: So . . . let’s take a look at that scar, shall we?

  Me: Yeah, I’m proud of my membership badge. Get right in there if you need to. Toss it like a salad. I will show anyone and everyone my membership badge. Because I’m proud of it! I earned it! And I belong! I belong on the third floor!

  Gregory: Nodes feel fine . . .

  Me: But what if. . . let’s say I decided, for the sake of argument, I wanted to take a break from my club—temporarily, of course. I’m not talking about a permanent move or anything—I wouldn’t dream of it—but just on an intellectual /metaphysical level, how would one go about doing that, do you think? How would (how could) one leave the club if one were so inclined?

  Gregory: You might want to have your dermatologist remove this place here on your arm, just to be safe . . .

  Me: I guess, when I think about it, there’s really only one way out of the club, as far as I can tell, one would have to . . . die.

  Gregory: Everything looks good.

  Me: Good . . . okay.

  Gregory: You okay?

  Me: Huh? Yeah. Thanks. See ya soon.

  Me: Tom, can I get my parking validated?

  Tom: Oh, we don’t do that anymore. Sorry. You can try the fourth floor. I think the Positive Appearance Center validates. It’s directly to your left when you get off the elevator. You can’t miss it.

  Me: Yeah, I think I’ve seen it.

  WELCOME TO THE POSITIVE APPEARANCE CENTER

  Me: Excuse me, could I get a parking validation sticker from you?

  Shopkeeper: Oh, I’m sorry, we don’t validate anymore. Check with the third floor.

  Me: I just came from there. Tom sent me up to you.

  Shopkeeper: Gosh . . . you know . . . let me . . . look. Maybe I have an old sticker around here . . . somewhere . . . I saw one . . . the other . . . day . . . but . . .

  Me: You know what, it’s not that big a deal. I can just pay the four bucks—

  Shopkeeper: It’s gone up to eight.

  Me: Wow. Okay . . . maybe I’ll let you look . . . this store is pretty great.

  Shopkeeper: We’ve got a little bit of everything.

  Me: Yeah, no kidding . . . are these all wigs . . . patients can, like, buy?

  Shopkeeper: Yeah. A lot of the breast cancer patients get their wigs here.

  Me: I can’t believe I haven’t come in before. This place is really fucking amazing. And even though I feel slightly ashamed about enjoying the guilty pleasures of the fourth floor, let me say again . . . this store is fucking amazing! It’s got wigs and scarves, sunscreen and sun protective clothing, face-care products and . . . and . . . vaginal lubricants. I think I’m more surprised to find a store with informational brochures on the dangers of the sun than I am to discover the striking similarity between the sample packets of Vagisil and the Murad under-eye moisturizer . . . this store is a cancer patient’s paradise. I feel right at home in this center for . . . positive appearance. I’m feeling more positive already! At least, I’m giving the appearance of positivity . . . they have all the good sunscreens with all the necessary ingredients; they even have the ever-elusive lip/eye sun protection stick by Murad . . . oh my God, I have the best idea: I’m going to work here. No, wait, I’m going to volunteer. Yeah, work for free! Give back to my fellow cancer compadres. “Giving back” is just what I need. This could be that “important something” I’ve been looking for! Maybe I could share my knowledge of sunscreen, sun protection products, and all things sun related with other melanoma patients. Or . . . or I could help chemo patients pick out a wig, one that looks natural—taking into consideration their eye color and skin tone, of course. Yeah, this could be good. This could be really good. Or I could even give weekly seminars on the dangers of tanning beds. “What the tanning salons don’t want you to know!” or, or, or . . .

  Shopkeeper: You know, I can’t seem to find that darn sticker . . . I just saw it the other—

  Me: I was wondering, could you use a volunteer up here? I’m a . . . um . . . melanoma patient, and I know a lot about sunscreen. And melanoma, obviously.

  Shopkeeper: You’re so young. I was just going to tell you what beautiful skin you have.

  Me: Ironic, huh, that it’s trying to kill me? Thanks, though.

  Shopkeeper: I could definitely use some extra help up here, but unfortunately, I’m not really in charge of hiring volunteers. Muriel Hager is the person you need to talk to. She’s the head of the hospital’s psychosocial care program. She runs all the cancer support groups. Actually, I think the hospital has a program you have to go through in order to become a volunteer.

  Me: Oh.

  Shopkeeper: I could connect you with the volunteer office if you’d like.

  Me: Yeah, that would be great.

  Shopkeeper: Let me find the number . . . here it is . . . okay, it’s ringing . . .

  Me: Hello?

  Other: St. John’s volunteer office . . .

  Me: Yes, hi, I wanted to talk to someone about becoming a volunteer.

  Other: That would be me.

  Me: Oh. Great. So, what do I need to do?

  Other: First, you have to go through our eight-hour orientation. I organize the volunteer orientations. Our next one is in three weeks. Give me your address, and I’ll send you the information.

  Me: I’d really like to get started right away. I could start now and then go through the orientation in three weeks.

  Other: No, no. You must go through our orientation first. In addition, there are health requirements, blood tests, an exam on hospital safety, several psychologi—

  Me: Oh. Did you hear me say I’d like to work for free?! Okay, then. My address is . . .

  Other: Last name?

  Me: Fogelson. F as in “Frank,” o-g-e-l-s-o-n.

  Other: I’ll get this right out. Our orientations fill up fast. Do you want me to put your name on the list?

  Me: Yes. Definitely.

  Other: Now, don’t have me put your name down unless you’re really serious about this. I don’t want you taking someone else’s spot.

  Me: I really want to do this.

  Other: Fine.

  Me: Thank—
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  Click.

  Shopkeeper: So, what’d she say?

  Me: She can’t wait for me to get started! She welcomed me with open arms! She appreciated my eagerness to help! She was a big fat fucking bitch, and I plan on telling her that as soon as I meet her. “Hospital safety exam,” my ass. I have to go through the orientation first. The next one is in three weeks. You know, I’d love to come and just hang out. You could teach me everything I need to know, so after my orientation I’d be all ready to start. I mean, how would they even know?

  Shopkeeper: If you’d like to come in a couple times a week, that would be fine with me. I don’t see the harm, and I’ll talk to Muriel for you. I’m sure she’d be happy to have extra help up here.

  Me: Great. Which days would be best?

  Shopkeeper: Mondays are usually the busiest. Most of the breast cancer doctors see patients on Mondays, so I get a lot of women coming in after their appointments. Why don’t you start next Monday?

  Me: Great. What time?

  Shopkeeper: We open at ten o’clock. We’re open ten to twelve, then one to four. I’m Amy, by the way.

  Me: Hillary. Nice to meet you . . . I’ll see you at ten, then.

  Amy: Perfect.

  Me: Oh, could I get that sticker? I almost forgot . . . great, thanks. Oh, one more thing: You might want to consider moving that, um . . . Vagisil a little farther away from the face-care products. Just a suggestion . . . see you Monday.

  I’m going to become a volunteer! In other words, I’m going to give my time gladly and, more important, freely to one and all! Actually, I may be overstating the generosity of my intended effort. I am going to volunteer, but I’m not going to be “giving” willy-nilly to anyone and everyone who presumably needs help. I mean, really. Who do you think I am? I’m not that fucking positive.

  My Really Big Pupils

  No reindeer slippers today. I didn’t realize just how attached I’d become to those monstrosities until I saw little miss “crazy smell” sliding toward the exit with nothing more than thin soccer socks covering her particularly large tootsies. I wish I could say the ’deer slippers are in the wash, but, judging from the sad state the soccer socks are in (worn toes to heels and a couple threads away from becoming full-fledged leg warmers), it’s highly unlikely.

  Dr. Lesaux: Hillary, you ready?

  Me: Yep.

  Dr. Lesaux: Blinds open, right?

  Me: If that’s okay with you.

  Dr. Lesaux: And all the lights turned on. I have to try and remember how each of my patients likes it. Everyone’s a little different.

  Me: If it’s not going to hurt your eyes, yeah, all on would be perfect. I like a lot of light because of my pupils. I have really big pupils. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed them before. They’re really huge. Now you’re probably going to be staring at them. Everyone always thinks I’m on speed or cocaine. Sorry, we’re, like, totally off topic right now. I think my pupils might be messed up or something. I’m not really sure.

  Dr. Lesaux: Some people actually consider it a plus to have large pupils. There was a study done years ago, and the participants were asked to make character judgments based solely on photos of people’s eyes. Many of the pictures were of the same person’s eyes, just with dilated pupils. What the study found was, people generally assign more positive personality traits to people with big pupils as opposed to people with small ones.

  Me: Huh. So, I guess when people meet me they expect me to be really, really nice. I must be quite a disappointment. Most people don’t know what color my eyes are because my pupils are always so big.

  Dr. Lesaux: Brown?

  Me: See? See what I mean? They’re blue.

  Dr. Lesaux: . . . let me look at my notes for a second here . . . last week, toward the end of the session, we started to get into how your dad’s been dealing with his diagnosis. Actually, before we start talking about your dad, how were your panic attacks this week?

  Me: Um . . . better . . . I think. I’m still taking the Paxil that my internist gave me. I can’t tell if it’s doing anything or not. When I get on the freeway, I do the breathing and relaxation stuff from your handout, but I still get really panicky in the middle lane.

  Dr. Lesaux: And what is it specifically about the middle lane, do you think, that gives you such a problem?

  Me: I think I get worried that if something bad did happen, like, if I started to pass out or something, I wouldn’t have time to get over to the shoulder.

  Dr. Lesaux: Uh-huh.

  Me: Oh, but I did have one really big realization this week. Some freeways have a shoulder to the left of the fast lane, so now, on those freeways, I feel comfortable in the fourth or fifth lane, which is a huge relief because it was taking me so fucking long to get anywhere, since I was pretty much confined to the slow lane.

  Dr. Lesaux: And what about transitioning freeways? Has that gotten any easier?

  Me: No, that’s still my biggest problem. The 101—oh my God, that freeway kills me. I usually just take Ventura Boulevard until I get past the transition, and then I get back on the freeway. When I go to my in-laws’ in the valley, it takes me, like, an hour and a half. It’s ridiculous. Oh, but I am working on a technique that may temporarily solve my problem. Yesterday I decided to try to transition; I figured I could always chicken out last minute and head toward Santa Monica if I had to. I pretended that the thick transition line was actually the shoulder. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, and if I really started to pass out or something I’d be royally fucked if I used that lane as the shoulder, but somehow it helped me to think about it in that way.

  Dr. Lesaux: Did it work?

  Me: Yeah, I transitioned. I was panicky, but I didn’t, like, totally lose my shit.

  Dr. Lesaux: You know, I think it’s really good what you’re doing. You’re finding ways to cope. They may be unconventional, but as I always say, “whatever works.” You didn’t happen to catch my radio call-in show on Wednesday, did you?

  Me: No, why? Did you provide handouts for all your listeners? Did you mail them postcards with sayings like “Get a Life” and “Only Freaks Call Radio Shows” scribbled on the back?

  Dr. Lesaux: Darn, I hate that you missed it. I broached this very topic on my live call-in show.

  Me: Yeah . . . I hate that I missed it.

  Dr. Lesaux: You know, I have an article on coping mechanisms you might find interesting. Remind me to print it out before you leave today. So, where were we? Last week we were talking about your dad and . . . let’s see . . . you were saying how . . . how you feel like he’s in denial and that you think he needs to talk about what he’s feeling.

  Me: Well, yeah. I think it’s bad to hold stuff in. You can’t just keep it all to yourself.

  Dr. Lesaux: So, have you had any more thoughts about this topic since last week?

  Me: No. Not really. Nothing new. I’ve just been feeling mostly frustrated.

  Dr. Lesaux: Why?

  Me: Because I feel like I have nothing to talk to my dad about. You know, we were getting along a lot better when I was first diagnosed—I felt like we were really talking and stuff—and now it feels like we’ve reverted back to our old relationship.

  Dr. Lesaux: In what way?

  Me: We’re not talking about real stuff anymore. He doesn’t want to talk about melanoma, except right now, it seems like it’s the only thing to talk about. Other stuff seems trivial in comparison. Like, what can we talk about? I mean, I’m not doing any acting right now, and he’s not working, so what are we supposed to talk about besides how we’re doing and what we’re feeling? We’re going through this very uncommon experience together, ya know, and I don’t feel like he wants to reach out to me. And I’m the one person who might actually understand how he’s feeling. But he just doesn’t want to talk about anything having to do with melanoma or sunscreen and . . . and . . . I don’t know . . . we’re just very different people, I guess. I want to know everything there is to know and read everything
there is to read and talk about it with people who are going through it, but he seems content to ignore everything. It can’t be healthy.

  Dr. Lesaux: You said some interesting things. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for the two of you—let me start by saying that. And I’m like you: I like to talk about how I feel—it’s one of the reasons I became a therapist. But you need to respect your father’s feelings. He’s trying to deal with all of this in his own way, and you shouldn’t try to force him to deal with it in the same way as you.

  Me: But that’s the point. He’s not dealing with it! He’s not dealing with any of it!

  Dr. Lesaux: How do you know that?

  Me: What do you mean, how do I know? He doesn’t talk about any of it!

  Dr. Lesaux: Just because he doesn’t talk about it doesn’t mean he isn’t dealing with it.

  Me: You don’t understand.

  Dr. Lesaux: He’s just dealing with it differently than you. And as long as he’s not hurting himself, you need to allow him the space to do that.

  Me: He is hurting himself! He’s not doing all the things he should be doing. Like, like, he should be investigating and researching clinical trials. He needs to find a trial, another form of treatment; otherwise he’s . . . he’s got a really high chance of a recurrence. And the thing is, there’s this really amazing trial at St. John’s, but he doesn’t even want to talk about it. He’s completely close-minded. He’s being stubborn and difficult, and I feel like the small amount of progress we made in our relationship is for shit.

  Dr. Lesaux: In what way?

  Me: We don’t talk! We don’t have anything to talk about. If we don’t talk about melanoma, then we don’t have anything to say to one another. How am I supposed to be close to him and talk to him without talking about the biggest thing going on in both of our lives?

  Dr. Lesaux: It sounds like your dad is trying to be as normal as possible. He’s looking for ways to feel normal.