The Cookie Cure

by Susan Stachler

  On the other end of the line, an upbeat woman said, “Hi! Are you Susan?”

  I was thinking, I don’t know, do I want to be? Hesitantly, I answered, “Yes…”

  “Hi! I’m Lauren—a producer from the CBS Evening News with Katie Couric. Is now a good time to talk? May I ask you a few questions?”

  As I uttered, “Now is perfect,” I was simultaneously telling myself, Don’t blow this. I had sent a letter to CBS, but now I couldn’t remember which angle I had taken: delicious cookies, boutique bakery, mother-daughter entrepreneurs, or family with cancer? My mind was racing as I scrolled through my mental Rolodex of letters.

  Lauren said, “I work on a segment called ‘The American Spirit,’ and I came across your video on Daryn Kagan’s site. I also went to your website and saw that you have a foundation for cancer patients. I wanted to call and talk to you.”

  She asked me about all kinds of things—my cancer, how Dad was doing, details about Susansnaps, and how Mom and I work together. I told her about how, as Susansnaps had grown, Mom and I had decided to start a foundation in Aunt Sue’s memory that would enable us to donate cookies as gifts to cancer patients. Her questions went on for about fifteen minutes before she landed on the one I’d been listening for. “Sure,” I said, my heart racing. “We’re free any Monday in October.”

  I hung up the phone, trembling with excitement, and rushed out into the shop. “Mom, you will not believe this!”

  “What is it? Is everything okay?”

  Still in disbelief, I said, “That was a producer from the CBS Evening News with Katie Couric. They’re coming here, Mom. Here—to our shop!”

  “Are you kidding? What’d she say?”

  Deciphering the notes I’d scribbled, I rattled off, “It’s a segment called ‘The American Spirit.’ We need to have dough ready to bake, the oven going, and a few customers lined up, and they want to film us boxing shipments. We also have to pull together some old photos to help tell our story.”

  “That’s all doable. We’re going to be fine.”

  “Okay.” I paused. “But they want something else too.”

  Mom looked at me. “What’s the matter?”

  “Lauren said that they want to go with us when we make one of our foundation deliveries.”

  “They want to go with us to the treatment center? The hospital?”

  “Yes. They’ll only come here if they can follow us when we deliver Susansnaps, and they want to film me interacting with a few patients. So, we can call Saint Joe’s and ask them, but I don’t know if we want to agree to this.”

  What was I afraid of? We had been delivering cookies to local hospitals and treatment centers for years. But we never stayed longer than a couple of minutes. I’d call the day before and make arrangements with the front desk or the head nurse, then Mom would keep the car running as I essentially dashed in and left shopping bags full of cookie gifts for the nurses to share with their patients. It was a quiet, unassuming gesture, and we never wanted to make a big deal out of it.

  Of course, I wanted our business to be featured on national television, but I wasn’t sure if I was okay with having cameras film us delivering Susansnaps to the hospital. I worried that the segment would come off the wrong way. What if it looked like Mom and I were exploiting terribly sick patients, just to sell some cookies? Or what if we came off as self-congratulatory? Most of all, I was concerned that the patients would feel uncomfortable with cameras around.

  When I was sick, I would not have wanted footage of me to be shown on TV. I probably wouldn’t have said anything, but if I had seen a cameraman and a reporter headed my way when I was having chemo, I would’ve shot Mom a look, and she would’ve put a stop to it immediately.

  Knowing that Katie Couric’s team wouldn’t come unless we interacted with the patients weighed heavily on me. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that maybe there was something else making me uncomfortable—more than just worrying about our company’s image and the well-being of the patients. The cancer patients I had met were all pretty amazing and could handle just about anything. Perhaps what I was really worrying about was Mom and me.

  What would the cameras capture? What if Mom or I got caught off guard? What if it brought back painful memories? It wasn’t like we were unaffected by visiting hospitals and cancer centers—it was always emotional. Having cameras with us could be overwhelming.

  As much as I wanted the exposure for Susansnaps, I just wasn’t sure that a two-and-a-half-minute segment would be worth it.

  • • •

  The day before the CBS Evening News team was scheduled to visit, Mom and I worked into the night, making sure everything at the shop was in its place. We washed the windows, mopped the floor, dusted the shelves, restocked the display cases, and made dough.

  The next morning, I knew our shop was ready for CBS, but I wasn’t so sure that we were ready. We were both too anxious to sit still. Mom was rummaging through her purse for lipstick, and I was fidgeting with a tape dispenser. “So, Suz,” Mom said, “what do you think they’re going to ask us?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Mom, they’re going to watch us bake and film the shop. We’re just supposed to do what we do every day.”

  “Susan, you know they’re coming for more than that. They’ll want us to talk about how we got started. Do you think we should practice?”

  I knew Mom was right—we were about to go on national TV, after all. But I didn’t want the two of us to sit there rehashing our life story two minutes before the film crew showed up. “Mom, don’t worry. We’ll be good.”

  Just then, an oversize black SUV pulled up outside. As two men headed toward the door, Mom took the opportunity to say, “Susan, whatever happens, this is incredible.”

  Mom chatted with the crew as they unpacked their equipment, but I hung back, wondering how the day was going to unfold. Suddenly, the front door flew open and in blew this tiny ball of energy—Lauren.

  She took in the shop in one glance. “This is beautiful! This is going to be good!”

  Lauren continued to buzz around the room while Mom and I tried to play it cool as we clipped sound packs to the back of our pants, pulled the wires up our shirts, and stuck tiny microphones onto our aprons. Once we were all hooked up and the cameraman and sound guy were in place, we went into motion. Mom cranked dough through our cookie drop and I sprinkled sugar on top of each gingersnap. So far so good—the baking was under control. But it was dead silent in the shop. I could practically hear the sugar bouncing off the cookie sheets. Breaking the uncomfortable silence, the cameraman startled me by saying, “Do you two ever talk to each other?”

  “Oh, yes!” I said. “We talk nonstop. We didn’t know we were supposed to.”

  “Don’t pay attention to us. Pretend like we’re not even here. Do what you normally do.”

  Well, that was all Mom and I needed to hear. I started thinking about the suit that Barbara Walters had worn on her show the day before, and the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Did you see The View yesterday?”

  Mom didn’t say anything, so I looked up from sugaring the gingersnaps. We always talked about The View; it was one of our favorite shows. I wondered, What’s the problem?

  “Sweetie,” she said, a tight smile on her face, “what did you make for dinner last night?” Then it hit me. The View with Barbara Walters was a show on ABC. We were filming for CBS and Katie Couric. The guy with the earpiece listening to our every word, the cameraman zooming in on our faces, and the producer taking notes were all from CBS. I ducked my head and murmured something about making spaghetti. After that, I made sure to keep the rest of our conversation away from anything TV-related!

  While we were baking cookies, the reporter, Mark, arrived. I could see him typing notes on his BlackBerry as he took in each detail.

  By eleven thirty, a
fter just two hours, we’d finished taking Mark and the crew through “a day in the life of Laura and Susan at work,” and we were on our way to the hospital. The twenty-minute car ride was a welcome reprieve, since Mom and I drove in our car while the film crew followed behind us.

  Mom and I started talking so fast that we were talking over each other. “How do you think it’s going?” I asked.

  “I think Lauren’s nice. The guys are fine. They obviously know what they’re doing—they’re pros. And the reporter—wasn’t it funny that Mark said that when he told his wife, ‘I’m going to Susansnaps today,’ she told him all about us?”

  Just as she finished her sentence, I threw my hand over the microphone attached to my apron. “Mom!” I whispered. “Mom… Mom!” When I got her attention, I pointed to her mic. “These are still on!” It was embarrassing but funny, and it made for a good distraction.

  When we reached the hospital’s parking deck, Mom pushed the intercom. “We’re here for oncology radiation,” she called out. We’d been there many times, so this was all familiar, but the next thing I knew, Mom was driving up the exit lane. It was bad enough we went the wrong way, but we had the crew following behind us in their SUV too. I guess Mom must’ve been feeling as nervous as I was.

  Ever since we’d agreed to do this, I’d been trying to prepare myself by envisioning our visit to the radiation and chemo center. I sometimes had flashbacks to my treatment that always seemed to happen at the most random and inopportune times. One whiff of a very precise scent, and I’d be right back in the infusion center. One bite of something slightly metallic-tasting, and all I’d think of would be the wretched taste of chemicals running through my veins. I didn’t want to have a “moment” while cameras were capturing my every move at the center. So I figured if I envisioned the day and planned for the worst, I could build up some kind of immunity to my own memories, and everything would go smoothly.

  As Mom and I approached the entrance to the hospital, the cameras were already rolling. This was nuts. For all the times Mom had propped me up so I could shuffle through these sliding doors, I never thought the two of us would be returning here with one of the largest news stations in the country covering our story. We’d barely made it through the door before we walked straight into an unexpected meet and greet with hospital administrators and their marketing team. Some of them were shaking hands with Mom and hugging me, while others were vying for time in front of the camera. Our entourage kept growing, and the attention was making me uncomfortable. The last thing I wanted was to make any of the patients in the waiting room uneasy, but they could already see chaos brewing on the other side of the glass wall. What normally would have been a low-key cookie drop-off had evolved into staged news coverage of us and a PR opportunity for the hospital.

  Noticing that my mom and I had stepped aside and were having a private conference, the cameraman approached us. “Ladies, is everything okay?”

  Mom said, “This is not how Susan and I do this.”

  He leaned toward me reassuringly, with the camera on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about us. Do what you feel comfortable doing. I’ll follow you.”

  My heart was thumping as I made my way to the front desk and asked for the head nurse. When she came around the corner to greet me, her eyes immediately got misty. Mine did too. “Susan, look at you!” she said. “You look great… How ya feeling? Having you come back means so much to us, and the patients love the cookies.” Unfortunately, the producer wanted a different camera angle, so we had to reenact the greeting, which was awkward.

  Then we started handing out cookies to the patients. Mom and I were being rushed around the radiation waiting room so fast there wasn’t a chance to say more than a few words to anyone. It wasn’t clear to me what Mom and I were supposed to be doing, and it felt uncomfortable. As we were about to go back out to the lobby, Mom tapped my shoulder. “Susan, there’s a woman who would like to speak with you.”

  The woman, who was there for treatment, asked me, “Are you one of the crew? Or are you one of us?”

  I said, “I’m one of you,” and her face lit up. She was excited to find that we had something in common: cancer.

  Before I walked away, my new friend—a very elderly African American woman—looked up from her wheelchair, smiling, and said, “I sure hope one day I look exactly like you.” I wanted her to look like me too, and I knew that neither of us were talking about being young and blond.

  Without missing a beat, I smiled right back and said, “You will!”

  Hearing that, the woman’s daughter, and everyone else in the room, broke into laughter. While the camera might have captured me doing a good deed by visiting an ill woman, she was the one who had done me a favor.

  Leaving the radiation center, I felt at ease. As we headed to the elevators to go up to the chemo center, Mom put her arm around me and gave me a reassuring squeeze. “Good job, sweetie.”

  Catching up with the crew, we stuffed ourselves and the equipment into the elevator. Riding up, I reminded myself, Once the visit to the chemo floor is over, we’ll get back to happy cookies, happy store, happy us.

  Stepping off the elevator, Mom pointed Lauren in the direction of the chemo center while the rest of us held back and waited for the go-ahead. Hanging out with Mark and the crew, I couldn’t resist asking them a series of questions. I was intrigued by their work, but I also wanted to shift the conversation away from me. We began talking about past stories they’d covered, places they’d traveled, things they’d seen. As Mom joined us and they continued bantering, a voice in my head screamed, You’re trying, but I won’t let you forget where you are. Pushing that away, I smiled and nodded like I was still in the conversation, but I felt myself slipping. I was thinking too much.

  Mom glanced over. “Hon, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”

  I turned my head away from the group, hoping that it would help me hold it together, but it actually made things worse. My eyes landed on the waiting room at the end of the long hallway, and my thoughts went back to a different time. I went back to the day that I sat innocently in that waiting room, flanked by Mom and Dad, before my bone marrow biopsy—a test that would tell us whether my cancer had spread. Although that test had happened years ago, it felt like yesterday, and I was sad thinking about that twenty-two-year-old girl. She had no idea what was ahead of her or how bad things would get.

  On the day of the test, I wanted to be brave. I worked at convincing myself, I can do this alone. It really can’t be that bad. Dad joined us for that appointment. Selfishly, I was glad he was there for me; but more than that, I was relieved he could keep Mom company. Even so, their dual presence wasn’t very calming. Dad kept his head down and his elbows on his knees, and his left leg bounced steadily while he rubbed his hands back and forth. Mom talked incessantly about where I wanted to eat after the test. I wanted to show them both that I had things under control.

  Unfortunately, all three of us were acutely aware of how brutal this test could be and the gravity of its results. Mom had told me, “Aunt Sue said it felt like she’d been shot by a rifle,” and Dad said the pain during his test was so excruciating that he passed out. As a kid, I loved hearing stories about my invincible aunt, but right then, I wished Mom hadn’t shared that particular memory of her sister. As the minutes ticked by, I compartmentalized, thinking, That was them, and that was then. This is me, right now.

  When I heard a nurse call, “Susan Stachler,” I jumped up and, using anger to mask my growing fear, I firmly told my parents to stay where they were. I actually said to them, “I don’t need you.”

  I was so unprepared for what I saw when I turned the corner. I should have kept my head down as I followed the nurse, but it was too late. I was faced with one vast room of sickness: a menagerie of hospital beds, machines beeping, tubes dripping, clear bags filled with God knows what, and that smell. As we wove our way past frighteningl
y ill patients to the private room in the back, it seemed like everything around me was happening in slow motion. With each step, I felt increasingly shocked. What is this place? Aunt Sue did this? How did Dad make this seem okay? I was scared.

  Grateful that the gregarious nurse was a pro at mixing mindless conversation with details of the upcoming procedure, I politely answered her questions. I thought things were going well, until I saw a look of sympathy come across the seasoned nurse’s face. As I watched the second hand on the wall clock tick, I knew time was running out before Dr. Weens would arrive to perform the test. The third time the nurse asked, “Honey, are you sure you don’t want your parents?” my confidence was replaced by utter vulnerability.

  Discouraged, I said, “I’m sorry, but do you think you could get my mom?” There was no way I was going to let Dad relive this.

  I was already lying flat on my stomach on the examination table when Mom entered and moved her chair up so she could place her face next to mine. As Dr. Weens began prepping me with a series of numbing needle punctures, I clutched Mom’s hand with a fearful grip. Eyes closed as I braced for what was still to come, I listened to Mom repeating, “Look at me, Susan. Keep breathing.” My tiny doctor stood on a stool for leverage and jabbed a large tubular needle into the top ridge of my back hip bone. I screamed, a high, piercing shriek.

  I shook my head, pulling myself back to the present, and froze when I looked over and saw the camera. It wasn’t on, but I thought, If I fall apart, that’s the footage they’ll use. I was not going to let this segment become “Former Patient Breaks Down on Return to Hospital.”

  Mom touched my arm, repeating, “Hon, are you okay?”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered quietly. The room was beginning to spin, and I could feel tears coming. I needed to step away.

  As Mom assured the guys, “We’ll be right back,” I ducked into a nearby bathroom.