Sophia of Silicon Valley

by Anna Yen

  After assuring Grant that I was going to be fine and hanging up the phone, I sighed loudly. Mom looked up from her dinner. “Everything okay?”

  “All good, thanks, Mom. For everything,” I said with a nod and a grin. “I love you, you crazy bat!”

  She shrugged and giggled like a schoolgirl.

  I turned on the television and searched for a show my mom would like, but my mind was elsewhere: how far I had strayed from my original plan to be a happy housewife with a handsome, loving husband, adorable kids, and a beautiful home. But I reasoned that much of that was beyond my control, and that continuing to chase that original dream could be selfish, not to mention burdensome to anyone who got too close to me. I glanced over at my mother, still chopsticking her way through her hospital cafeteria chicken. Is it right to allow someone to fall in love with me, for me to have children that I could end up leaving motherless? To consign them to a life of hospital cafeteria chicken and worry, of needles and late-night phone calls from doctors? After all, even if I beat the cancer, I couldn’t deny the fact that my life expectancy was shorter than average. I began convincing myself that I should strive for something else. My thoughts turned to Peter.

  Run, Peter, Run.

  Chapter 16

  The tugging at my arms woke me from a heavy slumber just as a woman’s voice said, “Let’s try to sit you up.” My brain registered that she was speaking to me, but my body ignored her; it behaved listlessly and flopped around like a lightweight cotton summer hat. I crinkled my nose and mumbled as though inebriated: “Are we there yet?”

  Audrey’s laughter cut through some of my fuzziness and gave me just enough strength to crack open my eyes. I grinned at the sound of her cackling, pleased that I entertained her. Seconds later, my head fell forward, then rolled side to side as I grumbled, “I’m tired of holding up my head.” Audrey laughed again, this time louder and harder. The woman tried to hold it in, but her giggles eventually joined my sister’s.

  “Stop laughing at her!” barked my mother. The sound of her scolding my sister induced a satisfied, sibling-in-the-right grin to spread on my face and lulled me back to my daze. Just as I was about to fall asleep, the woman’s loud voice counted—“One, two, three”—as two sets of hands hoisted me from the operating room gurney and back onto my hospital bed.

  It took a few moments for things to register in my anesthesia-riddled brain as I broke through my daze again: the rancid odor of something rotten filled my nostrils. I frowned and muttered, “What is that smell?” before realizing in a semiconscious state that the surgery was over. I made it.

  “It’s herbal medicine, sweetheart,” my dad responded, sounding cheerier than the father of a cancer patient should. I narrowed my eyes to focus better on Dad, who stood slightly back from the women and sipped his afternoon mocha from a plastic-lidded cup.

  I managed to turn my head so I could scan the room. Peter was standing there silently in the corner, respectful of our family time, and I knew Dad appreciated it. He was somewhat hidden behind stacks and stacks of brown-paper-wrapped bundles that I recognized all too well. They and the dubious smells they emitted reminded me of the many years I spent resisting my father’s well-meaning attempts to cure my diabetes through his natural methods. I hated that period in my life and his interventions in it. All I’d wanted to do was fit in. But how could a child put on a bathing suit and swim with her friends when her back was covered with bruises caused by Chinese cupping therapy? What could a teenager say when friends asked about the smelly brown herbal tonic that she drank during lunch? One day in high school, I’d exploded at my father because I was embarrassed about these therapies, tired of being “sick” in his eyes when I felt fine day to day, and done with being different. That was what I’d planned to say to him, but instead, what came out in a tearful, screaming rush that woke him from his pipe dream was “DIABETES IS NOT CURABLE! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  As I lay there in the hospital bed, I was still certain that I wasn’t up for anything “alternative.”

  “Dad! I am not taking any of that.” I turned my gaze and looked for more support. “Mom, please tell him.”

  Audrey broke in. “It’s not him, Sophia. Scott sent all of it.”

  Dad looked exceptionally pleased as my head wobbled back toward him. I told myself I would fight that battle later. Nothing mattered at that moment except my surgery. “What did the surgeon say?”

  Mom and Dad stood on either side of my bed wearing smiles that didn’t appear to be strictly due to the pop-up herbal pharmacy that my room had become.

  “He said it went very well,” Dad said. “They said the disease doesn’t seem to have . . .”

  Dad’s voice trailed off and he couldn’t bear to finish his sentence. Before either of us could get sentimental, a familiar face walked into my room.

  “Well, good morning,” the surgeon said, trying nonchalantly to wave his hand in front of his nose as the “natural remedies” hit his nostrils—hard to imagine how anyone could ignore them. He was handsome, tall, Middle Eastern, and exuded an arrogant confidence that went along with his reputation as a “cowboy” surgeon—a risk taker who would do anything to conquer the task at hand. After asking how I felt, he relayed in almost too much detail what he’d accomplished during the surgery. I listened for his tone as he spoke. He sounds optimistic.

  “We are hoping the pathology report and the lymph nodes show clear margins. That would mean that we extracted everything and that there’s no more cancer in your body.”

  “Did you give me a tummy tuck while you were at it?” I asked, doing my best to charm the surgeon. I was sore and stiff, but my sense of humor hadn’t waned.

  My mother glared at me to show her disapproval of my flirting, then bowed her head slightly and handed the surgeon a fancy bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne. Oh so Chinese. “Thank you for taking care of Sophia,” she said without making eye contact.

  “Let’s assume the pathology report will be good, and plan to open this for a champagne toast then,” the surgeon said just before the black pager attached to his hip started to vibrate. “Get some rest; I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

  With almost too much enthusiasm, Dad shook the surgeon’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “Really. Thank you.”

  The phone woke me from my deep, restful sleep, but before I could open my eyes I heard someone scramble to answer it.

  “Hello,” Peter said.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  My boyfriend spoke into the receiver and then asked me, “Do you want to speak to Tony?”

  Since the only Tony I knew was the banker from Chaussure.com, and prioritizing work was a complete habit, I reached my arm out to take the receiver while feeling the pull of my abdominal incision. The voice on the other end of the phone was not Tony’s—it was Scott’s.

  “Why are you giving a fake name? What’s this ‘Tony’ business?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like people knowing it’s me.”

  “Why not?”

  Scott didn’t answer my question but preferred to focus on what he wanted to discuss: the herbs. “Did you get the herbal medicines?” he asked. “Some of them can only be collected by monkeys in Brazil.”

  Oh Lord. Here we go.

  “First of all, were those monkeys well taken care of? They weren’t abused or chained down or anything, were they?” I asked softly.

  Scott sighed impatiently. “No, Sophia. There were no chains. They gave ‘free range’ a whole new meaning.”

  Then it occurred to me. “Is that why you were in South America? You didn’t go for me, did you?”

  Instead of answering the question, he continued, “I’m telling you. You have the best herbal medicines from all over the world. I’ve had them blended with a special root from Nicoya, Costa Rica. That region has incredibly low rates of cancer, and I’m certain the root is the secret to their longevity.”

  “They’re stinking up my room,” I told him as I grinned at
Peter, who plugged his nose and pretended to choke.

  “There’s also a blend from India. Those are the anti-inflammatories and—”

  “Why do I need anti-inflammatories?” I asked.

  “That’s what causes cancer. Inflammation,” he explained. “There’s also digestive enzymes to help you build up the immunity in your abdomen . . .” I wanted to ask which mountain yogi he tracked down to get all this information, if only to egg him on and fluster him, purely for my own entertainment.

  Scott continued to ramble about the herbal concoctions, and while I had no interest in trying them, I couldn’t help but be grateful that he went to all this trouble. I slowly enunciated each of my next words to emphasize how serious and heartfelt my comments were. “Thank you very much, Scott. I appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone through. I’ll ask Dr. Levin if I can take them.”

  “Of course you can take them!” he barked. “I would choose those over chemo any day. Are they suggesting chemo?”

  “I haven’t asked yet.”

  “Oh,” Scott responded, seemingly surprised. “When are you getting out?”

  I let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know.” Then I added, “Just call or email me if you need anything.” It was one of our old patterns. I always offered. I didn’t even ask myself if I meant it.

  I turned to Peter after hanging up with Scott. “So, Mr. Western Medicine, what is your professional opinion about all these alternative ways? I bet you didn’t study any of this in medical school.”

  Peter shrugged and his expression looked as though he didn’t have an opinion. So I was surprised when he said, “I hate to admit it, but I’m a believer. There was an integrative medicine rotation at Stanford and the results were impressive, so I read a lot more about it. There are a lot of cases that prove it works.”

  “Not you, too. What specifically did you read?”

  “Well, take the simplest thing like diet. You know how sugar and carbs affect your blood sugar levels. And some cancer tumors can feed off of sugar and fat.”

  I frowned. Oh dear, I love fat.

  “Um, well, there are certain foods that are anti-inflammatory as well, right? You’ve heard of that.”

  I nodded.

  “So there are herbs that indigenous people have used for years, and Asian cultures, too, that carry ten times the anti-inflammatory properties of something like a blueberry. Turmeric is one example.”

  Defeated.

  On the fourteenth day of my hospitalization, Audrey, Mom, and Dad arrived earlier than usual because the pathology report was due back and they were anxious to hear the results. I, too, was nervous, and had spent the better part of the previous few days meditating, visualizing, humming, and doing my best to emit positive energy like Jonathan and Scott taught me after my breakup with Daniel. Feel what it will feel like when Dr. Levin and the surgeon give me good news. To make sure I had all my bases covered, I even prayed. God, please let it be good news.

  Kate was visiting and stood as my family entered. Everyone exchanged hellos before my dad stepped back into the hall with the boxes of donuts he had purchased earlier that morning. I could hear him talking to the nurses, telling them to enjoy the donuts and thanking them for taking such good care of me.

  “Don’t I get one of those?” Kate asked jokingly as Dad reentered my room.

  I shook my head. “They bring food for the nurses and doctors every day. Masters of kissing ass.” Dad grinned.

  I was happy to see my old friend and thankful for her nonchalant calm. She’d brought a stack of my favorite magazines, tucked inside a green felt satchel she knew I had been admiring for months. Kate wasn’t one for mushy speeches or big displays of emotion—this stack of magazines and trendy purse were about as sentimental as she got. She knew I understood. I would have given her one of those donuts if I could have.

  “Is Peter coming today?” she asked.

  “He was here yesterday. My dad talked his ear off. But I told him not to come today because if he hears the pathology report results, he’ll ask all sorts of questions that I may not want to hear the answers to.”

  “But I thought you guys were cool.”

  “We are. We are for sure.” I think.

  When Dr. Levin and the surgeon appeared in my doorway, they were both holding the fried and sugar-coated diabetic nightmares that my parents had brought. With his donut-free hand, the surgeon handed me a document that was about six or seven pages long. I saw my name on the front and didn’t dare look down any farther. “Well?” I asked.

  “They confirmed you had a gastrointestinal stromal tumor. It’s an extremely rare cancer.” Then, donning a huge smile, he continued, “But the margins and lymph nodes were clear and that is great news! That’s the best thing we could hope for!”

  I was so busy hugging both doctors, my mom, my sister, and Kate that I almost didn’t notice my dad. When I turned to look at him, Mom was shoving tissues into his hand. His shoulders were slumped over and he was shaking. I was afraid something was wrong with him—but when he looked up he was smiling from ear to ear. Dad, who never cried (except in the presence of the most pungent onions), and who eschewed any emotion other than optimism and good cheer, was laughing and crying as though no one were watching. But I was.

  “My baby girl,” he said as he leaned over to hug me. “That is the best news in the world.”

  Once I allowed myself the full excitement of the report—Here we come, cancer survivor badge!—I turned my attention to Dr. Levin and got right to business. “Wow, that wasn’t so bad,” I said. “Now what?”

  My dad leaned in with his good ear so he could hear clearly.

  “Well.” Levin cleared his throat. “Even though we got everything, and you technically no longer have traceable cancer cells, the GI oncologist here recommends chemotherapy, just to make sure the cancer doesn’t return. There’s one oral chemo that has minimal side effects, the most common of which is severe swelling.”

  Nope. Don’t like that option.

  “There’s another chemo pill, but that will turn you yellow.”

  Definitely don’t want that.

  “We could also try—”

  “Let me get this straight. This oncologist wants to fill me with toxins just because?”

  “It’s not just because. I’m sure he’s trying to prevent it from coming back.”

  So my options are to look like the Pillsbury Doughboy or Bart Simpson?

  “How long would I have to take this chemo?”

  “It’d be an ongoing thing, just like your insulin.”

  “So daily?”

  “Yep. It’s protocol,” Levin said.

  “But you don’t know if the cancer is going to come back.”

  Steve Levin didn’t say anything, but the look on his face—grim, uncomfortable, and definitely not worthy of Veuve Clicquot—told me all I needed to know. It told me nothing is for sure. That was an answer I never liked, and cancer made it even worse.

  I straightened up and changed the tone of my voice so it sounded strong and authoritative, just like the voice coach had taught me years ago. “It’s not coming back and I am certainly not going to be a patient of your negative GI oncologist friend.”

  Dr. Levin gave me a reassuring touch and said, “He’s not my friend. And don’t shoot me! I’m just the messenger. What do I look like, a cancer doctor?”

  We laughed for a moment, but then I looked at Audrey and my eyes began to dampen. I tried to maintain my composure—It’s okay. It’s not your time. It’s not your time—and took a deep breath.

  Audrey handed me a tissue from behind her, reassuring me, “We’ll get a second opinion.”

  I nodded and turned to my rock, my dad. “Nothing to worry about, right, Dad?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  “My sweet, sweet Sophia. This is just a bump in the road, it’s no big deal,” he said, reaching for my hand.

  Then I turned back to Dr. Levin and asked, “How did this happen? There’s no cancer in my fa
mily.”

  “We don’t know. It just happens,” he said before quietly leaving the room.

  Later that evening, everything was quiet and everyone had left me to rest. Sex and the City played on my laptop—the episode where Mr. Big comes to find Carrie in Paris. I’d seen this one dozens of times before, and I never failed to sigh and tear up when Carrie was crouched in the hotel lobby picking up her broken necklace after leaving the Russian artist. She cried until she saw Mr. Big. The series always sent me dreaming about my own Mr. Right, but this time, I daydreamed about something different. I focused on the beautiful hotel, Carrie’s unbelievably amazing dress, and the day that I would finally have the opportunity to visit Paris. I’d better hurry. There’s a lot left for me to do in this world. But I was living at home, making great money for someone my age although not enough to allow me to do much of anything. I was on a fast track to steady and stable. It wasn’t what I was looking for, or what I wanted out of life.

  My thoughts turned to Ion—an opportunity that, if all went well with its stock price, could make me wealthy enough to live a life on my own terms. Even though I made a nice salary at Treehouse, I’d been hired too late in the game for my stock options to give me the life that Ion could. If Ion worked out, I would never have to worry about being fired, saying the wrong thing, or being at someone’s beck and call. Importantly, in a worst-case scenario, Ion could also potentially give me the means to take care of myself if the cancer came back someday. I wouldn’t have to be a burden to my family, to Peter, or to anyone else—I could pay people to take care of me. If Ion’s valuation went as high as Grant thought it would, I could make sure that, finally, my life would be in my control. I picked up the phone to call Grant, and told myself it was the right thing to do.

  I am going to be rich, but not just boring old rich.

  I’m going to be fucking rich.