by Anna Yen
Moments later a nurse raced through the wide, bright hospital halls holding on to my gurney and heading toward radiology. Dr. Levin followed us and I heard Audrey say “ultrasound” but nothing else. Although I was delirious, I was alert enough to know that two technicians were trying to ease me into a horizontal position. But the weight of my stomach’s skin was too heavy for whatever was inside me and made the pressure unbearable. I let out a scream, cursing and yelling like Satan’s child as they forced me to lie flat and tied me down. Finally, mercifully, my eyes rolled into the back of my head and I felt nothing.
Audrey stood in front of the room’s large picture window, seeming lost in her thoughts as she stared at the fog that ominously enveloped the Golden Gate Bridge. The mauve walls of the hospital room reminded me of the 1980s; I wondered about the dated paint color—the same one often found in dentists’, doctors’, and OB-GYN offices—and whether it was supposed to be soothing. It’s not soothing to me. It’s just ugly. I noticed Audrey was now wearing jeans, which likely meant it was the next day, and then made a brief attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation going on in the hall. My attention then turned to the low-thread-count hospital sheets that were chafing the hell out of my bare ass. Anything to distract myself from reality.
“Notify the press, Audrey is not on her BlackBerry,” I managed, hoping she would engage in some sisterly bickering. Instead, Audrey turned around at the sound of my voice and, wearing a fake smile, asked, “How long have you been awake? Are you still in pain?”
“Much better,” I said, avoiding any movement or deep breaths. I could tell the pain was skimming the surface, waiting to erupt once again.
“Mom and Dad got home yesterday and are downstairs getting something to eat,” she said.
“They’re going to drive me nuts,” I responded grumpily.
Audrey smiled and nodded in agreement, but I could tell she was relieved to have our parents home. I considered how little had changed since we were young—I was still a burden. But gone was the anger that used to reside in her eyes; it had been replaced by a softer look: she was older, more tired, more patient perhaps—and had the fine wrinkles to prove it.
My thoughts were disrupted by the sound of Audrey asking, “Do you need anything, Sophia?”
“Peter. Get my BlackBerry and send him an email from me. Just tell him . . .”
“Sophia, don’t worry about Peter. I’ll let him know.”
“No, I don’t want him to know,” I said as fears of being “damaged goods” came flooding back into my head. What if this is something really bad? Will Peter run away? “Just, just tell him something. Anything. Tell him I had to take a last-minute trip to Australia—for work—and that I’ll be home in a few weeks.”
“Australia? Why Australia?”
“I don’t know. It’s the farthest place I could think of just now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in the hospital? He could be really helpful.”
I thought about Audrey being right, but then drifted back to sleep.
My eyes opened at the sound of the door opening. It was Dr. Levin, and he didn’t look as though he’d come to shoot the shit. Audrey sat in a recliner-style chair in the corner of the small room; she dropped her Wall Street Journal and stood up so she could be near me.
“We’ve gotten the results of your CT scan and the biopsy,” he said grimly. I wasn’t ready to hear bad news, so I tried to get Dr. Levin to laugh. He was a handsome man, maybe fifteen years older than me, and had a healthy outdoor-guy appearance. Steve Levin’s eyes could charm anyone, and his smile was honest and genuine—it was exactly what I needed.
“Who needs CT results? I just needed a vacation, Dr. Levin,” I joked, but my doctor didn’t laugh or smile.
Maybe it was because I was terribly tired, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel the fear that should have been running through me as I connected the dots—the doctor’s concerned expression, CT scan, biopsy. He was there to tell me what I already knew.
I said the words as though I were playing a casual round of pub trivia: “It’s cancer.”
Dr. Levin lowered his head to hide his disappointment. “Yes. It is. And please, call me Steve.”
I closed my eyes and searched for panic. It didn’t come, though. Only an eerie calm and a blank mind. Then came the fear, but it revolved around having to give my parents the news. This is going to kill them.
“Do you think we can hide this from Mom and Dad?” I turned to ask Audrey.
Her expression changed from concern to one I knew well. “Are you fucking insane?”
I tried hard to hold it back, but somehow, my laugh escaped and Steve chuckled as well. With the laughter came shooting pain that caused me to wrap both my arms around my torso, but Audrey seemed relieved to hear me laugh, and she wasn’t the only one.
“I’m not afraid. I’m not. It’s not my time,” I said, convincing her and Dr. Levin as much as I was myself. If I didn’t stay strong, I knew I’d sink deep into self-pity, and that wasn’t going to help me one bit.
Audrey’s expression softened once again, and for the first time I could remember, she took my hand and squeezed it tight.
“Anyway, of course it’s cancer. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” I said, managing a smile.
Dr. Levin stared at me, probably wondering if I’d lost my marbles. “It’s a large mass—we think about six centimeters—and it’s made your stomach rock hard. Shit, Sophia, couldn’t you feel it?”
Dr. Levin’s expletive somehow put me more at ease. I shrugged innocently and said, “I’ve been doing a lot of stomach crunches!”
“We’ll need to determine how to get it out—it’s complicated because we’re not sure if it’s on your intestine or your kidney and whether an oncology or possibly a transplant surgeon should operate. Until then, I think you should finally be comfortable. I’m sorry it took us so long to find the right level of pain medications.” I studied his face, unsure of the message it now sent. Concern, of course, but not as much as I’d expected. Dr. Levin was a what’s next kind of a person and not one to lament, so I followed his lead and reminded myself that I knew how to do this, how to stay focused on the now. I drew upon my Sterling, Rich days—the days of tracking my billing hours—and how that practice prevented me from spinning my wheels.
Bill in six-minute increments.
Chapter 15
On the fourth day of my hospitalization, the nurses moved me into my own room. Although floral bouquets from Scott and Christine, Ashley, Jonathan, Kate, and my family cheered up the small space and added a pleasant, fresh fragrance, I couldn’t help but find it a cruel irony that the big move of my twenties was not into a charming apartment but into a plain hospital room. When Audrey and Kate came to visit that morning, I was struggling to get comfortable in the very uncomfortable hospital bed. A rerun of Seinfeld ran in the background, and while the television blared, I concentrated on my laptop, thankful I had plenty of work to keep my brain cells occupied.
“Good morning,” they said in perfect harmony.
“Hello!” I smiled.
“Have you spoken with Peter? He keeps calling me,” Audrey said as she laid down a stack of magazines on my bed.
“Didn’t you tell him I was in Australia?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. I sent him that lame email you told me to send and can guarantee he doesn’t believe a word of it. You really need to tell him, Sophia. Tell your friends! You can’t keep this bottled up inside.”
“I told people! Who do you think all these flowers are from?”
“At least consider that support group that Dr. Levin mentioned,” Kate added, making me feel as though I was being ganged up on.
“Now that’s ridiculous. I’m not like those people! What is this, an intervention or something?”
“We’re just trying to get you some support. Mom and Dad agree.”
I argued that I knew what would happen if people beyond my inner circle found out.
They would make my illness about them. They would be angry I didn’t tell them sooner and make me feel guilty. I explained to Audrey and Kate that everyday how are yous would suddenly be asked in sympathetic tones—tones that fuel self-pity—and that I’d already sensed it from Dr. Levin.
“You’re just imagining that,” said Kate.
“So what if I am? Does it have any less of an effect?”
But to put an end to Kate and Audrey’s pestering, I agreed to call Peter—and only Peter—as soon as they left. “Fine, okay already. If he breaks up with me, it’s your guys’ fault,” I warned.
“I wasn’t really in Australia,” I said through the phone while lying in my hospital bed.
“Seriously? I had no idea,” Peter responded, uncharacteristically sarcastic in an angry way. “Where have you been? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
Here it goes.
“They found a tumor,” I muttered, unable to say the word cancer.
I shared with Peter what little I knew of the “friend” in my abdomen, and expected him to respond with a slew of questions that I hadn’t dared to ask Dr. Levin, the answers to which I didn’t want to know. But my boyfriend surprised me with his reaction:
“It’s going to be okay, Sophia. Shit happens, but we’ll figure it out. We’ll deal with it.”
My lip quivered with emotion and I was thankful for Peter’s supportive, less-than-dramatic response. That’s exactly what I needed to hear. A few minutes later, I said goodbye to my boyfriend, but not before telling him that I loved him. Then I looked up to see my father. Oh shit, he must have heard everything.
I waited for Dad to freak out over me saying the L word to a man, but his face didn’t suggest that was going to happen. It made me wonder if he knew I’d been talking with Peter, and I decided I’d hold my breath and let Dad make the first move.
“What did he say?” Dad asked.
I smiled. “He said that we’ll figure it out.”
Dad nodded and seemed relieved. “I like that response. I like it a lot. Especially coming from a doctor. When are you going to finally introduce us?”
That evening, I made a decision that was uncharacteristic for me: I emailed a few coworkers and close friends from college I’d kept in touch with, sharing my news with them. Although I’d asked them to keep it private, I knew word of my illness would spread. I didn’t know why I lifted the curtain when I’d been so secretive in the past; maybe it was because of Peter’s response, or the fact that I could already feel a certain badge of honor as I imagined myself announcing to unsuspecting people, “I am a cancer survivor.” Although my friends responded by calling and asking to visit, I told everyone (and instructed my family and nurses to do the same), “No visitors.” I wasn’t ready to see expressions of sympathy. Sympathy makes me weak.
The next morning, hospital carts filled with flowers and gifts arrived; they were from friends and coworkers and threatened to fill every square inch of my room. Instead of making me feel weak, the flowers and get-well cards reminded me that I was loved. Maybe this is enough love, I told myself as I reconsidered my goals about having my own family. Maybe, I allowed myself to think for a moment, I already have one.
The next day, Dad sat in the corner, working on his laptop while my china-doll mom picked up four or five flower-filled vases and balanced them in her arms. “Let’s give some of these to the nurses. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled. Besides, it helps build goodwill,” she said.
“But Mom! I like those flowers,” I argued, eyeing the beautiful pink peonies she had in her hand.
Mom put on her I thought I taught you better look. “These flowers are not from your friends, Sophia. They’re from your acquaintances.” Without waiting for me to respond, she walked out the door with her arms full.
A ringing telephone interrupted my pouting. “Hello?” I answered.
“Hi,” Scott whispered.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Oh. I didn’t realize . . .”
I spoke loudly and slowly, as though I were ordering at a drive-through McDonald’s. “YOU DON’T NEED TO WHISPER.”
He responded with an extremely rare apology—“Oh, oh, sorry”—and I pictured him pulling at his socks nervously, wearing yet another hole in his jeans.
“Stop tiptoeing, Scott. I’m fine. No worries here,” I said.
“Do they know anything else? What’s the plan?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like anything has spread, which is great news, but they won’t know until they open me up tomorrow. So until then, I can’t eat. I can’t wait to get this thing out! I’m starving!”
“I’d want it out, too.” I heard people talking in the background, although they were speaking a language I didn’t understand. “How large is the growth?”
“Where are you?” I asked, not answering his question.
“South America.”
“What? Why? How is it that I didn’t know about this?”
“It was a last-minute decision.”
No way. You, the control freak?
Mom burst back into the room with emptied arms, looking as though she’d achieved world peace. She then sat down next to Dad with her reading glasses and Chinese newspaper.
“What are you doing there?” I asked, knowing full well that Scott orchestrated everyone, every event, and every “thing” in his life, and never did anything last minute. His trips took more planning than a state dinner, and this one—with the food planning and whatnot—would have taken Ashley weeks to organize.
No more chitchat from Scott, though; he didn’t have the attention span. “I have to go,” he said. Even though it was a quick call, I was touched. Tearful even. But my emotions turned toward the door as Peter casually entered my room, looking as though he were there to pick me up for any ol’ dinner. All thoughts of Scott and work faded away, as did the worry about having him meet my parents for the first time. Peter is here.
The loud ring of my cell phone woke me from my nap. How long have I been asleep? If this clock was right—and there was no guarantee it was—two hours. The late-afternoon sun was beating through the window, and as I shaded my eyes from it, I saw a notepad by my bedside with messages written in my mom’s handwriting and several that looked like they came from the nurse’s station. All of the messages were from Grant, and that didn’t include the two he’d left that morning. What does he want?
As I studied the notepad, my cell phone rang again. Certain that it was Grant and reveling slightly in the attention he was giving me, I happily assumed my old grumpy Sterling, Rich tone: “What!”
“That’s not very ladylike,” my mother said as she entered my room and pushed her way past the most recent delivery of bouquets, balancing her hospital cafeteria dinner. “I hope you don’t speak to Peter that way. Dad actually likes this one.” She settled into the corner chair and unwrapped the chopsticks she pulled from her purse.
“Hi, Mom,” I responded while putting my hand over the phone receiver, half expecting her to tell me to apply some lipstick. I was amused by the sight of her eating the mashed potatoes and roasted chicken with chopsticks as I returned to my conversation with Grant.
“Where have you been?” Grant asked. “I’ve sent you at least a dozen emails.”
“Why? What do you want?”
“Nice to talk to you, too, Sophia. It’s been ages,” flowed Grant’s sarcasm.
I chuckled gently, careful not to disturb my belly. “Hi, Grant. We just spoke, like, last week. You told me you got that offer to go in-house at that silly Internet search company, remember? So what is it that you want?”
“You’re right. I want something,” he said with a laugh. “Well, sort of. You’ve heard of Andre Stark, no doubt. His company is looking for an IR person.”
“The Andre Stark? The one with the electric cars?”
“Yes. Ion. I’d like to put your name in the hat, if that’s okay with you. There’s no doubt it’s going to be hard to convince investors tha
t Andre can do what he says, but I think it’s going to be a winner and a great opportunity for you.”
“I don’t know, Grant. I’m happy and comfortable at Treehouse.”
“This could be your crowning glory, Sophia. You’d be the one shaping the story this time and helping them through the entire IPO. It’s what Treehouse prepared you to do.”
Okay. Keep talking, keep talking. I let Grant float several more compliments my way—how great I was at my job and how uniquely qualified I was for the Ion role.
“Why have they had a hard time filling the position? I would imagine people are jumping at the opportunity.”
Grant confessed. “Let’s just say Andre Stark is . . . particular.” That’s code for a nightmare.
“Are you trying to pimp me out to another one of your clients?” I joked, forgetting completely about the C word. “You’ve done that once already. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“Yes, but look how well it turned out for you,” Grant said seriously. I knew he was right. Grant was an exceptional mentor and I trusted him. He wouldn’t steer me wrong.
“Your timing isn’t great,” I said.
“What better timing than now? You’ll get stock options that are still very reasonably priced.”
“That’s not what I mean, Grant. I’m in the hospital,” I said before explaining my predicament.
Grant, being Grant, responded with an eloquent “oh shit,” but didn’t dig for more.
“Ha! Yep, that just about sums it up.”
Still, he was relentless. “Ion is going to inspire not just the stock market, but the entire nation. Financially, this could be a life-changing event for you. And selfishly, I’d look good for helping him fill the role.” He’d clearly thought this through, and I reminded myself that I trusted him. He wasn’t one to exaggerate, and to make it about himself.
As my dad always said, “It never hurts to try.” I asked Grant to give me a few days to think about the Ion job, though, because there were many reasons why I should have been wary: the risk (which had never been my thing), the lackluster IPO market, the turmoil of the auto industry, Andre Stark’s reputation, and my health.
