by Beth K. Vogt
Dr. Sartwell placed a small box of tissues in front of me. I took one. Another. Wadded them together and pressed them against my eyes.
“I want my life back.”
My life before I had to wear a prosthesis. Before I had to take Tamoxifen. Before I had night sweats and hot flashes. I was too young to feel menopausal—yet I wasn’t even having periods. All the unspoken complaints clogged my throat but were evident in the tears that trailed down my face.
Cancer—and the cure—had wrecked my body. Not that I’d been the beautiful, smart, successful Thatcher sister, like Johanna. Or the beautiful, athletic, successful sister, like Payton—and like Pepper would have been. I was just Jillian.
I inhaled a shuddering breath. “I didn’t come here to talk about this.”
“It’s important that you do, Jillian.” Dr. Sartwell’s eyes were kind behind her black cat’s-eye glasses.
“It doesn’t change anything. And I know I should be happy . . . thankful I’m alive. I want to be happy.”
“Fine. You’re happy to be alive. You made these decisions to beat cancer. But no one likes losing a job. No one likes dealing with chemo brain. Or the side effects of medication. And you shouldn’t pretend to.”
I mopped at my face with the remnants of the wadded tissues. “Stop being so understanding or I’ll start crying again.”
“That’s a brand-new box of tissues.”
Her words, her comforting smile, caused more tears. And somewhere inside, the pain eased. The weight shifted. Here I was, treating Dr. Sartwell like a virtual shoulder to cry on. But she didn’t seem to mind. She wasn’t looking at her watch. Wasn’t telling me to snap out of it.
“You’re here this morning so we can talk about things. See how you’re doing. I’m sorry you lost your job, but a lot of women struggle with chemo brain after going through treatment. We talked about this.”
“We did?”
“Yes—but we talked about a lot of things when you were first diagnosed. Treatment options, harvesting your eggs since you and Geoff wanted a family in the future, the timing of reconstructive surgery. It’s a lot for anyone to remember.”
“I just thought I’d be better by now.”
“Jillian, you are better.” Dr. Sartwell rested her hand on top of mine. Patted it in a motherly fashion. “And you will keep getting better. I’ll have my medical assistant print up some resources to help with chemo brain. Simple things like carrying a notebook with you and writing down lists. And not multitasking. Research has shown that’s not beneficial for anyone.”
“Well, that’s encouraging, I guess.” I threw the wad of wet tissues in the wastebasket beside the desk. Grabbed a few more from the box. “I wasn’t even planning on talking about that today.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
“Reconstructive surgery?”
“You’ll need a consult with a plastic surgeon. I can start the process by requesting that. What else?”
“Dealing with the side effects of Tamoxifen—the night sweats and hot flashes. The fact that my appetite is still off. My weight is down, but I know I’m supposed to be eating better than I am.”
We turned our attention to the other topics for the remainder of my appointment. Dr. Sartwell’s answers didn’t fix any of my problems. Nothing changed. But at least I felt heard.
She was trained in medicine—to care for my physical needs. As a family physician, she also was sensitive to my emotional needs. She knew about the scar left by my mastectomy. Probably knew that my weight had haunted me for years. But she didn’t know everything about being . . . me.
“Like I said, Jillian, you’re doing better than you think.” Dr. Sartwell removed her glasses, letting them fall to the end of the silver chain so they rested against the front of her white coat. “How are you and Geoff?”
“We’re fine. Busy. We decided to remodel our kitchen.”
“That’s a big undertaking.” Dr. Sartwell stood, leading me to the door.
“Yes, well, it’s good I’m not pregnant right now, isn’t it? It’s challenging enough keeping an eye on our dog while our kitchen is all torn up.”
Even as I laughed, the words hit me. Cancer was controlling so many things in my life . . . and now it was delaying starting a family.
“Well, you could always adopt.” A laugh accompanied Dr. Sartwell’s words.
“Right.” I stopped. Made eye contact with my family physician. “Wait . . . what?”
“You understand you can’t get pregnant while you’re on Tamoxifen, Jillian. But if you and Geoff don’t want to wait five years to start a family, you could always look into adoption.”
We said good-bye, but her words replayed over and over in my head as I left her office. Crossed the parking lot to my car. Drove home through traffic that was lighter than it had been during morning rush hour.
“If you and Geoff don’t want to wait five years to start a family, you could always look into adoption.”
Why did cancer have to dictate one more thing in my life? If Geoff and I waited until I was off Tamoxifen, I’d be thirty-eight before I could start trying to get pregnant. And despite harvesting my eggs, there was no guarantee we’d be successful.
Dr. Sartwell’s offhand comment was brilliant. It was as if she’d handed me some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card. I could have a say in my life again. No more making decisions based on cancer. I would decide what I wanted . . . and when I wanted it.
I needed to stop daydreaming about taking control of my life again. Get out of my car and go into the house. People were waiting for me—especially since my appointment had run late. There was no forgetting when a plumber and a person from a mold removal company were evaluating your house, even if I had been struggling with keeping track of things for the past few months.
But why was Payton’s car parked behind Zach’s truck? Wait . . . what was I forgetting? Think. . . . Zach had volunteered to be here in case my doctor’s appointment ran late, which it had. But had I asked Payton to be here, too?
It didn’t matter. Zach and Payton weren’t responsible for whatever was happening inside my house. I could either continue to sit outside in the temporary safety of my car . . . enjoy not knowing the reality of my kitchen renovation for a while longer . . . or I could go find out what had been discovered inside the walls of my house.
Like it or not, I was a grown-up.
Winston’s barks greeted me as he tried to wriggle his way out of Payton’s arms.
“I appreciate you being here, Zach.” I set my purse on the table by the front door. “I’m sorry my appointment ran long. This is a fun surprise to see you, Payton.”
“I didn’t have classes this morning. So when Zach told me he was going to be here, I thought I’d drop by. I can’t really do anything, but I did let Winston outside.”
“Thanks.” I retrieved my dog from her arms, accepting his frantic licks to my face. “Anything to report?”
“The inspector from the mold removal company showed up early.” Zach motioned toward a few pieces of paperwork on the dining room table. “The good news is the problem doesn’t look bad at all. It can be handled quickly, so we dodged a bullet on that one.”
Zach paused—like the moment in a low-grade movie when the background music changes key and the camera zooms in closer on the main character. When footsteps sounded overhead, I almost laughed out loud.
“Why is someone walking around upstairs? The problem is in the kitchen.” I tried to school my facial features in case the imaginary movie camera had focused on me. I’d play the calm lead in this scene, thank you very much. “Just tell me, Zach.”
But before Zach could say anything, a tall man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a beard to match stepped downstairs. He carried a metal clipboard and a flashlight and wore faded jeans, a flannel shirt over a white T-shirt, and well-worn work boots.
“I confirmed what I expected, Zach—”
“Hey, Allen.” Zach nodded my
way. “My friend Mrs. Hennessey is here.”
“Call me Jillian. Please.” If the guy was going to give me bad news, we might as well be on a first-name basis.
“Jillian, then.” The man shook hands with me. “I’m Allen Thomas. Zach called me about your problem. I hope you don’t mind me taking a look around upstairs.”
“No. Although I’m not sure why you needed to.”
“Zach mentioned the issue he found during the kitchen demo, and we were just following another hunch we had.”
“We—you mean you and Zach?”
“Well, yes and no. You just missed Craig. He did the mold inspection—went ahead and checked upstairs, too. You’ve got a little mold in the shower area in your master bathroom, but nothing that can’t be dealt with easily enough.”
I tried to get my brain to process faster. Why hadn’t I realized when Geoff and I decided to renovate the house that it would mean people I didn’t know telling me things I didn’t want to hear?
Winston wriggled in my arms, his small whimpers more frantic.
“Let me handle him for you.” Payton smiled and took him from me, letting Winston outside before returning to stand beside Zach. Part of me wanted to excuse myself and escape with my dog into our backyard.
But that probably wasn’t written in the scene.
“So that’s it then—there was another area of mold?”
“No, ma’am.” Allen exchanged glances with Zach. “Your pipes need to be replaced.”
Even though dollar signs started multiplying in my head, I tried to act composed. “We were kind of expecting that—”
“And your electrical wiring, too.” Zach’s announcement upended my attempt to stay relaxed. Even as I tried to recover, I couldn’t help but notice the interplay between Payton and Zach. How their hands touched for the briefest of moments as she supported him while he relayed the additional bad news.
Why was I so easily sidetracked by the possibility that Payton and Zach might be dating? I forced myself to refocus on Allen Thomas. Now was not the time to be thinking about potential romances.
“The wiring? We didn’t have anyone come look at the wiring—did we?”
Allen spoke up again. “Your house is easily a hundred years old, ma’am.”
“Ye-es, that’s true. But wouldn’t the house have passed an inspection when Geoff bought it?”
“It shouldn’t have. Your house has aluminum wiring and two-pronged plugs. I’m no electrician, but I do know old wiring when I see it. And Zach was correct about your pipes being polybutylene. Like he said, those get brittle over time.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I realize that was probably a stupid question . . .”
“It’s fine, Jillian.” Zach spoke up. “This is more than you were expecting.”
Why hadn’t I insisted Geoff stay home from work? My “I can handle it” assurance was collapsing under the weight of all this information.
“I’m just a little confused.” I tried to gather my thoughts. “I’m sure when we got married . . . when we started talking about the kitchen redo, Geoff said the house was in good shape.”
“You’ve got a nice little house here, ma’am. Good foundation. The roof looks fine, too—of course, I didn’t look at it too closely on my way in. But things like electrical and plumbing in a house this old? You can’t be too surprised when you have to replace ’em.”
Well, I was surprised, despite Allen Thomas’s take on the matter.
I could see words and numbers—calculations—scrawled on the paper on Allen’s clipboard. On the dining room table was the bid from the mold restoration company. Even if it was only a small repair, it was still going to cost us money we hadn’t planned on spending.
This was the worst time to be fired from my job.
“Like I said, I’m not an electrician, but you’re looking at anywhere from four to eight thousand dollars—probably the larger amount. I have a friend I can call and see if he can get out here tomorrow or the next day.” Allen offered me a white sheet of paper. “Here’s my estimate for the plumbing work.”
The ever-present mental fog seemed to thicken as Allen spoke. Words were clogging my brain. Names and numbers . . . decisions to make . . . I couldn’t process all this.
I didn’t want to process all this.
“Jillian . . . Jillian, you okay?” Payton stepped closer.
I blinked. Once. Twice. I needed someone to tell me my lines. Give me a cue. Or else I needed to figure out how to ad-lib something. Finish the scene and get everyone out of the house.
“Plumbing. Sure. An estimate is . . . perfect.” I took the paper from . . . what was his name? “And I’ll look at the other stuff . . . talk about it with Geoff.”
“Do you want me to call my friend?”
“Sure. Fine. Thank you.”
All three of them were staring at me. Wasn’t I saying the right things? “I’ll talk to Geoff about everything you’ve told me. Wait to hear from the electrician. And then we’ll . . . we’ll go from there.”
Go from there. That made sense, didn’t it?
And the next time I saw Dr. Sartwell, I could tell her that I was adept in another way to deal with chemo brain.
Faking it.
I STEPPED INTO THE BACKYARD, closing the door on the mess that was my kitchen. Three days later, the area where the old refrigerator used to be was still exposed, the lower part of the drywall removed, revealing the mold problem that led to the plumbing problem that revealed an electrical problem, all against the backdrop of the demolished wall between the kitchen and the dining room.
My emotions were as torn up as the room I’d just exited. Any excitement about the renovation had been erased and replaced by estimates and endless dollar signs swirling around in my head. We needed to reevaluate our budget but couldn’t do that until we had the final figures for the plumbing and electrical.
For a moment, I stood in the late September afternoon, trying to soak in the peacefulness of the neighborhood. Through Gianna’s open window, I caught the sound of Avery’s sweet giggle. Winston bounded about the yard. Weeks ago, I’d thought that maybe, just maybe, if we had any money left over in the kitchen reno budget, we could replace the chain-link fence, too.
I almost laughed out loud at that bit of wish-filled thinking. The more likely question was, what were we going to have to cut from our plans?
And right now, I needed to make a phone call. I could only hope Johanna would pick up on a Friday afternoon. If nothing else, I’d leave a message, asking her to call me back.
I tucked my phone under my ear, saying hello to Johanna when she answered on the second ring.
“Hi, Jill. How are you?”
“Pretty well.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound so good. What’s wrong?”
That was Johanna—astute. No chitchat, just cut to the chase. But I preferred to back my way into the real reason I called.
“Well, besides the reno not getting started on time, we discovered some issues we’ve got to deal with.”
“No surprise.”
And no sympathy from my practical older sister, either. “True. I’m living in one of those TV shows I love to watch—and now I’m trying to stop myself from googling the endless assortment of kitchen renovation horror stories.”
“Don’t go looking for trouble.”
I didn’t need to do that—it had shown up on my doorstep, unpacked, and invited relatives of all sorts and sizes to come visit, too.
“What’s going on?”
It didn’t take long to update Johanna on all the house issues, especially when she only said, “There’s more?” once and then remained silent while I told her everything with a final “And such is the joy of owning a one-hundred-year-old house.”
Geoff and I should be good at the “do one thing and then do the next thing” routine. That’s how we’d gotten through the months following my diagnosis. Only then, I’d let it dr
ive us apart.
That wasn’t happening this time.
Winston flopped down in a corner of the yard, panting, just waiting for the next reason to jump up and bark or run or do both. The dog had more energy than I did most days. I didn’t have the ability to push Geoff away. And I didn’t want to. Yes, I was tired. Discouraged. But I also knew what—who—I was thankful for.
“So there are problems you didn’t know about, and the renovation is going to take longer than you planned. Surely Zach warned you about this.”
“Yes, but I was kind of hoping we’d skip all of that and go straight to ‘Ta-da! Here’s your beautiful kitchen.’”
“Unrealistic. We can just hope it’s not too expensive.”
It was also unrealistic to expect sympathy from Johanna. That’s not how my sister operated. Support came in the form of “Let me help you take your medicine. Swallow it quick and be done with it.” With an occasional brief hug or smile . . . or donating her hair to Locks of Love in my name as a Christmas gift.
A sharp click interrupted, indicating one of us was getting another phone call. Maybe I should delay the rest of the conversation.
No. I wanted to finish this. Needed to finish it.
“Jill, Beckett’s on the other line. Can I call you back?”
“No.” My voice was louder than I’d expected. “No. I also called to tell you that I got fired last week.”
And that was the worst way to tell my sister . . . but at least now she knew.
“What did you say?”
“I got fired. From my job at the bank.”
“I know where you work, Jill.” The click sounded again. “Let me put you on hold while I tell Beckett that I’ll call him back.”
Now I stood in silence—a silence that stretched longer and longer.
What was Johanna telling Beckett? Obviously something other than a brief “I’ll call you back” message. Maybe more of a “Jillian lost her job and I’ll call you back when I fix it” kind of message.
“You there?” Johanna’s voice ended my guessing game.
“Yes, Johanna, still here.”
“What happened?”
I’d anticipated Johanna wanting an explanation. Had practiced one. Now if only I could remember the short, sweet version.
