Me: No, it’s not gross. It was basically a hole with just a—
Adam: Okay, okay, okay.
Me: You don’t want to know what it looked like?
Adam: No.
Me: You’re not curious?
Adam: No. But thank you.
Giving the Finger
Adam: How’d you sleep?
Me: Okay.
Adam: Just okay?
Me: I’m still tired. I feel like I was working all night. I think working at the hospital affected my dreams.
Adam: Everything affects your dreams.
Me: True. I dreamt I was giving skin screenings . . . I don’t remember where I was, but there was a huge group of people, all ages, and they were all milling around in this giant room, and somehow they all knew I’d had melanoma. I don’t know if I announced it or how they knew, but they all seemed to think I was an expert on melanoma, so everyone started forming a line, and one by one they asked me to look at their moles. They wanted me to tell them whether I thought they needed to see a dermatologist or not. And it was amazing because everyone, every single person in the room, had at least one mole for me to look at.
So I started checking out each person. I told them what I saw and why I thought they should or shouldn’t see a doctor. But I started getting worried that I was giving them a false sense of security by saying I thought their moles looked benign, so I made an announcement saying that anyone who has been worrying about a mole should go see a doctor. I told them if they had a mole that had changed in color or size, they definitely needed to get it checked out by a professional. And in the dream, I started getting really frustrated because I saw all of these people who had moles that had grown or changed or whatever, and none of these people had taken the initiative to call a doctor. They’d waited for some free screening by someone who isn’t even a doctor to tell them that everything was okay, or not. So anyway, I was going from person to person, looking at mole after mole, making announcements in an attempt to educate people about what they should look for, and this woman came up to me and she was smiling and stuff, saying she didn’t really have anything for me to look at except this one little thing . . .
Adam: Oh no.
Me: No, it’s not gross. She held out her index finger—she had acrylic nails on, by the way—and she showed me her cuticle—
Adam: You said it wasn’t gross.
Me: No, it just looked black. Her cuticle looked bluish black, almost like she smashed her finger or something. But as soon as I saw it, I knew it was melanoma. I must have gotten this horrible look on my face or something, because she tried to pull away from me. But I grabbed her by the arms, I was squeezing her arms really tight so she couldn’t get away, and I looked right into her eyes and told her she had to see a dermatologist right away. I kept staring at her until I was sure she understood the seriousness of the issue. And then . . . I don’t remember anything after that.
Adam: It was on her fingernail? You can get melanoma on your fingernail?
Me: Not on your nail. You can get in under your nail. I think it’s melanoma of the cuticle, but I’m not exactly sure. I don’t really know that much about it, but I’ve seen pictures. Most people have to have their fingers cut—
Adam: Okay, okay, okay. I get it.
Me:—off.
Adam:
Me: I can’t believe my birthday is coming up.
Adam: How did we get on that?
Me: Cuticle, melanoma, death, getting closer to death . . . twenty-six sounds old, doesn’t it?
Adam: Don’t talk to me about old.
Me: It’s different for men.
Adam: It’s not that different.
Me: This birthday feels . . . I don’t know . . . I’m actually looking forward to it.
Adam: What are you talking about? You always look forward to your birthday.
Me: Because of the gifts. But I don’t care about gifts this year.
Adam: Yeah, right.
Me: No, seriously.
Adam: Okay, then, I guess I don’t need to get you anything.
Me: Well, I don’t mean I don’t want any gifts . . .
Adam: No, no, I think it’s good. No gifts this year.
Me: But—
Adam: Good idea.
Me: You have to at least get me a card.
Adam: Oh, you’ll get a card.
Me: I want a real card. One that you buy at the store. I don’t want you scribbling something on a piece of computer paper. I want a card you have picked out from other cards at a store. A card you have personally picked—for me—for my birthday . . . I can’t believe you’re not getting me a gift.
The Day of the Birth
I feel old. Older. Older than my twenty-six years (as of today) would suggest. I feel wise. Much wiser than my twenty-six years would indicate . . . and I feel lucky. Luckier than my twenty-six years should know.
8:00 AM:
Adam: Bub?
Me: Yeah?
Adam: Happy birthday.
Me: Thanks.
Adam: You want your gift now?
Me: I knew you got me something.
Adam: Do you know what it is?
Me: Um . . . no.
Adam: Honestly?
Me: Um . . . no.
Adam: How could you know? You don’t know.
Me: Okay, maybe I don’t.
Adam: What do you think I got you?
Me: I don’t want to say.
Adam: Come on. You can say it.
Me: You’re gonna be upset if I guess right.
Adam: I won’t. I promise.
Me: Fine. I think you got me a bracelet.
Adam:
Me: Am I right?
Adam: What would make you guess that?
Me: Because I lost the other one you gave me . . . and last weekend it took you longer than usual to get home from golf, which means you probably stopped at Altobelli jewelers. And you didn’t ask me what I wanted, so you must have had something in mind that you knew I would like. Like jewelry.
Adam: Are you going to be disappointed if I didn’t get you a bracelet?
Me: No.
Adam: Well, you can’t have your gift right now.
Me: What? Why? Because I guessed right?
Adam: No, you just can’t have it yet.
Me: Oh, this sucks! When can I have it?
Adam: Later tonight.
Me: You’re probably going to go exchange it now or something. Adam: I swear I didn’t get you a bracelet.
Me: You swear on my life?
Adam: I won’t swear on your life—because I don’t like doing that—but I swear it’s not jewelry.
Me: God, now you have me so curious . . . look at you. You’re so proud of yourself, aren’t you?
Adam: You’re not an easy person to surprise.
Me: I know. But you’re also not very good at surprises.
Adam: What does that mean?
Me: I can usually guess what you’ve—
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello?
Ma-in-law: Happy birthday to you . . .
Adam: Who is it?
Me: Your mother.
Ma-in-law: . . . Happy birthday, dear Hill-ary. Happy birthday to you . . . and many more.
Me: Thanks.
Ma-in-law: What do you have planned for today?
Me: Nothing crazy. Just hangin’ out. I’m hoping Adam will make me a cake.
Adam: Oh, great. No pressure or anything.
Ma-in-law: Well, have a wonderful day celebrating.
Me: Thanks.
Ma-in-law: Did Adam give you his gift yet?
Me: No! He says I have to wait till tonight. Do you know what it is? Ma-in-law: No, he wouldn’t tell me.
Me: Really.
Ma-in-law: I think he was afraid I would ruin the surprise.
Me: So, it’s some kind of surprise . . .
Ma-in-law: No, I don’t know.
Me: I am so freakin’ curious—Adam’s over here grinning. He�
�s so pleased with himself.
Ma-in-law: Have a great day. I love you.
Me: I love you too.
Click.
Adam: Did she sing?
Me: What do you think?
1:30 PM:
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello?
Other: Hi, it’s Marci.
Me: Um . . .
Marci: From Adam’s office.
Me: Oh, hey, sorry.
Marci: I hate to bother you on the weekend.
Me: That’s okay—he’s out right now. I think he’s at the market, buying cake batter. I’ve pretty much bullied him into making me a cake.
Marci: Is today your actual birthday?
Me: Yep. Twenty-six. Hard to believe—you can try him on his cell if you want. I think he took it with him.
Marci: Actually, you can probably answer my questions. Couple of things. First, I was able to get the tickets for the show, and you guys are not going to have to stand in line. Second, Adam had me checking on flights, and I before I book the tickets, I wanted to make sure your schedule was open. How does leaving on October twenty-sixth sound?
Me: For what?
Marci: For New York.
Me: You mean, how does the date sound for Adam’s schedule?
Marci: No, for you.
Me: I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.
Marci:
Me: Does this have something to do with my birthday?
Marci: He’s gonna kill me. He didn’t tell me it was a surprise.
Me: Oh my God, he got tickets for The Seagull?!
Marci: I’m not saying one more word.
Me: Shit, I can’t believe it. The Seagull—that’s it, isn’t it? I was just saying how much I wanted to see that play, and I remember—I totally remember now—Adam kinda, like, perked up when I said it. I cannot fucking believe it! I’m gonna see Meryl Streep! Oh my God, I’m dying! I’m gonna pretend like I don’t know. Forget you told me.
Marci: I am so, so sorry.
Me: It’s not your fault. He should have told you it was a surprise.
Marci: I feel so bad.
Me: Call him on his cell. Pretend like you never talked to me.
Marci: Okay—I’m so sorry.
Me: Don’t worry about it.
Marci: I’m going to call him right now.
Me: I’ll talk to you later.
Marci: Sorry. Bye.
I can’t believe it! I can’t fucking believe it! Meryl Streep! I’m gonna see Meryl Streep. The bestest actress in the whole wide world! I’m gonna see her. Onstage. Up close. In person. I think I’m gonna throw up . . .
Aside from my engagement, this is the biggest, best, and only true surprise of my whole entire life. My parents’ one and only attempt at a surprise birthday party for me failed miserably: My mother spilled the beans about a dozen times in the week leading up to the blessed event. And even though a rhesus monkey probably could have guessed that something was in the works for my sweet sixteen, I can’t deny the fact that I’m an impossible person to surprise, mostly because I’m always expecting one. Surprise parties, surprise trips, surprise gifts—I’ve played out all possibilities to the point that the only surprise I get every year is that another year has gone by and I haven’t been surprised. I’m the type of person who walks into a room expecting people to jump out and yell, “Happy birthday!” “Congratulations!” “Just because!” At least ten times a year, I’m totally convinced my parents are waiting on the other side of my front door with balloons and a giant sign reading WORLD’S GREATEST DAUGHTER written in even giant-er pink bubble letters. I have (on more than several occasions) expected Adam to bring me flowers on his way home from work or pick me up a CD I’ve been not-so casually dropping hints about.
And even though my parents haven’t once dropped in uninvited, and I have yet to have the privilege of receiving flowers unexpectedly from my husband (with the exception of when I’m in a play and I have to threaten him within an inch of his life), I still believe these things will happen. I still hold out hope.
Lately, though, I’ve started to think maybe life isn’t one big, happy surprise party. Maybe it’s because I’m older and I have more important things to think about than party favors and daffodils. Maybe it’s because I finally accepted the fact that the only surprise party that will ever happen in my house is one that is thrown by me. But maybe, and more likely, the phone call a few months ago—the one that no one could have expected—maybe that call kind of turned me off to surprises for a while. Because when I really think about it, that was the biggest surprise of my life. That was the one surprise I never saw coming. The one I never dreamed about or smiled at the thought of or secretly wished would come true. I finally got my big surprise, and look how well that turned out.
So, these days, the tides have turned, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I often take pleasure in some good ol’ predictable shit. I’m excited by the mundane and thrilled with the status quo. I guess, these days, I’m just happy with . . . “normal,” whatever that is.
And then the inevitable:
Adam: Open it.
His eyes are wide and fixed as I unwrap a bracelet-shaped box.
Adam: I hope you like it.
Me: I’m sure I will . . . a note?
Adam: Read it.
Me: You’re so tricky with the box and everything.
Where you love to go. What you’ve wanted to see.
We’ll all take flight.
Love always and forever,
Big Bubba
Me: Oh my God! We’re going to New York! To see The Seagull!
Adam: What?
Me: That’s it, isn’t it?!
Adam: How the hell did you guess it? I thought it would take you forever to figure it out—wait, you knew! How the hell did you know?
Me: What are you talking about?
Adam: You already knew. I don’t know how, but . . . you swear you didn’t know?
Me: Yeah.
Adam: “Yeah.” You swear on my life you didn’t already know the surprise?
Me: Yeah.
Adam: “Yeah” what?
Me: Yeah . . . I knew.
Adam: Goddamn it! How?
Me: Marci called me. She didn’t know it was supposed to be a surprise.
Adam: What! Why would she call you?
Me: She was about to book the tickets and wanted to confirm dates. Don’t be mad at her—and I was surprised. I was soooo surprised when she told me.
Adam: I wanted to be the one to surprise you.
Me: But you did, you did. It’s the most unbelievable gift anyone has ever given me.
Adam: Well . . .
Me: Thank you. I love you.
Adam: I love you too.
Me: Your voice went up at the end . . . don’t be mad.
Adam: I worked so hard to surprise you.
Me: I know. I’m sorry.
Adam: Anyway . . . Happy birthday. You want some cake?
Me: You made me a cake? You didn’t need to do that . . . kidding.
Adam: Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Hill-ary. Happy birthday to you. And many more . . . make a wish.
Me:
I’m becoming more and more superstitious, I realize, as I stand over my birthday cake and prepare to blow out all twenty-six candles in a single breath. I’m taking my time. I’m not risking a half-breath fuckup or an accidental partial blowout from an overly airy laugh. Not today. Not on my watch. All candles must be extinguished simultaneously in order for my birthday wish to come true, and I’m not taking any chances. This is not the time to take a walk on the wild side. Not the time to ignore old wives’ tales or folklore—any lore, for that matter. This is the time to be practical. I need my wish to come true, so why mess with said tradition?
As I lean in, eyes wide and cheeks full, I pull all thoughts toward my intended target. I visualize my wish, imagine it coming true, repeat it to myself one last time, slowly an
d clearly, close my eyes, and . . . blow.
The One-Day Itch
Woke up this morning with an itch. A tingly, burning kind of itch. A belated birthday itch. An itch that just so happens to be emanating from a dysplastic mole scar. A scar that shouldn’t be itching. Not now. Not like this. So as I lie in bed and stare at the blades of my ceiling fan going’round and ’round and ’round, I know I’ve got to call Dr. Bach. I know she will tell me I have to come in. And I think I know what she’s going to say . . .
Competitive Waiting
Dr. Bach’s waiting room is a fully realized zoo for the aging. For the last half hour I have sat quietly, staring at a pamphlet on rosacea, while all the old people battle it out over who has the worst cancer story. I have purposely kept my trap shut in order to avoid adding logs to the raging skin-cancer wildfire. I’ve been privileged to hear how one woman had a squamous cell carcinoma on her shin the size of a baseball. She wanted to show all of us her scar, but she had support stockings on to help with her circulation, which, by the way, has gotten much better since her daughter-in-law gave her a foot stimulator for her eighty-fifth birthday.
Another patient felt the urge to tell us how he had this enormous black thing growing on the inside of his lip. For years he just watched it grow, until one day he couldn’t close his mouth anymore, so he decided it was time to see a doctor.
Black tumors, red oozing sores, lumps and bumps and dry flaky skin—it’s all been covered. One particularly vivid description disgusted me to the point of triggering my gag reflex. I had to bolt into the hallway for some fresh air to avoid dry-heaving on the woman and her handy-dandy support stockings.
Other: . . . and you should have seen the size of it. And it was black as night. And it bled like a son of a gun. Dr. Bach really is a savior. Quite the lady. One smart cookie.
Terry: Hillary, we’re ready for you.
Me: Thank you.
Julia: We’ve got you in room 1. Where is the place that Dr. Bach is looking at?
Me: My upper stomach.
Julia: Take off everything above the waist. I’ve got a blanket in there for you.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 15
