I respond, “No, they’re always like this,” because what else could I say? What, like they need the naughty corner? Like they should go to bed without dessert?
The scans aren’t as quick as last time and I’m not sure why. It’s possible that the food baby I created at Thanksgiving may be to blame, because it’s throwing off my whole midsection. Brussels sprouts lardons and raspberry cheesecake, I’m looking at you.
Regardless, I’m in and out in twenty-five minutes and right on time to meet Laurie for coffee.
“How’d it go?” she asks.
“Took a little longer than last time. The technician said ‘the girls’ were misbehaving.”
Laurie is puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Considering they didn’t just poop on the living room rug again or steal someone’s identity, I’d say they were model citizens. I guess the issue was she couldn’t get my…stuff to point straight.” I give an inadvertent shudder, not only about the process, but also at almost saying n-i-p-p-l-e in the middle of Starbucks.
Laurie nods anxiously. “Mine never do either. Damn gravity. But otherwise everything was okay?”
I wave off her concerns. “Yeah, except they didn’t have Quaker Chewy Granola Bars this time. Plus, breast cancer is the last thing in the world I’m worried about. I have so many other fears. Like rolling blackouts? Yes. Food shortages? Uh-huh. Getting my shoelace caught in an escalator and having it chew off my leg before help arrives? Sure, but less so once I bought a new pair of loafers. Zombie wars? Well, still no there, but I did finally watch The Walking Dead with Fletch last week while I was knitting and now I’m a little bit more concerned. But, honestly—the one thing I don’t worry about is breast cancer—I never smoked and there’s no family history.”
“Not much on my side, either. One of my great-aunts had it in the fifties, but she lived another thirty years,” Laurie tells me.
I stir my gingerbread latte before taking a sip. “The way I see it, between my terrible driving skills, my love affair with butter, and Hambone perpetually trying to trip me as I walk down the stairs, I’ll meet my fate in an entirely different manner. S’all good.” I blot a bit of whipped cream from my lip. “Ooh, speaking of good, guess what UPS brought today? Wait, you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. My Hostess cases!”
“Your what?”
Apparently Laurie isn’t quite as keyed into the Wide World of Snack Cakes, so I explain how the minute I heard rumors of Hostess going belly-up, I stocked up on a case each of Twinkies, Fruit Pies, Ho Hos, Zingers, and cupcakes because that seemed like such a Martha thing to do. In fact, my foresight inspired a whole new tenet in the Tao: No one ever regrets positioning themselves ahead of a trend. (Within the auspices of securities and exchange law, of course.)
Laurie scrunches her brow. “Martha would never buy Twinkies. She’d create a far superior homemade version, with lighter-than-air angel food cake and decadent crème fraîche filling. They would be fabulous and she’d tend her herbs while they were in the oven.” She says this without a trace of cynicism. When Laurie’s sons were small, she’d tune in to Martha’s show while they napped. She said Martha’s world gave her a peek into the sanity and civility that would one day again be hers. Sometimes that was all she needed to recharge from chasing after two little boys all day.
I concede, “I’m sure you’re right, but the larger point here is business-related, not cake-related. I swooped in right under the wire with my order, as the next day, Hostess announced they were shutting their doors. People are selling Twinkies now for a thousand dollars on eBay. I’m going to be rich, rich, rich!”
Laurie seems skeptical. “Are they listed for that price or are they selling for that price? Because there’s a major difference.”
Kind of like how my scarves are worth eight thousand dollars but no one would ever pay that?
“Um…I’ll look into it.” But I sure hope the Hostess products are fetching that price, because plan A is to hoard and eventually sell them for so much that I can buy a midsize island in the Caribbean. That is, if plan B—scarfing them all down myself after a bad day—doesn’t interfere with my brilliant business model. “Also? I’ve had to hide the boxes from Fletch. He doesn’t understand that Twinkies are for saving, not for snacking. It’s like he doesn’t understand the first thing about personal finance.”
We turn our conversation to more important things, like mohair vs. merino, books, Thanksgiving recaps, and how brilliant Claire Danes is on Homeland (I worship you, grown-up Angela Chase), and neither mammograms nor errant breasts crosses my mind again until the phone rings today.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hello, I’m calling from Lake Forest Hospital—may I speak with Jennifer?”
“That’s me,” I say, already cursing Fletch in my head. I love that man with my whole heart, but if he can’t eventually figure out our new electronic bill pay system, I will be forced to end him. Last month, he paid the gas bill three times and the cable bill not at all, which I learned only when I couldn’t rent Magic Mike on pay-per-view. (Channing Tatum is a national treasure. There. I said it.) So I assume they’re calling about an unpaid invoice and I will bring this up in calm but stern tones in our next State of the Why-Is-Quicken-So-Damn-Perplexing-to-You Union.
“Hi, Jennifer, I’m calling from the Women’s Center about your mammogram. The radiologist found a point of interest and she’d like you to return for another scan.”
Point of interest?
“Like…a scenic overlook or Yosemite National Park?” I ask.
“Er, no. Like a point of interest.”
I flop down at the desk in the kitchen. “I’m sorry; I don’t understand.”
“The radiologist has asked to take another look.”
I’m still not grasping why she’s calling. “This isn’t about a missing copay from my ER visit for food poisoning last year?” Oh, my God, that was awful. I was barfing so hard that I burst blood vessels in my eyes. “Word of advice? Avoid the pistachio mousse birthday cake from Rolf’s.”
“Um, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m calling about your results.”
I’m a little obtuse here. “Why?”
“Because there’s a point of interest.”
Um, no, there’s not. I guarantee you there’s nothing interesting about the ol’ spice rack. Did I not mention I don’t have a family history? Because I don’t have a family history. I mean, you’re welcome to call me about a bill Fletch spaced out about or a pending zombie war. That I’d believe. But the potential for breast cancer? No. Not happening. I say nothing in return.
“I’m sorry, Jennifer? Would you like to schedule an appointment while we’re on the phone?”
When I went to my appointment on Friday, I wasn’t supposed to wear any lotion, perfume, powder, or deodorant. Yet I knew they had wipes in the dressing room, so I figured I could be properly moisturized and stink-free while I ran my errands in the morning. I’d wipe away the evidence once I changed into the gown. So, does my point of interest have to do with using the antiperspirant that takes armpits to underarms in a week?
Well, now I’m mad.
What kind of cheap-ass wipes are they using that they don’t remove all the deodorant, forcing the hospital to call people at home and get them all worried?
“The appointment? May we schedule it?”
I take a deep, calming breath before answering. “Yes, of course. Sorry. I’ll take your next available, if possible.”
“Okay, let me see.…I can get you in on December eleventh.”
“That’s three weeks from now! You don’t have anything sooner? I mean, on the off chance that this isn’t a deodorant issue, then I feel like I should come in sooner rather than later.”
The caller sounds truly apologetic. “I’m so sorry, but that’s the first open slot. However, if there’s a cancellation, we’ll call you. But the way that works is, we go down the list and we don’t leave messages, so if we
call and you’re not there, we go to the next person.” She repeats my home number to make sure that’s the best way to reach me and then we say good-bye, whereupon I immediately begin to panic in earnest.
Normally the first thing I’d do is run to WebMD, but if I go there, I’ll spend the next three weeks making myself crazy. Every time I cough, I’ll assume that not only is it due to breast cancer, but it’s now spread to my lungs and I won’t have time to get my affairs in order or finish the taupe baby-alpaca scarf I’m knitting for Stacey. WebMD’s all well and good when I’m diagnosing myself with nonexistent illnesses, but this has the potential to be real. There’s not a thing I can do right now, so the less information I can twist in my head, the better.
The cruelest irony of all is that this is the exact kind of situation that calls for self-medication with fine, fine Hostess products, but they’re my retirement plan and I can’t touch them. Because my foot still aches enough that pacing’s a burden, I instead channel my nervous energy into the loom. Before I even know it, I’ve knitted sixteen inches of stress.
That’s when I’m struck with a particularly morbid thought—if I die, then maybe this scarf really could fetch eight thousand dollars.
Fletch spends the whole night trying to talk me down while I furiously loop my loom.
“You’re worried, understandably so. But I looked it up—these things are almost always nothing,” he reasons. “What the radiologist saw was probably just some spray tanner.”
“Acknowledged,” I say. “Yet what sucks is I have three weeks to worry about this until the nothingness is confirmed.”
Fletch rubs my shoulder, which, because of my tension level, is up around my ear. “If the doctor thought this was a problem, you’d be moved to the head of the line, if for no reason other than their own liability. You’re fine.”
“Thanks, Dr. Fletcher.”
“Now let’s forget our troubles with some Fruit Pies.”
“Not happening,” I say for the millionth time.
Yet he has made me feel better. If this were a big deal, the hospital would bring me in sooner. That makes so much sense. This is nothing. Or this is something seriously stupid, like a smudge from where the doctor was eating an oily sub sandwich while reading my films.
You know, I did have this done on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Stands to reason that all the experienced doctors were off with their family and it was the B team in the radiology lab that day, with their bagged lunches of greasy Italian antipasto.
Yes.
That’s totally what happened. The new gal on staff looked at my oil-and-vinegar-covered film and she couldn’t differentiate between cancer and a tiny bite of capicola. Now, just to be sure, she’s bringing me back in December because this is No. Big. Deal.
I’m fine.
Fine.
I’m so fine that I’m actually able to fall asleep at a normal time.
Fine.
I don’t even toss and turn.
Fine.
Which is why I wake up so easily when the hospital calls me at seven thirty a.m. the next morning.
They want me to come in tomorrow.
Not fine.
Fletch comes to the Women’s Center with me. Even though he has to sit in the main waiting area away from where I’ll be, I feel better having him close.
I was much more careful this morning and pointedly ignored my usual lotioning/deodorizing/spraytanning routine, hopping straight from the shower into my clothes. I’m a lot less cavalier today as I change into my hospital gown. The last time I was here, I removed my pearls because I wasn’t sure if they could do the scan with them on. I wonder if that somehow skewed my luck. Today, I’m not taking any chances and I leave them on.
The last time I was here I locked my bag in my assigned cubbyhole. However, I may be waiting as long as two hours. I want to have all my personal electronics with me, as well as my knitting, so I carry my handbag into the waiting room with me. All the other women glance up at me, like, “Hey…that’s a really good idea.” Within minutes, each of them returns with her own purse. They don’t don their pearls, but perhaps their talismans are different.
I must be with the point-of-interest crowd today, because no one is in and out like for a regular mammogram. Also? Everyone in here is completely quiet. The silence consumes us, wrapping us all in a layer of hushed, anxious reflection. Usually whenever there are two or more ladies together, you can’t help but start a conversation, e.g., “Hey, those are supercute boots,” or, “Mammograms, amirite?” But not here, not now.
The women keep getting called to the back and then they come out and wait some more. That’s when I notice that the slimmer women are wearing little hospital-issue button-up tunics, while the larger ladies are in the full-on gown tops.
Great.
So I have cancer and I’m fat. Today rocks.
I’ve whipped through about fifteen rows of my knitting when I’m finally called back for this round of mammograms.
“How are you?” the smiley technician asks as we make our way down the hall.
“Pretty nervous,” I admit.
Worrying about what could be has cracked open a vault of fear and anxiety I haven’t experienced since the dot-com crash, when we were on the precipice of losing everything. I wasn’t even this afraid when Maisy was sick. At least with her, I knew I was ultimately responsible for making her feel safe and happy. So showered was she in love that she never had an inkling her health was deteriorating. Because of me, she had ten and a half years of utter happiness, and one bad morning. Having the ability to keep her comfortable was a massive comfort to me. But this? I feel like I have no control in this situation, and I hate that more than anything.
The worst part of our Bitter days wasn’t the dramatic downgrade of our lifestyle. What made it so rough was the loss of choice. We were powerless as to what was happening to us, no matter how hard we tried to fight it. We were stuck living by other people’s dictates. I think that’s why I’ve been able to make peace with losing Maisy. There was never a treatment we couldn’t pursue. We weren’t encumbered by outside factors and we had control over the outcomes. We had the freedom to try alternative therapies again and again until Maisy herself decided we were done.
By recognizing and naming my fear, I’m hoping that will help me keep it at bay, or at least allow me to feel like I have a modicum of control.
And yet I have a keen appreciation for the work I’ve done stockpiling happiness. If I weren’t in the positive state of mind that I’ve been in, this would be a million times worse.
“Seriously,” I say, “I’m borderline petrified right now.”
As we walk, the tech nods understandingly. “Most of the time, this is really nothing. What’s likely to happen is that we take this set of films, the radiologist has another look, and all is well, so we send you home.”
I exhale hard. “So…it’s probably just spray tanner?”
“Uh, I’m not familiar with that being a problem, but let’s find out for sure.”
Buoyed by her positive attitude, I attempt to stop terror-sweating—ironic, because in a situation like this, I really could use some antiperspirant. I adjust my pearls, because that’s pretty much the only thing under my control right now.
I notice the poses I’m put in are different from last time. The tech seems to be concentrating on the exact area where my underwire digs in on my right side when I slouch. I can’t stop trying to rationalize causation other than the Big C. “Is it possible the weird results came from my bra? Like maybe it’s scar tissue or a callus or something?”
I mean, I did develop one on my primary pick-wielding finger, so it stands to reason that my body would respond in kind to a pokey bra.
“Did your bra cause any sort of trauma?” she queries.
“You mean, outside of my being the only girl wearing one in sixth-grade gym class?” I ask.
Why?
Why do I do this?
Why am I compelled to
turn every stressful situation into The Jen Lancaster Amateur Comedy Hour? I attempt to shake off my ham-handed attempts at humor and answer seriously. “No. No trauma.”
“Well, have your breasts been causing you any problems?”
Okay, stop. Get ahold of yourself. Do not deliver your stupid panic-induced punch line. Do not say, “Problems? Like kiting checks?” or “Like grand theft auto?” or “Like they’re all of a sudden cracking corny jokes à la Henny Youngman in the middle of a serious medical procedure?”
I take a deep breath.
Do not try for the funny. You will fail and it will not make you feel better.
“Problems like truancy?”
Oh, my God, self, shut up, shut up, shut up.
The tech seems puzzled, so I give her another nervous laugh and say, “No, no problems.”
Today’s scans are extra squashy-making, and I literally have to bite my tongue to not blurt out anything pancake-joke related.
As we walk back to the waiting area, the tech explains next steps. “The radiologist will look at your film now. If she’s satisfied, we’ll send you home. If she has any more questions, we’ll have to do an ultrasound.”
“Well, then I hope I’m knocked out before I make it to regionals,” I say, settling back into my seat. ARGH.
Someone please find me some surgical tape that I can slap over my stupid mouth. Perhaps I need to knit myself a gag. Unsure of what else to do, I pull out my loom.
My thoughts turn to Martha, and I imagine her stress-knitting in the early days at Alderson Federal Prison. She seems so real to me right now. Oddly enough, this is the first time I’ve really thought of her as an actual person with thoughts and feelings and anxieties, rather than the face representing the entity of Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia. Yet it wasn’t MSLO who handled prison with dignity and grace; it was Martha herself.
The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING Page 26
