Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  Looking back now, he should have stopped me. He should’ve taken care of me, if not as a lover (because, honestly, I doubt he really loves me), as my coach. He should’ve known better. Instead, his desire to win was greater than his concern for my safety.

  “Okay, go see the medic,” he said, leaving my side.

  The medic clearly thought I was crazy. At first he refused, but I argued and insisted I was fine, that I’d tweaked my knee on the landing. Finally, he agreed to help and wrapped my knee so tight I could barely bend it. Just enough to vault.

  The announcer called my name and the crowd went wild. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind anymore that I was the favorite. I was the underdog, the “past her prime” gymnast proving you don’t have to be fourteen years old to be at the top of the game. Pumped up on the excitement radiating from the stands, I ignored my knee, ignored the popping and tearing and screaming of my tendons and ligaments, each yelling and pleading with me to stop.

  I ran down the mat and launched into the air. I spun and rotated, weightless. For a moment, nothing hurt. I almost stuck the landing. I bounced backward half an inch, more than I’d ever bounced before on this routine. My scores were still stellar, but I bounced. A half inch might as well be a mile.

  My knee was mangled. Once the medals were awarded and the excitement died down, I felt it. I unwrapped my knee and fell down. My leg was rubber, like Gumby.

  That’s how I ended up alone in the emergency room instead of at the team celebration. Gordon dropped me in triage and stole away, claiming he needed to be with the rest of the team, and begged for me to understand. By the time they called my name, I was crying. The nurse assumed it was from the pain and they ordered me morphine, but I wondered what drug might heal my broken heart. A few tests later and I was told it was an anterior cruciate ligament tear, a very common injury in gymnasts. It’s the fate every elite tumbler fears. An ACL tear is more than ice and rest. An ACL tear is game over.

  ***

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” Gordon says again. I know him too well to believe his false contrition. I’m a lot of things, but I’m no fool. He might be sorry, but he wouldn’t change a thing. “It’s been crazy these past few days. Interviews, newspapers, pictures—everyone wants a piece of the ‘96 Olympic team,” he says to me, like I haven’t imagined myself in his shoes a million times. Instead of attending the media tour, I’ve been lying on my couch for days as I wait for my surgery date. We couldn’t operate immediately because the swelling was so intense. I was discharged and given a boatload of painkillers and instructed to not move for a week. Rather than having my picture taken with my team, I’m stuck in my house watching soap operas and eating dry cereal, the only food in my pantry.

  “Yes, I imagine it’s been terrible,” I say, unable to hide my irritation. Fuck you, I think, but refrain from saying aloud. The bastard truly thinks I should be happy for him after he didn’t even offer to drive me home from the hospital. Since I don’t have a car—and can’t move my knee enough to operate a gas pedal—I had to call a taxi and hobble down the gravel path to my house all alone. He could have brought a news team to my house to interview me, the fallen hero of the team, but he hasn’t mentioned me more than in passing on anything I’ve watched on the local station. Since the competition, he hasn’t visited, and until now he hasn’t called. He should be apologizing in person right now, but he’s only just picked up the phone and expects me to forgive him like nothing happened at all.

  “Don’t be like that. I wish you were able to celebrate with me,” he says, his voice unbearable. How did I ever listen to this man talk?

  “Me too, since I was a major part in securing that gold medal.” I wait for him to agree, but his silence travels down the phone, loud and telling.

  “You didn’t have to do the vault,” he says, as though he weren’t the one who pushed me to tumble. “The alternate was more than capable.”

  I bite my tongue, afraid of the anger building in my chest. Where was this rational reasoning when I was falling to the mats?

  “No kidding,” I agree, my voice rising despite my best attempt at calmness. I wish he could see my face. I want to punch him, claw his eyes out. Cry into his chest. “No kidding the alternate should have done the vault. Why didn’t you—the coach—insist she take my place?” If I weren’t so angry, I would be in tears, but I’m struck silent and he doesn’t answer. The landline hums ominously.

  “You know what, Gordon? I’m done. I’m done with gymnastics—you did a good job making that happen—and I’m done with you. Good luck at the fucking Olympics.” I hit end and hurl the phone across the room, and it bounces off the wall and tumbles a few times before landing quietly on the rug.

  17

  Wren

  Age 30

  September 2001

  I never expected getting pregnant would be so hard. How is it that teen moms seem to get pregnant simply by looking at a boy, but when you finally make the decision to have a baby at a mature point in your life, it doesn’t happen so easily?

  We’ve been trying to conceive since I sold my portion of the gymnastics school. First, I stopped working; next, I stopped taking my birth control. This actually caused me to finally lose those couple of pounds on my hips that have been such a heartache to me since college. Naturally, we threw ourselves at the task of baby-making with sheer abandon. After the first few months of nightly sexcapades didn’t do the trick, I began seducing Jimmy before work each morning and on his lunch break—basically, anytime I could manage to get his belt off. A few months into my unemployment, Jimmy hired me as his legal secretary despite the fact that I have no real qualification for the job. We then took advantage of the comfortable couch and locked door at his office.

  But still, nothing.

  By month seven, the seduction and intrigue were over. Now I lie with my legs upside down in the air for exactly five minutes after sex, giving the little swimmers ample time to make their way past the dam. Not sexy at all. I’ve read every book on how to get pregnant and tried everything just short of voodoo, which I’m seriously considering at this point. I don’t smoke, so that isn’t the problem. I’m not overweight. My cholesterol is normal and diabetes doesn’t run in my family. For a while I worried my irregular cycle and low BMI were the problem, but now that I eat fat and carbs like a normal human, my cycle has normalized. So that isn’t the cause either.

  Month nine rolled around and I bought myself an ovulation kit. I charted my basal body temperature on our kitchen calendar. After a morning of browsing the pregnancy section at Barnes & Noble, I purchased every book on the subject. One promised I’d have luck conceiving if I monitored and measured my cervical mucus levels. Initially this grossed me out—the prospect of dissecting the consistency of any type of mucus was disgusting—but now it’s just my morning routine. I’m so comfortable poking and prodding my most intimate bits I could probably brush my teeth with one hand and check my cervix with the other.

  So here I am. Here we are. I forget I’m not alone in this endeavor. Jimmy is more than just a sperm donor, but his job seems infinitely easier. When we first started this journey, my doctor told us it could take a year to get pregnant, maybe longer as my body readjusted to a normal level of fat and exercise. All the books confirmed her statement. But I’m sick of waiting this indeterminable “longer” that she warned of. I’m—we’re—taking charge of the situation, so it’s back to the doctor we go.

  ***

  “Well, I see a perfectly healthy thirty-year-old woman sitting here on the table. I can recommend tracking your temperature and ovulation schedule for the next three months and testing your husband’s sperm count and motility.” Dr. Perry tucks her pencil behind her ear, smoothing back her silver bob.

  “I’ve done that for the past few months, and still nothing. I’d like you to test Jimmy,” I say. Poor Jimmy is blushing furiously, refusing to look at the doctor. “Not that I have any doubts about his army,” I whisper. He glares at me.

&nb
sp; “Okay, well, a few more questions then. Have your periods been heavier than normal or painful?”

  “Of course. They suck.” Isn’t that the woman’s curse?

  “Do they last longer than four days?”

  Come to think about it, they do last a long time. “Well, sometimes a few more days than that. Like six or seven.” Dr. Perry writes this on her clipboard.

  “How much bleeding is there?” Poor Jim looks ready to bolt. I nod toward the door, and he mouths thank you before quickly leaving the exam room.

  “Maybe five or six tampons a day?” I have no idea. A lot of tampons.

  “And you said your periods are generally painful?”

  “Yes, very. I think they were less painful when I was exercising more. Sitting at the office, cramping is miserable. Thank god for Aleve.” She jots down a few more notes.

  “Okay, why don’t you lie back on the table. I want to palpate your ovaries again.”

  ***

  The ultrasound shows three large masses growing on my left ovary. Two appear to be benign cysts, but one—the largest, of course—has more complex properties, according to Dr. Perry. She refers me to an oncologist specializing in gynecological cancers. Just in case, she says.

  “What do we do next?” Jimmy asks. He twists his wedding band around his finger with his thumb, one of those nervous tics only a wife picks up on. His right hand is intertwined with mine. My lifeline.

  “The oncologist will evaluate Karen and determine how to proceed with the masses.”

  Dr. Perry is lean with her words, and I’m frustrated by her lack of transparency. “What does that mean? Do I need surgery? More tests?”

  Jimmy’s grip is tighter, either from his nerves getting the best of him or in an effort to calm me down. Maybe both.

  “If the oncologist is concerned that the larger mass is cancerous, it’s likely he will recommend laparoscopic surgery to remove it. The mass would then be biopsied, and depending on the pathology results, you move forward from there.”

  Forward to where?

  “When can we see him?” Jimmy asks, already in action mode. He will want a plan with a distinct end goal, not this vague strategy Dr. Perry is handing us. Find the problem, fix the problem is his motto.

  All this talk of cancer and tumors and pathology makes me light-headed. After a year of trying to make a baby with no success, we were expecting this appointment to diagnose our fertility problem. Instead, we find a whole other problem. I’m assuming one is the cause of the other, but who knows? Nothing is very clear right now.

  “Can we keep trying to conceive?” Both the doctor and Jimmy stare at me as though I’ve asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

  Dr. Perry recovers quickly, almost hiding her disapproval. Almost. “I suppose you can keep trying, but it might be best if you waited until after you’ve talked with the oncologist . . .” She glances at Jimmy for backup.

  “Just in case?” I repeat those words back to her. She blushes, and this small discomfort brings me a little joy. I take Jimmy’s hand in my own and lead him from the room before the doctor can say another word.

  October 2001

  Jimmy handles my health like it’s his next big case. First, he schedules an appointment with the best gynecological oncologist in Boston. I’m not sure how he secures a spot on this guy’s calendar, but lawyers are known to be persuasive. Plus, his dad knows just about everyone in the city. Jimmy also takes charge of our sex life, and by this I mean cuts me off, effectively ending the discussion about trying to conceive. My every advance is shut down, no matter how sexy the lingerie or how seductive I imagine I look lying in bed by candlelight. He refuses to make love again—even for fun—until I’ve seen the oncologist.

  Two long weeks later I find myself on the table being prepped for laparoscopic surgery. It’s a relatively simple surgery—or so I’ve been told. I’ll be in and out of the hospital in just a few hours. Lucky for me, they’ll even be able to read the pathology of the biopsy today.

  By the time I’m wheeled to the recovery area following my “minor” surgery, a technician is testing my sample and determining my fate. Jimmy is holding my hand when I wake up, but I think he’s finding more comfort in this gesture than I am. For some reason, I’m not nervous. I’m not hopeful or anxious. I’m resigned. I think I’ve always known something is wrong, that something like this has been waiting for me. Jimmy holds on to my hand for dear life, certain he can change the will of the gods through sheer determination and love. I know better.

  The oncologist walks in and it’s obvious. The deep line running across his forehead is creased with worry, a practiced look of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin,” he says. Doctors always preface bad news with I’m sorry, as though they’re directly responsible for the information they’re about to relay. “The pathology report came back with some unfortunate results.” My brain stops functioning at this point. His words don’t make sense. Medical mumbo jumbo blurs with words of condolence and swirls with more words.

  He keeps talking, his mouth opening and closing, sound coming out. Jimmy is listening, taking notes, distracting himself with the promise of researching everything the doctor says, certain that if he takes enough notes, he can cure me.

  . . . pathology is not that bad . . .

  . . . looks mostly to be located on the left ovary . . .

  . . . keep the uterus and right ovary . . .

  . . . complete hysterectomy . . . best chance . . .

  . . . chemotherapy is an option . . .

  . . . good thing we caught it early, before it spread . . .

  “. . . go home and talk about it.” The noises coming from his mouth finally combine into letters and syllables and words I understand. Go home. Talk about it.

  Jimmy leads me to the car, one hand on the small of my back. I’m weak and dizzy. I stumble over my sneakers, my balance out of whack. In the course of a day, I’ve gone from strong and steady to cancer patient.

  18

  Jimmy

  Age 30

  October 2001

  I’m supposed to be at work, but I can’t face my dad. He knows me too well and I’d end up spilling my guts about Wren within two minutes. I’d be crying into my coffee cup, and I just can’t do that right now.

  I couldn’t stay home. Maybe that makes me a terrible husband. Wren took the day off, but she wanted me to go to work—insisted on it, really. I think she needs a day alone to digest everything. I don’t blame her. I wish she wanted me to sit and hold her all day, but that’s asking too much, asking her to be someone she’s not. She needs the day to gather her own strength, to cry without trying to hide her tears for my sake. I probably should have refused to leave, forced her to cry into my arms. I don’t know. There’s not a manual for how to handle this.

  Somehow I ended up here, at our old make-out spot. We haven’t been here since the night of our high school graduation when we buried a time capsule. We vowed to open it someday. Someday when we were old. Someday, someday. I feel old today, and Wren needs something to cheer her up, to give her some hope. Maybe digging up that silly old box can bring her a little joy.

  Ovarian cancer. The two scariest words I’ve ever heard. I didn’t know I could be this scared. Now I know.

  I start digging, beneath the big oak tree, to the left of the giant roots and about a foot from the big rock.

  We thought we were just having a little trouble getting pregnant. Honestly, I assumed it was me. Wren’s perfect; it could never be her fault.

  I kick the shovel deeper. The ground is hard and dry after a rainless fall.

  The doctors took my sample. I wish it were that simple. I wish it were me. Why wasn’t it me?

  The shovel breaks deeper, the ground a little softer now that I’ve gone beneath the top layer. So many rocks. I don’t remember this many rocks.

  They ultrasounded her stomach to make sure everything was normal. But it wasn’t normal. Even I could see the masses, solid black dots o
n the static screen. For a moment we allowed ourselves to hope they were just benign cysts, but the hope was short-lived.

  Malignant. Cancerous. Murderous masses.

  The shovel hits something metal. I fall to my knees in dirt. I’m in a suit, but I don’t care. I have lots of suits. Dirt never killed anyone. But cancer has. I drop the shovel and use my hands, digging and pulling the last of the black dirt to the sides.

  How can my beautiful, healthy, vibrant wife have cancer? Our lives have been turned upside down in an instant, before we’ve even gotten started. We’re supposed to be starting a family. Building a flock.

  My fingertips are covered in dirt and grime as I try to pry the box out from between a rock and the wall of my hole. The tears fall hot and fast down my cheeks and I wipe them away, smearing dirt across my face.

  Why Wren? Why her? I look at the sky. I’m not religious, but there has to be something out there, something up there, something watching over us.

  “Please, don’t take her,” I whisper to whoever is listening. “Please, I’ll give anything. Just don’t take her from me.” The box comes loose and I fall back on my ass, clutching it in my lap. It’s covered in dirt, but the lock has stayed closed all these years.

  I need to purge myself of all my tears so Wren doesn’t see me falling apart. I need to hold her together, love her through this, and I can’t do that if she has to take care of me. I wish I could fix her. Too bad I can’t argue with the gods, make a deal with the devil to save her. Put my law degree to some use.

  Branches crunch behind me, the sounds of a car edging closer to our spot. With a dirty hand I brush my hair back and rub my cheeks with the sleeve of my suit, attempt to compose myself. All I need is someone calling the cops on the crazy-looking man crying all alone in the woods.