When my eyes meet his he continues, “My likely recommendation, based on the additional biopsy results, for preferred method of treatment is for you to undergo chemotherapy – every day for the first two weeks and then you’d undergo testing to see how your body is handling it. A total mastectomy and reconstructive surgery would need to be performed from there.” He tells me the biopsy is needed immediately and then talks about the chemotherapy process and how someone will call me to schedule the next biopsy and discuss next steps further. He explains the likely side effects I’ll experience. He gives me numbers and people to call in order to get everything set up, “as soon as possible.” It’s like now that he’s started, he can’t stop. He needs to get it all out. Truth is, it’s taking all I have to remain in the room at the moment. I’d like to scream. And run. Scream and never stop screaming.
“I’d like to take some time to think about it,” I rise and make it clear I’m finished discussing this for the moment.
“I understand, but again, due to the aggressive nature of this cancer, treatment needs to begin sooner rather than later. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dr. Peters, I understand.”
“Alright,” he stares into my eyes again, perhaps looking to see that I do in fact comprehend what he’s telling me. He must see something that satisfies him because he nods to himself and squeezes my shoulder when he stands. “Please call the office to set up an appointment with me as soon as you’ve gotten your procedure and treatment scheduled so we can review the results and review the treatment plan. My nurse practitioner, Julie will help you get everything arranged.”
“I will.”
With one last look he leaves the room and somewhat amused – I find myself feeling bad for him. It has to be tough to work in a profession that requires you to be a frequent conveyor of bad news. It makes me curious why he would choose to have such a job – not a doctor necessarily – but a medical oncologist, the type he’s chosen. You’d have to be one hell of a strong individual to do this daily. To see hope in people’s eyes and potentially watch it get dimmer and dimmer if things don’t go as well as anyone wants.
Once I’ve redressed, finding it silly I had to get into a gown to begin with for nothing more than having my vitals taken and for him to listen to my chest with his stethoscope, I leave this room, knowing that in some way it will be imprinted on me forever, and attempt to find my way to the exit. Walking through the hallway that leads to the reception area, I pass several staff and swear the nurses all have a look of sadness in their eyes as they briefly take me into view. It’s likely my imagination; I don’t have a neon sign on my forehead flashing ‘DANGER: CANCER”, but somehow the atmosphere feels different – surreal. Part of me wishes I could get in my car, grab a coffee and go to work like usual. I want to pretend this appointment never happened, or that the outcome was different, and go on with my day as I usually would. Act like it was all one big horrible dream; no, a nightmare, definitely a nightmare.
I don’t speak or react to the nurses or stop at the check-out desk and after a moment of standing and staring when I walk into the bright light outside, I manage to remember where my car is parked.
Eventually, I find myself standing on my front porch, hands full of informational pamphlets given to me at the doctor’s office, though unable to recall when that occurred or what I had done with them after receipt, and I realize I don’t remember the drive home at all. That can’t be good – I could have crashed and died. I almost laugh at the thought. Like that really matters. Alarmed at the morbid thought, I do my best to push it aside.
Letting myself inside, I lean against the door for a moment after I close it behind me. I’m unsure of what to do with myself. My cat, Meatball, runs out from her hiding place and rubs against my legs. Dropping my papers and purse from my hands, I pick her up. She immediately purrs at the strokes I give her soft orange fur. Suddenly, I have a strange desire to tell her about my appointment. So I do.
“Meatball, Dr. Peters told me I have cancer. I’m dying.”
My voice sounds loud and hollow. It’s funny – I thought stating those words would sound differently. It’s odd how words can make you feel. They can evoke absolutely nothing, or they can vibrate through your body, ring out in a room, make your stomach drop, feel empowering, give you butterflies and so much more. These particular words… they feel serpentine in the room, in my heart, in my soul… in my very bones.
Their impact descends heavily on the room, yet they’ve left an echo behind. Or maybe it’s more like a small tornado. It’s in the way the hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s in the devastation that sits behind a crumbling wall in my chest. It’s in the way the words sit heavily in the air, in this space, in the way my body feels vast and empty at knowing their truth.
Gingerly letting Meatball glide back to the floor, ignoring her cries of protest, I gather my dropped items, straighten my clothing and put my keys, papers and purse away. I need the familiar acts – find them soothing in a way. Looking around, I suddenly remember my mother being here in the home we shared. A day never goes by that I don’t think of her, but it’s been a long time since I’ve pictured her in this particular space. The home became mine when she passed away. Having paid it off when she inherited money from my grandmother’s will, it seemed foolish not to keep it, even if painful at first.
Now, I picture her looking out the window smiling, cooking in the kitchen and laughing at something I said. I’d give anything for one more hug from her or to hear her laugh. I had no idea how much you could miss the sound of someone’s voice. I wish I’d thought to record her telling me she loved me so I could replay it whenever I wanted. My favorite was when she would tuck my hair behind my ear and push it out of my eyes. She’d smile and tell me not to cover up my beautiful face. A cry gets caught in my throat and I do my best to push it down.
Needing a drink of water, I snag a new bottle from the kitchen refrigerator. Taking a sip, I try to decide what I can do to distract myself. I took the day off work, even with an early appointment. I wanted to make sure I had time to myself in case… well in case I would need it. Now, in part, I regret that decision. My accounting job may not be glamorous, but it pays the bills and keeps me busy. My mind could use that at the moment, but showing up now isn’t an option.
Briefly, I consider washing the dishes waiting in my sink, but suddenly I feel exhausted and decide I’d like a nap.
Quickly changing my clothes in my room into my favorite jogger pants and tank, I reflect on my inability to sleep the night before. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t tamper the anxiety running rampant through me knowing my appointment loomed. When I somehow managed to fall asleep for a little while, my worries followed me into my dreams, making for a sleepless night.
Lying down, I toss and turn trying to find a comfortable position. I begin with the covers all around me, but then I get warm and kick them off. I flip my pillow to the cool side and close my eyes waiting for sleep to take me away. Instead, my mind replays the doctor appointment. The morbid images that came to me with the news visit my mind once more. I pull the sheet tightly up around my neck.
It’s useless though and eventually my eyes snap open and I quickly abandon the idea of a nap. Exchanging my soft bed for my living room sofa, I flip on the TV. Scrolling through to look at available options, I decide losing myself in a movie would be a good distraction for a couple of hours – maybe more. I’ll pick a few and watch them back-to-back. I’d like to find a comedy to make me laugh, but my favorite comedies are of the romantic variety. Knowing I’m not in the mood for that, I stop surfing when I see an old movie that’s so stupid it always makes me laugh. Woodenly, I watch the duo on screen that generally makes me giggle, but instead when the familiar, “Housekeeping, you want me to fluff pillow?” doesn’t lift my spirits; I know that trying to find a distraction via the TV is hopeless.
Turning it off I sit in the silence and try to determine exactly what I’m feeling and what I should
do about it. There’s sadness and despair running through me, but there’s also anger and resentment. A few weeks ago I went to the doctor because I couldn’t shake a feeling of lethargy. I thought perhaps I was anemic after looking on Google for possible causes. I wasn’t surprised when the doctor ordered a blood test knowing it would be how he’d determine if that was the case. What I didn’t expect was for that blood test to turn into another - then for that test to turn into a couple more. I felt fear then. It turned my stomach to ice and clawed its way up to my throat making me unable to give my fears voice. That voice would have whispered that I had hoped I’d be spared this.
Yet, here I am. Stricken now with a disease that I watched my own mother, my best friend and confidante, wither away and die trying to fight. Ever since her diagnosis and death from breast cancer, part of me knew my own days were numbered, but bigger was the hope that having endured her loss, maybe just maybe, the pain would end there and this was a legacy I would get to forgo.
I should have known better. I know the statistics. I researched like hell for something, anything, to help my mother. I could recite the treatment modalities, facts about various chemotherapeutic agents, the experimental procedure outcomes and the potential success rates of each as well as the best clinician. And I learned about its genetic propensity – the likelihood that since she had it, I would too someday. And then I watched. And prayed. And supported her in every way possible. Each and every day she would fight like hell, but the cancer continued to kill her slowly. We would get a sign that maybe she was kicking it, but remission would rarely last for any measurable timeframe. I think the sickest part, the hardest part, was the last time it went away for a while. We actually celebrated her remission. Did all the things one does when you’ve kicked cancer’s ass. We had won, we beat it and we were on top of the world. I mean, after a double mastectomy and rounds of chemotherapy and radiation how does breast cancer find it’s way back anyway – and to where? I didn’t know that was even possible. The research did not suggest that was at all likely. But cancer is a vicious, deceiving disease.
I’d never been more clueless. I thought the sickness from the chemo or the recuperation after surgery would be the worst of it. But watching her mourn the loss of her breasts, the changes in her body, were devastating. I still remember the time I went to her room to tell her she had a phone call. The door was cracked and as I peeked through ready to push the door open, I stopped, catching her looking at herself in the mirror, topless. I froze, my hand flying to my mouth preventing a cry mixed with shock and surprise. Angry, twisted and puckered scars declared their territory on her body. Crimson red amongst a sea of white skin shocking and foreign in their presence. I watched as she tentatively touched her skin, felt the absence of her breasts. I watched as tears fell down her embattled, sad face and she crossed her arms over her chest as if in shame - as though she had any control over the cancer that had invaded her body. I saw her incredibly grief-stricken eyes and knew I’d witnessed the death of her self-perceived womanhood. I wanted to rush in and hug her. I wanted to tell her that breasts didn’t make a woman beautiful, that she would always be beautiful to me, but I didn’t. I left her to her privacy and she never knew I saw her. While I shed my own tears and mourned silently with her, I also rejoiced at the strength of my mother. Regardless of the immense loss of femininity that I know she was feeling, to me and to the world she portrayed courage, bravery, resilience and strength. I wish I had gone into that room. I wish I had told her how proud I was of her. That I knew she was doing whatever it took to stay here, to spend more time with me, to be here as long as she could. I knew she didn’t want to leave me alone. I never questioned her choice. I cherished every last moment, but now… now I feel selfish and ashamed. She did whatever she could, but… to what end? I lost her anyway – and it was brutal and painful. I watched her become a shell of the woman she had been. So many dreams and wishes left unfulfilled. Now, it’s my turn. The difference is I don’t have anyone relying on me to do anything; no one who needs me here, no reason to sustain my existence. Which is why I’m not sure that choosing treatment is the direction I’ll be taking. Why delay the inevitable?
It’s a couple hours later when I finally emerge from a self-imposed housework coma. Losing myself in busy work seemed like a good idea in order to give my racing mind something else to think about other than today’s news and the loss of my mother. Seeing the pile of clutter on my desk made the decision for me. Taking a seat, I wrestled through the large stack of mail and reviewed and managed the bills needing to be paid, papers needing filed or shred and then cleaned out my desk and balanced my checkbook. My desk is so clean and organized it’s practically unrecognizable.
Rubbing the back of my neck, my gaze rests on an old notebook I pulled from the desk drawer during my cleaning spree. The cardboard cover and edges are worn; the glitter and metallic markers I’d used to decorate it are faded. Such a simple unremarkable thing to the blind eye, but the treasures it contains are priceless. Running my hand over the top, the rough sandy feel of colorful glitter spelling out pretty words pokes my fingertip. I stare at it for a moment longer before flipping it open to the first page.
Seeing the page carefully taped to the inside of the front cover makes me exhale sharply. It never ceases to invoke an emotional response, which is why I’ve had it buried in my desk for some time. The pain of loss and longing hits me low in the stomach almost taking my breath away. It moves up my body, into my chest making it feel as if my heart is being squeezed. It proceeds to my throat making it tight and my eyes burn with the need to shed tears, but by pure will alone I manage to keep them at bay. Tracing the letters on the page, I breathe in and out steadily until the worst of the pain subsides. I feel the places on the page where tears shed from previous viewings have wrinkled and smeared the paper. One line at a time, I read the words I memorized long ago.
Finally, I turn the page and continue until I have read and possibly unconsciously recited the entire notebook, fingers trailing over the many captured words. I never stopped making those lists my mom loved so much – even after she was gone. Before, we made them together whenever she prompted or when I even suggested a new one was due. After, it became a ritual on the anniversary of her passing. I’d visit her grave, bring my notebook and pen and make a new one each year. With my back resting against her tombstone and the cool marble penetrating my clothing, I’d stay for hours. I’d talk to her. Fill her in on the latest happenings in my life. I never cared when my body began protesting the hard ground and ache of slouched shoulders.
Unable to continue and with one last look at the last list she made on the inside cover, I close the notebook and walk away from the desk thinking a long hot bath may help me relax enough to fall asleep. Before I can do much more than think about it, my cell phone begins ringing startling me. It sounds extremely loud after so many hours of silence.
When I see the name on the screen I briefly consider not answering, but find myself doing so anyway, “Hello?”
“Remy! Where are you, sunshine? Tell me you’re on your way because it’s getting packed in here. I’m starting to piss people off when I tell them to get lost when they try to sit in the seat I’m saving for you at the bar. I’m pretty sure one woman considered throwing her drink in my face, but the look I gave her for the thought scared her off.”
“On my way?” Wherever he is it’s very loud on the other end.
“You’re kidding right? Tell me you’re kidding. It’s our date night. It’s the third Friday of the month. We always get together rain or shine – you know this, why am I telling you? Where are you? You’re late.”
“I’m sorry, Oliver-“ I begin, but he cuts me off.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just forgot-”
“Remy, tell me what’s going on right now. How long have we known each other? You never forget. Not ever. Something’s wrong.”
He’s right, or course. Oliver is my best friend – my
only friend - in the whole world. We grew up together, were next-door neighbors for years, and according to our mothers became instant friends when we first met. It’s funny because I think they were wrong. One of my earliest memories of him isn’t exactly fond. My mom threw me a birthday party and all the children from my class were invited, plus my neighbor, Oliver. I wanted a princess party and I remember my pretty pink dress, shiny white shoes and the tiara on top of my head. My mom made me a pink castle birthday cake and we had giant circle rainbow suckers that I thought were amazing. The party favors were princess wands and everything was pink and frilly – a little girly girls dream and boys nightmare. After everyone left, Oliver came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned to face him he had a smile on his face and excitement shining in his eyes.
“Remy, come outside with me.”
“I don’t want to. I want to play with my new toys and eat my sucker,” I tell him already trying to take my new doll out of the package.
“Please! I want to give you a very special birthday present. I got it just for you.”
I couldn’t say no to that, “A present?”
He nodded his head and grinned. I drop the package and return his smile. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you, it’s a surprise. Come on!” We walk outside through my backyard and into his. “Wait here,” he positions me in a specific spot, “and close your eyes and hold out your hands, okay?”
Nodding, I do what I’m asked. My smile is large, my excitement making me hop on the balls of my feet. I open one eye to peek at Oliver to see that he’s standing over a shoebox, but before I can see what he’s taking from the inside he swivels his head and catches me looking. “Remy I said close your eyes!”
Give Me A Reason Page 2
