by Olivia Jake
I even shared about the arrogant Dr. Rosenberg. I left out the part about my mom falling for his good looks. I already felt like I had let her down by losing it like that, I didn’t want to betray her anymore by complaining about her to Marty. I also left out the part about running into him at the bar. Marty listened and said all the right, comforting things. It was nice to have him to talk to. He was a sweet man, a good man. He never once interrupted me, and he tried to sooth my worries. When I finally got it all out, I realized we’d been talking for almost an hour. As nice as it was, it was starting to feel too personal.
“Well, now I’m going to have to stay late to make up my work!” I joked trying to artfully end the conversation.
Marty rolled his eyes before softening again. “I appreciate you sharing with me. I’m getting that’s probably not in your comfort zone.”
“I’m that transparent?”
“Nah, the opposite. That’s my point.”
“Well, not everyone is as easy to talk with. I appreciate your concern and support, Marty. Truly.”
“I know you do. That’s why I give it.”
Marty gathered his bag and gave me one last smile before he walked out leaving me feeling something I hadn’t ever felt before with a man: cared for.
CHAPTER 4
The next week I had a photo shoot and a presentation that I couldn’t miss. Barbara assured me that she was ok and there was nothing I could do before our next appointment with Dr. Rosenberg. It was the first time that she wasn’t playing the helpless female. I couldn’t help but feel guilty, but I was grateful for work as a distraction and threw myself into it even more than usual.
Tom and I had been working on a new makeup account called “Illusion”. We were shooting a semi-naked model behind frosted glass and in post we would bring out her features with the makeup. It was a closed set but still, most of the guys in the office teased that they for some reason or another needed to be there. It was all good-natured fun and in the end given the racy nature of the shoot it was just me, Dave, the photographer, the makeup artist and the model. Marty had chosen the photographer, so while I didn’t know him, I’d had conversations over the phone with him prior to the shoot to discuss lighting and the overall idea and we’d agreed that for a shoot like this, the fewer people the better.
When I walked into the studio, Dave’s back was to me as he tested the lighting with the model while she was still somewhat clothed. After a few shots he looked up as I walked towards him to introduce myself. When I recognized him from some drunken night, I felt all the blood drain out of my face. He did a double take and then acknowledged me with a knowing smirk.
“I thought your voice sounded familiar.”
For a split second I thought about pretending like I didn’t recognize him, but I was already dead in the water. “Um, yeah, so I’m Stephanie,” I said lamely as I stuck out my hand to shake his. He seemed amused as he regarded my outstretched hand for a moment and then after letting me twist for a few seconds too long, shook it.
“I didn’t think I got your name the first time I, um, met you.”
I nodded and looked at the floor then back up at him and then anywhere else. The model, the set, the monitor.
“So you work for Marty?”
“Mmmhmm.” I nodded. My mouth was so dry, my heart was beating so fast, my palms were clammy. I felt trapped. I wasn’t sure how I could simultaneously feel a million things and complete blankness run through my mind. So I stood there as he seemed to enjoy watching me squirm.
“I’ve known him and a bunch of the guys at his agency for years. Small world.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure if he was just making conversation or an idle threat. There wasn’t anything I could say. I just stood there mute as I wondered whether he’d tell the entire agency what I’d done with him. I wasn’t even sure exactly just what that was. Or where. Or when. I just knew that we obviously had been together. And I knew my old MO, so I doubt there was much chit chat. I couldn’t change what I’d done. All I could do was move forward. This was business, so that’s who I would be: his client, not some pathetic slut he knew once.
“Right, ok, so are we all set with the first setup?”
Dave put his hand on my shoulder and I flinched and stepped back.
“Stephanie, lighten up. I had a good time. Maybe after the shoot we could…”
“Look, Dave, no offense, I’d just rather focus on the shoot. I’m not that person anymore, ok?”
“Yeah, obviously. That girl I met at the bar was a lot more fun.”
With that he turned back to his camera and barked out orders to one of his assistants. There was nothing I could do. I’d brought this on myself and now, my whole plan of starting over was looking like it was all going to come crumbling down around me. It was all I could do not to walk out of there, find something to down, come back in and screw Dave’s brains out just to prove to him that I still was that fun girl, and to numb myself from the sickening feelings that were creeping in. Of course, I didn’t. That wasn’t me anymore. I’d get through this. I’d have to. If he told Marty and the guys at the agency, well, so be it. Maybe they’d never believe it anyway.
The shoot was awkward and uncomfortable, and Dave was a dick to me. It took every shred of determination that I had not to do something stupid. Ironically, as irresponsible as I had been with men, I was always incredibly responsible in every other area of my life. I think the conditioning early on of always being the adult to my mother must have led to that. So I have her to thank for that part of me.
As much as I desperately wanted to walk away, I had a job to do, and Dave’s fragile ego would just have to deal with rejection. Plus, I was the client. I, or my agency, was paying him.
“One sec, I want her to shift positions.” I said to Dave who seemed surprised I spoke up.
“I think she looks good the way she is.”
“And I want her in a different position.” I said looking him square in the eyes before turning my back to him as I walked over to the model.
I took my time behind the frosted glass, grateful it was there, and explained to Malena what I was looking for. She smiled sweetly and when I came back I made sure my shoulders were back and my head was up. I didn’t need Dave to like me, but I did need to get the shots I wanted.
“Okay” was all I said as my indication that he could start shooting again, which he reluctantly, silently did. As the shoot progressed, I continued to art direct Malena, talking only to her, and in the end, it was a beautiful shoot.
As we wrapped, I vowed to remain professional. “Thanks, Dave. I think we got some really nice shots here. You can send a drive to the office.” I stuck out my hand to shake his and he looked at it, snorted and then rolled his eyes.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you some kind of schizo?”
I had no response. Maybe I was. I had tried to be the bigger person, tried to be professional, yet I still felt like I wanted to throw up. I’m not sure what the right play would have been. It didn’t really matter. I had screwed up my courage to get through the shoot, which I did, and got what I needed. I didn’t combust or wilt or yell or cry. I got through it, which was a big step. As I drove back to the office I congratulated myself on not falling apart while simultaneously worrying what, if any fallout there would be at the office once Dave had talked with Marty and the rest of the gang.
On the drive back to the office as I was wracking my brain trying to remember when and where I’d met Dave, my cell rang and upon seeing my mom’s name pop up, I was snapped out of my pathetic wallowing and reminded that there were far more important things to worry about.
“How are you feeling today? Have you been able to eat?”
She sighed. “God, Steph, I just can’t digest anything. I get hungry and then eat something and a few minutes later my stomach just bloats up. I’m so uncomfortable. And I look disgusting. I look so fat.”
“Ma, you’re not fat.”
“
You saw my belly. It’s disgusting! I can’t even look at myself.”
As sad as it may have been, I was grateful that my mom was focusing on the superficial rather than what the underlying cause was.
“Enough about this. How’s work?”
“I’m on my way back from a shoot for Illusion cosmetics.”
“Oh, I use their foundation! I love their products! You know, I was one of the first of my friends to try their line and now everyone’s using it…”
With that, we were back to our usual dynamic. She chatted on for the rest of the drive to the office keeping my mind free from worry about her or Dave or anything else that could turn my life upside down.
****
Once again, I asked Marty for the afternoon off to take Barb to her first chemo appointment. Neither of us had any idea what to expect and I wanted to be there with her even if I didn’t necessarily need to be. Marty encouraged me to take the entire day if I needed to, but I came in early to try to make up for it. And once again, Marty checked in on me.
“I thought I might catch you here early.” He said as he walked into my office. It was a little past seven a.m. so we were the only two people there.
“I’m becoming a foregone conclusion?” I kidded and he shrugged as he put down a coffee and pastry.
“Marty, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I wanted to.”
“I, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Marty.” It must have been a combination of all the worry and stress, but tears started welling up which I blinked back furiously in hopes that he didn’t see.
“It’s just coffee, Steph.”
“And a scone.” I joked.
“And a scone.” He paused and sat down. “How are you holding up?”
I was starting to get used to Marty’s gentle prodding. Over the last few weeks, I’d been to probably half a dozen appointments with Barb, so coming in early and talking with Marty was becoming somewhat routine. Still, opening up wasn’t second nature.
“Resistance is futile, right?”
“For such a bright young woman, you’re a slow learner in some areas.”
I blushed at the compliment, back-handed as it may have been.
“I don’t know. This whole process so far has been so surreal. Everything’s happened so fast. And it seems like no one really has any answers. And I worry about my mom. She just seems so scared, not that I blame her. I just wish there was something I could do. I feel so damn helpless.”
“If there’s anything I can do…”
“Find a cure for cancer?”
“Top of my to do list.”
“Thanks, Marty. I really don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t so flexible and understanding.”
“You haven’t seen me in a yoga class. I’m the antithesis of flexible.”
I rolled my eyes at his corny joke and tried to stifle my snickering. He got up and started to walk out. He turned around and paused in my doorway.
“I’ll be thinking good thoughts this afternoon for both you and your mom.”
“Thank you.”
We smiled at each other before then he went into his office. I tried not to worry about what I would have done if I hadn’t landed where I did. I couldn’t imagine taking this much time off at my previous job. I also tried not to worry about the feelings I was starting to develop for Marty. I knew logically why I was feeling them. He was the first man who ever seemed to take an interest in me, who seemed to genuinely care about me. He was also getting to know me better than most anyone else, which scared the crap out of me. That fear coupled with the fact that he was my boss was enough to keep my head on straight about the line that could not be crossed.
CHAPTER 5
Whatever conjecture, whatever lies we had told ourselves the last time we were in Dr. Rosenberg’s office all went down the drain when we set foot in the waiting room for the second time, and the stark reality hit us both. Waiting rooms were rarely pleasant places, but the waiting room in an oncologist’s office really took the cake. Most everyone there was a cancer patient, or that patient’s relative or caretaker. More people than not were bald, wore scarves or obvious wigs. Many had ports in their chests or Picc lines in their arms. The sad reality was that whoever was in this waiting room, odds weren’t in their favor.
Even though we’d been there before, we were both stunned again when we stepped off the elevator. Dr. Rosenberg’s practice took up the entire sixth floor of the medical building, and the sheer size of the waiting room and amount of people in it was staggering. Row upon row of chairs, and almost all were taken.
There were so many different ways of looking at what this room symbolized. After we signed in and found two seats next to each other, I leaned over and whispered, “It’s not just you, mom. I know it might not make it better, but you’re not the only one. Look at all these people.” The truth was, I was grasping at straws trying to find something, anything even remotely positive to say. I thought that perhaps there was comfort in knowing that she wasn’t singled out for this disease. Other people got through it and managed, and hopefully survived. If they were here, dealing with it, then so could she. So could I.
Then again, there were some patients who I thought, that poor soul. Women and men so frail, so old, it was hard not to wonder what the point was. I tried not to pity them and assume their last moments on this earth would be spent going to doctor’s offices and poisoning their bodies in the hopes that the poison did more than just make them as weak and sick and miserable as they seemed. As I looked around, I saw so much sadness and resignation. But I also saw compassion in the smallest of gestures. An elderly wife holding her husband’s bruised and wrinkled hand as she smiled at him. Caretakers helping patients who weren’t their own flesh and blood. Caring smiles exchanged between strangers. The majority of the patients were elderly, but there were a few people who I thought could be around my age, though without hair, eyelashes and eyebrows, it was hard to tell. Still, they couldn’t have been much older than me.
Then, of course, there was the perspective that this was real life, real shit. None of these people had a choice about this. For so long I had been wrapped up in my bubble of poor little sex deviant, that sitting in this waiting room made me just flat out embarrassed to think of how much time I’d wasted on what now looked so trivial. Of course, that was my reality. And now, this was.
I gently took my mom’s bony hand in mine and held it, stroking her soft skin with my thumb. She looked over at me and smiled. There just wasn’t much to say that we hadn’t already said to each other over the last week while waiting for this appointment. So much of this disease, this diagnosis, so far, had been the waiting. Waiting for doctors. Waiting for test results. Waiting to hear what the next steps would be. I imagined it would continue to be a waiting game. Waiting for the meds to work, for more test results, further prognosis. Even in just these beginning stages, it was virtually impossible for us not to get ahead of ourselves.
When our name was finally called and the nurse took us back beyond the double doors into the actual office and treatment areas, I was amazed again by the sheer size. It was like a cancer treatment factory with dozens upon dozens of patient rooms. We stopped at one of a few height and weight stations where a nurse took both of those. When she finished, she led us into one of the large chemo rooms. I have no idea if that’s what they were called, but they were the rooms with rows and rows of reclining chairs and IV stands. A decorator’s nightmare. As I looked around, it was obvious that many of the patients were old pros. Their expressions were nothing like mine and Barb’s. There was no puzzlement, question or anxiety in their faces. This was old hat to them. I realized that in the coming weeks and months, it would be for us as well. There’s usually comfort in familiarity, but in this case, I would have chosen discomfort if I had the choice. But no one in this room had a choice, or not any good choices. I recalled all the commercials I had seen or heard about different types of cancer treatment centers and
their various approaches. Now that we were actually faced with it, there was no time to drive hundreds of miles to get a second opinion. All of the appointments so far were already so all consuming that the thought of adding other doctors, other approaches into the mix was beyond daunting. So we followed the course that was set out for us as I imagine most people do.
The nurse settled us into our spot, each recliner had a corresponding IV stand and ‘guest’ chair next to it. They too were pros. I wondered how many people they treated each day, the place felt like a factory.
“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Lawson?”
“How do you think?” my mom spat back. I was about to apologize for her, but she did it herself.
“I’m sorry, it’s just, how do you think I feel? I mean, how am I supposed to answer that?” Tears welled up in my mom’s eyes and I took her hand in mine.
“You’re right. And I’m sorry. Tell you what. Next time, I’ll just say hello and if you’re feeling like sharing with me, you go on and do it. And if not, we’ll just leave it at that. Sound like a plan?” The nurse was a sweetheart and this obviously wasn’t her first ornery patient. I was impressed with her tact. My mom just nodded and smiled, a little embarrassed at her outburst.
“Ok, I’m going to access your port. Oh, looks like it’s a new one!” The nurse pulled my mom’s shirt to the side to reveal the port that had been inserted less than a week ago on the right side of her chest. The skin covered it, but it still protruded, looking like something out of an alien movie.
