Me: I guess . . . he’s . . . really lucky. Okay, now the hard part. Once we get this bra on, you may never want to take it off. If you could just put one arm in the air and I can . . . wait, oh, shoot, the gauze . . . hold on . . . okay, almost there . . . and . . . we . . . did it. Wow. I hope you like it, because I’m not sure we’ll be able to get it off.
Customer: Ahhh. This feels sooo good. I can’t even tell you. This is soooo much better than my regular bras. You are a lifesaver.
Me: I’m so glad it works for you. Yeah, I’d stay away from anything with an underwire. That sounds just awful. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable that must have been.
Customer: I feel like a new woman . . . I tell you, I really haven’t felt like doing much of anything since I started the shots, but with this bra and everything, I think I might just want to go out to dinner tonight.
Me: How many of these do you want?
Customer: How many do you have? I might want to wear these all the time. My breasts feel wonderful!
Me: I’m . . . so glad.
Customer: How ’bout I start with four, and I can always come back and get more.
Me: Okay. I’ll get these others wrapped up.
Customer: Thank you. You . . . you really made my day.
Me: Okay, you’re all set.
Customer: What does your dad look like? In case I run into him . . .
Me: He’s about five foot ten, blond hair, blue eyes, glasses, very round head. A male version of me, basically.
Customer: Well, I’m sure I’ll see him at some point. I feel like I practically live here.
Me: My dad feels the same way. Good luck with everything. And come back if you need any more of those bras.
Customer: You bet. Tell your father I’ll be praying for him.
Me: . . . oh . . . yeah . . . okay. Thanks.
LATER
Ring, ring.
Mom: Hello?
Me: Hey, Mom, it’s me.
Mom: Hey there, chickadee.
Me: What are you up to?
Mom: Oh, just dusting. Everything’s got about three inches of dust on it.
Me: I doubt it.
Mom: No, really, I don’t dust anymore. Especially with all the traveling we’ve been doing. What’s up?
Me: Well, it’s really weird, I met this woman today and—is Dad around?
Mom: He’s down on the computer.
Me: I met this woman who’s doing the vaccine trial, and she has all these ulcers. She said it was from the BCG. Something about the injection sites. She came in looking for bras. Dad doesn’t have anything like that, right?
Mom: Well, they’re getting . . . better.
Me: Where does he have them? He never talks about them.
Mom: Oh, you know your father. He would never talk about something like that. He’s got too much pride.
Me:
Mom: They look really sore. He’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you about this. The ones under his arms are the worst.
Me: The woman I helped at the store, hers looked terrible. They were oozing and really raw.
Mom: I can’t imagine having to wear a bra.
Me: No kidding.
Mom: I don’t think I’d wear one.
Me: I sure as hell wouldn’t. She didn’t have a choice, though. She was, like, a D. Will you see if Dad can pick up the phone?
Mom: You’re not going to say anything to him?
Me: Yeah, why?
Mom: No, you can’t. He’d never forgive me.
Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: Hillary, don’t say anything. Promise me—you have to promise me—you won’t say anything.
Me: Fine, fine.
Mom: You have to respect his priva—
Me: Fine! I won’t say anything. Jesus. You wanna see if he can talk? I just wanna say hi.
Mom: Jon! Jon, pick up. Hillary’s on the phone . . .
Dad: Hello there.
Mom: I’m hanging up.
Me: So, what’s up?
Dad: Not much. Just doing some work on the computer.
Me: And you’re feeling good?
Dad: Yep. Doing good. How are you feeling?
Me: Good. Really good. I’ve been working at the hospital a lot lately. You know . . . keeping busy. I met a woman today who’s doing the vaccine trial. I told her to look out for you.
Dad: Do you remember her name?
Me: No, but I told her what you look like, so I bet she’ll introduce herself. She was having some, um, irritation from the vaccine, so she needed bras without underwire. She was so appreciative. She left a new woman.
Dad: Good.
Me: Yeah, I’m really enjoying working there. I feel like I’m actually doing something. It’s a nice feeling.
Dad: Well, I should get back to work. We’ll be seeing you soon.
Me: Yeah. Okay, well, don’t do too much.
Dad: You too.
Me: Love you.
Dad: Love you too.
Click.
He’s so interesting. People are so interesting. So consistently inconsistent. Here’s a man who will protest against wearing sunscreen but not make a peep about oozing, bleeding blisters. A greasy face from a waterproof SPF—that, we hear about. His eyes burning because he insists on wearing body sunscreen on his face—on that, we get an earful. But ulcers—red, bleeding, scabby, scaly ulcers—not a peep. Nary a whisper.
Being “Brave”
Thirteen steps from the elevator to the front desk. Ten steps from the front desk to the lab, three to the scale, and another two to the blood pressure cart. Eight steps to room number 4, which contains two fluorescent lights, one laminated coffee table, two oversize chairs, and one examination table with two bottom drawers each filled with five hospital gowns. On the wall hangs one pain-management Xerox with ten faces, each one representing a single unit of pain, one magazine rack containing half a Self magazine, and two faded posters promoting two hospital support groups (one for breast cancer and one for everything else). On the floor sits one basket filled with two informative, self-help cassettes and zero cassette players. It’s the same. Always the same.
I know this room better than I know most rooms in my own house. I’ve spent time in this room. Real, quality time. The kind of time parents always talk about in the abstract—quiet time. I have spent countless hours in semideep contemplation, pondering all the great questions about life and death and the hereafter. I have broken down my predicament into categories and subcategories: the good, the bad, and the ugly of it all. I have cried in this room many times, for many different reasons. I have prayed in here. I have cursed the godforsaken crucifix and taken the Lord’s name in vain many, many times in here. I have lived a full life, all confined within these four hospital walls.
Knock, knock.
Me: Come in.
Gregory: Well, hello.
Me: You cut your hair.
Gregory: Yeah, well . . .
Me: It looks good. You look so . . . doctorly.
Gregory: Shall we have a look? . . . Any complaints?
Me: Not really. I was just in to see Dr. Bach a few weeks ago. She said everything looked good. I actually got out of her office without an excision, if you can believe it.
Gregory: Your arms look good . . . I have to say, she’s done a great job of removing everything that looked suspicious . . . I mean, as I look you over, you really don’t have any moles of substantial size . . . left.
Me: I’m practically mole-less.
Gregory: Lymph nodes feel normal . . . legs, good . . . a tattoo, always good.
Me: Yeah, I got it a few weeks ago.
Gregory: What does it mean?
Me: It means “brave.” Not that I really am or anything. It’s more of a reminder, you know, that I should try to be . . . it was between this and a tattoo in the shape of a mole, but then I figured it would be just my luck to get a real mole under the tattooed one.
Gregory: A tattoo in the shape of a mole. N
ow, that’s something I’d like to see.
Me: Yeah, I thought it would be pretty fucking funny. Adam didn’t see the humor in it.
Gregory: Well . . . everything looks good. You can get dressed. All the moles you have left are all really tiny. It’s great because if anything does start to change or you get anything new, you’ll notice it right away.
Me: What about the one in my crack? How’s that one?
Gregory: Looks fine.
Me: It’s a tough one to watch.
Gregory: Yeah, everything looks good.
Me: Great. That was easy.
Gregory: You have any questions for me?
Me: Um, actually, I just want to talk about the pregnancy thing for a second. I’m coming up on my year mark in a few months, and I’ve been talking to a lot of people about pregnancy and stuff, and Adam and I have been discussing it a lot, and you know it’s really something I want to do . . . so . . . I don’t know . . . I was just wondering if you’re still thinking I need to wait five years or . . . or what.
Gregory: I think it’s a little premature to be having this conversation—
Me: No, I know, it’s just—
Gregory:—but I will say that you’re looking really good. You’ve been vigilant with your checkups, and it’s paying off. You have very few moles, if any, that I’m concerned about.
Me: I really trust Dr. Bach, and when she says something needs to come off, I get it taken off. I’ve done a lot of research on melanoma and pregnancy, I’ve talked to a lot of different people, and I really think that at some point I’m going to be willing to take the risk and try to get pregnant. I’ve researched surrogacy, and for a while I thought maybe that was an option for me, but I don’t know . . . I . . . I . . . I want to be pregnant.
Gregory: I understand.
Me: And I don’t think—based on all the reading I’ve done—I would be taking an enormous risk, by the way.
Gregory: Well, like I said, I think it’s a little early to be having this conversation, but I will say that I’m really happy with where you are. Now, I’m not making any promises, but if things keep looking good and if you continue to be as vigilant with your checkups and in another year you haven’t gotten another melanoma, then I might feel okay with you getting pregnant.
Me: Really? You would give me the okay? I mean, assuming I don’t get another melanoma and all that . . .
Gregory: I would probably give you the okay.
Me: Okay. Great. I . . . that’s all I wanted to hear. I know you can’t know what’s going to happen and all that, but, you know, I really feel like it’s going to be okay. I really think I’m going to get pregnant and not have a problem. I don’t know why. Maybe every woman who’s had melanoma feels that way, but . . . I really think I’m going to be okay. And it’s worth it to me to take the chance. That’s what I’ve really come to in all this.
Gregory: I completely understand. My wife and I have six kids.
Me: Six! Actually, I can totally picture you with six.
Gregory: It’s wild.
Me: Six . . . God, the sixth one must have practically dropped out of your wife.
Gregory: Practically. So, I’m going to head off. It’s a madhouse out there today.
Me: Yeah, sorry for holding you up.
Gregory: See you in a couple months?
Me: You know it. Thank you.
Gregory: You are very welcome. Be good.
Me: Always.
Gregory: Yeah, right.
Enough Said
Me: Ad? Are you awake?
Adam: Yeah.
Me: Do you know what today is?
Adam: Um . . .
Me: A year.
Adam:
Me: Do you want to wish me a happy anniversary?
Adam: I don’t know. Is that what one does?
Me: I don’t know. But it’s a year of me being cancer free. So . . . that’s good.
Adam: Yeah, I guess it is.
Me: I think it’s strange that my dad is flying in today.
Adam:
Me: When he called last night, he couldn’t stop talking about this Cuban restaurant he heard about. It’s supposed to be in Hollywood. Some place close by. The last time he was here, a salesman at Nordstrom recommended it.
Adam: Of course. Where all great restaurant recommendations come from.
Me: It’s supposed to be authentic Cuban food. My dad said that certain nights of the week they have jazz music. I thought maybe we could go there tonight for dinner. A celebration of sorts.
Adam: Whatever you want.
Me: I’m gonna have to try to find it online. My dad can’t remember the name or exactly where it is. He thought the name started with an F, though . . . I’m surprised he wants to eat Cuban. He hates garlic.
Adam: Has your father ever had Cuban food?
Me: Fuck knows . . . hope he realizes how much garlic they use.
Adam: You might want to mention that to him.
Me: Yeah.
Adam: Hey, bub?
Me: Yeah?
Adam: I love you.
Me: I love you too.
Adam: Bub?
Me: Yeah?
Adam: Happy anniversary.
Ring, ring.
Adam: Hello? She’s right here. You want to talk to her?—It’s Tess . . .
Me: Hey.
Tess: Happy anniversary! It’s okay for me to be excited, right?
Me: Of course. Adam didn’t even remember.
Adam: Now, that’s not fair. I’m just not in any hurry to celebrate the anniversary of the worst day of my life.
Me: Tess, did you hear that?
Tess: Tell him I understand.
Me: She says she understands.
Tess: So, I wanted to find out your schedule for today. I have something I want to drop off.
Me: Oh. Um . . . well, I have a lot of cleaning to do, so I’ll be home most of the morning. I think my dad gets in around three. And then I’m gonna go with him to his appointment with Gregory. So, anytime before two is fine.
Tess: I see my last client at noon, so maybe I’ll drop by around one o’clock.
Me: Sounds good.
Tess: I’ve gotta run. I’ve gotta drop the cat off at the vet, finish making these cupcakes for a client of mine, and find an alternate copy of my dissertation that I know I have somewhere in my car.
Me: What time do you need to be at school?
Tess: Well, technically? Now.
Me: Good luck. I’ll see you around one.
Tess: Bye. Love ya.
Me: Love ya.
Click.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL:
Ring.
Me: Hello?
Mom: What are you up to?
Me: Hey, Ma. Oh, not much. Just cleaning up the guest room for Dad. I think I found that Cuban place he’s been talking about. Does El Floridita sound familiar?
Mom: Not really, but I can’t remember what day it is, so—
Me: I figured it would be a nice place to celebrate. I made a reservation for eight o’clock. I hope he’s not too tired. I just don’t think Adam can make it any earli—
Mom: Don’t worry about the cleaning. I’m sure the guest room is spotless. You do too much. You never give yourself a chance to rest.
Me: What are you talking about? I just want to put clean sheets on the bed, do a couple little things in the guest bath—
Mom: What celebration?
Me: What?
Mom: Did you say something about a celebration?
Me: Yeah . . . today is my year.
Mom: Wait, what’s the date?
Me: June twentieth.
Mom: I thought your anniversary was next week. I even had it marked in my calendar. Are you sure it’s today?
Me: It’s today. Trust me. Remember? It was a Wednesday? You got in that morn—
Mom: I will never forget when you told me. I was sitting on the bed at the . . . what’s the name of that hotel down the hill from you?
Me: The Standard?
Mom: No, no, no. The one with the . . . you know . . . that . . . the blue around the pool—
Me: That’s The Standard.
Mom: Well, it wasn’t The Standard. I know The Standard. It’s the one where we ate outside one time. Remember? You know which one I’m talking about . . . I think it was—
Me: The Argyle?
Mom: Is that the name of it?
Me: Well, it’s the only other hotel you’ve stayed at on Sunset—
Mom: That must be the one, then. I’ll never forget sitting on the bed, and you called from the car and said—
Me: I was in the car?
Mom: You were in the car when you told me the news.
Me: No. I was home. Trust me, I remember.
Mom: And Adam was with you.
Me: Adam, at home during a workday.
Mom: I’ll never forget it. You don’t forget moments like that.
Me:
Mom: You still there?
Me: Yeah, I was just thinking. A lot’s happened in the last year.
Mom: Yes, it has. I wish you hadn’t had to go through all of it.
Me: I don’t.
Mom: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, I don’t wish that it didn’t happen.
Mom: How can you say that?
Me: If it hadn’t happened to me, then who knows if Dad would have gone to the dermatologist, and then maybe . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what would have happened. Things happen for a reason. I really believe that. There’s always a plan; we just can’t know exactly what it is. We don’t get to know it in advance. But there’s a plan. It’s hard to accept that sometimes. But just think, if we hadn’t moved to California, and we hadn’t lived up the street from the Müllers and met Janice—who introduced us to Dr. Bach in the first place—then I never would have been going to see a dermatologist, and Dr. Bach wouldn’t have found my melanoma. Which means . . . which means a lot of things, most of which are bad. I wouldn’t take back any of what’s happened to me because I feel like it had to happen in order for Dad to be where he is, getting the vaccine and all that . . . it’s all part of the plan.
Mom: Do you think you would have gotten melanoma if we hadn’t moved to California?
Pale Girl Speaks Page 23
