Gladys: I didn’t mean to suggest that you caused your disease.
Me: Well . . .
Gladys: I don’t think I explained myself very well . . . I’ll give you this book to look at; then we’ll—
Me: Actually, I hate to cut you off, but I’ve gotta run. I have a million errands to do. Call me next week and we’ll set up a dinner or something.
Gladys: Yeah, sounds great. I really want to catch up with—
Click.
God damn these ignorant fucking “healthy” ignoramuses.
I mean, what about all the wonderful, horribly sick children? How does Gladys’s theory stand up against all the sick kids, all the wide-eyed, innocent, upbeat Hello Kitty–loving, Lego-playing kids skipping around in their sparkly pink princess gowns and Superman capes? According to her new life guru, everyone (kids included) plays some role in their illness. I just don’t buy it. I’d love to buy it. I’d love to buy it hook, line, and sinker, but I know better. I’ve met too many sick people with the most positive outlook. Sick people, dying people, people like the kind of people I can’t stand. People who smile at kitten bumper stickers and long for nothing more than a double rainbow. These people have done nothing to create, or deserve or manifest or inspire—whatever you want to call it—illness. It’s just not how it works.
These healthy people and their healthy-person theories make me wanna puke. They think they’re so great because they haven’t had cancer or some other life-threatening disease. They think they’re doing everything right and that we “sicklings” are doing everything wrong. They can take their shit-eating grins and chipper well-adjusted healthy bodies and shove it.
I don’t think I have an unhealthy mental attitude. I mean, not generally. Just because I’m passionate, interested, and sometimes a tad reactive doesn’t mean . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . make . . . myself . . . sick!
Note to self: Kick Gladys’s ass at speed rummy.
Trying and Not Trying
In light of recent events (refer back to previous healing-hands discussions, blue-thread nightmares, and impending tile rummy playoff), I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m done worrying. I’ve had it up to here (I’m referencing the top of my head, by the way) with all the goddamned worrying because it doesn’t make anything any better. What a fucking gargantuan realization! Worrying doesn’t help. I can’t believe it has taken me twenty-six years to identify something so basic. My worrying won’t keep my father healthy, or keep Adam from looking at his Blackberry while driving, or help me book a job, or even keep my dog from eating her own crap. It doesn’t matter. Either these things will happen or they won’t, and my worrying is not gonna make a damn bit of difference one way or the other. I’m not a better person for worrying—just a crazier, more neurotic one.
This realization came to me as I was thinking about a Spanish teacher in high school who used to say that trying and not trying are the same thing. It used to make me crazy when she would trick some kid into trying to pick up a pencil without actually picking it up. She just reveled in a student’s saying he or she really tried to do well on a particular test. Oh, she just ate it up.
“You tried?! There’s no such thing! . . . I’ll give you something to try . . . you see this pencil?! Huh? You see it?”
“Um . . . uh . . . yeah. I guess.”
“Try to pick it up.”
“Uh . . . Ms. Martine, do I have to?”
“Go on, try to pick it up . . . no, no, no . . . I didn’t say pick it up. I said try to pick it up.”
“Um . . . how?”
“Go on, try.”
“I am trying”
“No, don’t pick it up. Just try to.”
“ . . . can I have the bathroom pass now?”
Now, I always thought this particular teacher was slightly nutty. Maybe it was her affinity for hard candies, which she insisted on shimmying out of their wrapper with her teeth. Or maybe it was the hearing aid she wore perched on top of her head, disguised as a decorative flower. Whatever it was, I never really took her seriously. Not until now. If I’ve got this right, she seemed to believe that an action (like trying) has no purpose if it doesn’t make a positive impact on an outcome (like a test). So, if you follow this same line of reasoning, worrying is pointless if it has no positive impact on the “thing” you’re worrying about. And not only does worrying not have a positive impact on that special something, it has no impact at all! Worrying and not worrying are the same goddamned thing!
So I’m making a pact with myself. No more worrying. No more obsessing about pathology reports or swollen lymph nodes or funny red itching scars, because if worrying and not worrying are the same thing, I’ve already wasted a lot of years of my life worrying about a lot of things that I didn’t have a lot of say in. Years I could have spent doing something much more constructive. So, no more worrying. At least, not excessively. No—no worrying. Not all the time. It’s not worth it.
But . . . what if worrying and not worrying aren’t the same thing? What if (by some chance) worrying about something actually keeps that something from happening? Like, what if worrying contains some hidden power, something that can’t be seen but exists nonetheless and helps us out when we need it most? What if, by not worrying, I am denying myself the power? I mean, I have a responsibility to my family, my friends, myself. I wouldn’t want to leave everyone high and dry just because of some bad information I got back in tenth grade.
Yeah, I’ve gotta think about this one some more before I carelessly throw out worrying with the bathwater . . . but what if it’s already too late? What if by questioning the power, I have inadvertently lost the worry power? Oh, shit. Fuck piss motherfucker . . . who ever is listening . . . I’m worrying, okay? I haven’t given up on the worrying. I’m sorry I ever doubted it . . . or you. Please don’t give up on me. I need you. Don’t leave me when I need you the most. See? I’m worrying. I’m worrying, see?
See?
. . . hello?
THREE MINUTES LATER:
Me: Hello? Terry, it’s Hillary.
Terry: I thought you weren’t going to call. You promised. You swore, didn’t you? I can’t believe you.
Me: No . . . I’m . . . um . . . not calling about that. I . . . I . . . I realized I didn’t set up my next appointment. Dr. Bach wants to see me every couple of months, so I need to book an appointment for the end of November.
Terry: Okay. Well, right now, her schedule’s pretty open in November.
Me: Put me down for, like, November thirtieth. Is that a weekday?
Terry: Yeah, that’s a Friday. Okay, what time?
Me: One thirty. That’s the first appointment after lunch, right?
Terry: I’ve got you down for one thirty on Friday, November thirtieth.
Me: Great. Thanks. Okay, well, have a good weekend. Tell everyone to have a good weekend.
Terry: I will.
Me: All right. I guess I’ll . . . talk to you later.
Terry: Bye.
Click.
Me: Bye.
Ring.
Me: Hello? Terry?
Other: No, it’s your father-in-law. I can pretend to be Terry, if you’d like.
Me: No, that’s okay. Thanks, though.
Pa-in-law: Who’s Terry?
Me: She’s the receptionist at Dr. Bach’s office. I’m waiting on a pathology report, and I was hoping to get it before the weekend. I hate worrying over the weekend.
Pa-in-law: So, the report’s not in yet?
Me: No. Well, I don’t know. I just called the office, but I didn’t ask. See, last time I was there I swore I wouldn’t call. I swore I’d wait for them to call me. And they promised to call me the moment the report came in. It’s just that I know they don’t call right away. They say they do, but they don’t. This weekend’s gonna suck ass.
Pa-in-law: Call them back. See if it came in.
Me: No, I’m determined to wait it out.
Pa-in-law: Why would you make yourself crazy like tha
t?
Me: I know, but they already think I’m insane. I’m always calling all frantic and everything.
Pa-in-law: Who gives a shit what they think?
Me: Yeah, but—
Pa-in-law: Call them, then call me back.
Me: I’ll call them later.
Pa-in-law: Call them now. Call me back after you talk to them.
Terry: Dr. Bach’s office, how can I—
Me: Hey, Terry, it’s Hillary again. Okay, so I swore, but I still need to know . . . did you get it yet?
Terry: No, I told you we will call you the moment—
Me: I know I know I know, but I just thought . . . maybe . . . I don’t know . . .
Terry: We’re really busy right now.
Me: Yeah. Sorry. Bye.
Pa-in-law: So?
Me: No news. They don’t have the report yet.
Pa-in-law: Well, make sure you try again before the end of the day.
Me: No, I’m not gonna bother them again.
Pa-in-law: You know how I feel about it. You know what I would do.
Me: Yeah.
Pa-in-law: Call me as soon as you hear.
Me: I will.
Pa-in-law: Try to do something to distract yourself.
Me: You mean, staring at the wall with the phone in my hand isn’t good?
Pa-in-law: I know the feeling.
Me: Yeah. Thanks.
Pa-in-law: I love you.
Me: Love you.
And he does know the feeling. More than most. A raised PSA, a biopsy, then scans and ultimately surgery to remove a cancerous prostate. Last year he had a catheter for three weeks and didn’t complain (at least not to me). Last year he shuffled around his house with a bag of urine strapped to his hip and felt lucky. Last year he wore adult diapers for the better part of a month and felt fortunate they weren’t a temporary solution to a permanent problem. I imagine nothing can wake you up to the fact that you must be proactive in your own health care (in your own life) more than diapers can. So my father-in-law now lives by the mantra “fuck it—life’s too short.” And he’s right. About a lot of things. Especially the “too short” part.
I have no self-control. I admit it. I’m impatient and nervous. I admit all of these things. I’m admitting them because I’m about to call Dr. Bach’s office for the third time today, and I’m sure to the outside observer I seem slightly . . . unstable. But I’m not. I’m very stable. I’m incredibly focused and steadfast in what I do and why I do it. And the reason I’m calling Dr. Bach’s office for the third time today is that I’m desperately trying to keep from spending my weekend in a cold sweat, pulling out my hair and biting my cuticles until they bleed. Plain and simple.
Terry: Dr. Bach’s office, how—
Me: Hey, it’s me again. I know you think I’m crazy, but I just need—
Terry: I’ll let you talk to Julia.
Me: Oh . . . hello?
Julia: Hi, Hillary. I was just about to call you. I got the report right as I was leaving for lunch, and I just got back into the office.
Me:
Julia: Let me just . . . find . . . your report . . . I thought I put it . . . ah, here it is. Right where I left it. So, everything is . . . fine. It’s not melanoma. It was the same mole that she removed a month ago, and it did come back more dysplastic than before, but Dr. Bach and the other doctor agree that she removed it all this time. She took pretty good-size margins, so you shouldn’t have a problem.
Me: You got the report before lunch.
Julia: Anyway, I wanted to get back to you. I know how you worry.
Me: No, you don’t. Yeah. Thank you. Have a good weekend.
Julia: I will . . . I will.
Click.
Very Official
Well, it’s official. I have officially finished orientation and am well on my way to becoming an official volunteer for the hospital. In other words, I officially wasted an entire day wedged in between a group of inmates on work release and a gaggle of senior citizens, all in order to get a laminated plastic volunteer badge and the hospital’s seal of approval that I am “officially” fit to work for free.
Judging from my fellow orientation-ers, I can see why such a day of instruction is necessary. The work-releasers were mostly illiterate, from what I could tell, and the seniors . . . well, they were just old. And not like grandparent old, like great-grandparent and, in one case, great-great-grandparent old. The seniors seemed to relish the orientation hoopla. It took many of them the entire four hours prior to lunch to fully complete their registration forms. They were like a team of science geeks at an academic decathlon. They rallied around one another and carefully debated the implications of questions like “Age Range” and “Sex” before they committed to checking the appropriate box. They read and reread all the fine print and asked endless strings of questions about what they should and shouldn’t include under the “Medical Conditions” section. I mean, disclosing hip replacements was a given, whereas the impact of gallstones on one’s ability to effectively volunteer plagued even the most senior orientation leaders.
So, with orientation behind me (I passed my open-book final exam with flying colors), I am left only to complete a tuberculosis skin test. Compared with eight hellish hours of lectures, slide shows, and teamwork-building “games,” a skin prick seems like luxury.
Nurse: So, you’re going to be a volunteer, I see.
Me: Yep.
Nurse: Hoping to become an Angel? Work with the preemies?
Me: No, I’m going to be working in the Positive Appearance Center.
Nurse: That’s great. Most volunteers wanna work with the babies. I’ve never been in that store. I keep meaning to stop in.
Me: Yeah, you should come by. I’m a melanoma patient here, so I wanted to work where I could potentially meet some young cancer patients. The melanoma support group is lumped in with the lung and prostate groups, so, you know, not a lot of young people for me to talk with.
Nurse: It’s funny you say that—I know another young melanoma patient, whose parents were looking for a group for her. She’s eleven.
Me: Wow, that’s really, really young to have melanoma.
Nurse: I know. It’s so sad. I’ve been working with her the last couple days. She just had surgery.
Me: Where was her melanoma?
Nurse: Thigh. Well, it’s other places, too, but the thigh is where it started. What about you?
Me: Stomach.
Nurse: She’s such a sweet girl.
Me: What do her doctors say?
Nurse: Doesn’t look good. This is the second surgery she’s had on her leg. She doesn’t have much thigh left.
Me: Eleven years old . . .
Nurse: Melanoma’s a real bitch.
Me: That it is. That it is.
Nurse:
Me:
Nurse: Well, I’m all done here. You may notice that the spot itches a little bit. Nothing to worry about. Here’s an information packet for you. It tells you when you need to come back and have your arm checked. Make sure you come within the time frame, or else we’ll have to do the test again.
Me: Got it.
Nurse: I’ll have to stop by the store and see you. See how you’re doing.
Me: Yeah, that would be great. You can stock up on sunscreen and stuff.
Nurse: Remember, make sure you come see me so I can sign off on your volunteer papers.
Me: Okay.
Nurse: And good luck with everything.
Me: Thanks. Oh, and tell that girl if she wants to come down and talk . . . or anything . . . my name’s Hillary. I’ll be working Mondays and probably Wednesdays. If I’m not around, tell her to leave a number or something.
Nurse: Okay. Yeah, that would be great if you two could talk.
Me: Yeah. Okay, well, hopefully I’ll see ya around.
Nurse: You’ll see me. I’m always around.
The Instigator
Mom: Hello?
Me: Hey, it’s me.
>
Mom: Hey there, chickadee.
Me: You sound relaxed.
Mom: I am. I’m sitting here in my corner of the couch with a gin and tonic, watching Frasier. What about you?
Me: I was just about to make myself a good stiff drink.
Mom: Long day?
Me: Just stressful. They all seem to be stressful these days. I’ll let you get back to your show. I was just calling to see how Dad’s feeling.
Mom: He seems to be feeling good. He’s still sore, but he’s getting around good. You should see his back, though. There’s all this fluid around the incision. When you push on it, it looks like a water bed. He may have to go in and have them drain it. I don’t know if that amount of water will absorb naturally or not. I can’t believe how quickly he’s bounced back. I’d put him on the phone, but he’s downstairs on a conference call.
Me: Okay. When you get a chance, I want to talk to you about the vaccine trial. Has Dad mentioned it at all?
Mom: No, not really.
Me: Maybe when you guys come out here he could meet with Dr. Gregory. He should at least hear about the trial, find out what it’s all about.
Mom: I’ll mention it to him again. Can I call you tomorrow? My favorite episode is on. It’s the one where Niles faints every time he looks at the cut on his finger.
Me: I’ll call you from the city. We’re leaving early tomorrow morning, so I probably won’t talk to—
Mom: I didn’t know you guys were going somewhere.
Me: New York, remember? We’re going to see The Seagull.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 17
