Before I can ponder more, the tech returns, but she’s not as smiley as before. “We want you to come back again—the radiologist needs to see a few more views.”
My tension level ratchets up another notch and I touch my pearls for luck. This is where she’s supposed to tell me that I’m fine and I can go home.
There’s more posing, more squashing, and more sweating, but no definitive answers yet. As we return to the waiting area, the tech says, “Now, don’t worry if this takes a while. There are a couple of films ahead of yours, so the delay doesn’t mean anything except that the doctor is busy, okay?”
I thank her and return to my knitting. That’s when a nurse asks the woman with the bobbed hair to come in and speak with the doctor. The woman pales in her shorty gown and gulps audibly. There are eight of us in this waiting room. Statistics say that one out of eight women gets breast cancer, and I wonder if I’m the only one in our group doing the math right now. I don’t wish any bad on anyone, but given the choice between me and someone else? I choose not me.
When the tech returns, she needs more film, and that’s when I start to hyperventilate. She’s all business this time and tells me, “We’re going to have to do an ultrasound. After I take these, I’m bringing you right to the ultrasound room.”
So I make it to regionals after all.
I walk on wobbly knees to the darkened room across the hallway. My hands are shaking too hard to grab my knitting this time as my mind begins to race. No one’s said there’s any kind of problem yet, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure that everything I’m having done is simply about being thorough. Intellectually, I realize there’s no cause for alarm, but I wish someone would tell my adrenal system. Right now my heart feels like it’s going to fly clean out of my chest and I can barely catch a breath. My dark thoughts return with a vengeance.
Coming face-to-face with my own mortality was not on the agenda for today. I’d hoped to go to the grocery store, maybe do some light yarn shopping. The last thing I expected was to sit in a moodily lit room and wonder what Fletch might do without me. Who’d make sure he never runs out of milk for his cereal? Who’d cook him a pork roast whenever he had a bad day? Who’d double-check the electronic bill pay records to guarantee Magic Mike would be available on demand? Who’d hold Edina by the scruff while Fletch put the Prozac in her mouth? These are important jobs, and I need to be here to fulfill them.
I don’t want to be sick.
I don’t want to go through treatment.
I don’t want my life to change.
Hell, I finally found a decent suburban colorist; I don’t want to lose my stupid hair.
I feel like working on uncovering the Tao of Martha has helped me crack the code on how to make myself and those around me happy. That’s important. That has meaning. I’m in no way ready to give that up. I’ve come too far already.
The ultrasound technician enters and explains the process. She asks if I’ve ever had an ultrasound.
I reply, “I had one scheduled twenty-five years ago for possible fibroids, but the lab was running late on the morning of my test and I couldn’t hold all the water I was required to drink. Right before my test I had to pee, so they couldn’t do a reading with an empty bladder. I was supposed to come back, but then I got busy. For twenty-five years, apparently.”
“So, no?”
I nod.
The ultrasound tech squeezes some of the gel on old Rightie and I’m pleasantly surprised it’s not shockingly cold. “I thought the gel was always freezing,” I say. “Or is every medical procedure I’ve ever seen on TV a lie?”
Oh, good. I haven’t yet lost that certain jackass sais quoi that makes me who I am.
“We use a warmer,” she says. “Why make anyone more uncomfortable than they already are, right?”
Yes, I think to myself. That’s my job.
The ultrasound tech runs the wand over my trouble area and explains, “What we saw is a bright point that wasn’t there before. Generally, these spots are nothing more than a little tissue thickening, but it’s cause for a second look.” She moves the wand back and forth, her eyes fixed on the screen back behind my head. She nods to herself and then tells me, “I’m going to have the radiologist see you, but honestly? Right now, I’m not encountering anything problematic.”
YES!
THANK YOU, JESUS!
THANK YOU, MARTHA STEWART!
THANK YOU, ALPACA YARN CO!
But right as I begin to plan my one hundredth birthday party, the technician clucks her tongue and begins to concentrate on a previously unchecked section that’s low on my right rib cage, about six inches southwest of my armpit.
“Huh,” she says.
Huh?!
There is no huh! There is only “Looks floppy, but great; see you next year!”
She presses the wand down more firmly and takes steady, measured breaths. Then she tells me she’s going to get the radiologist and I’m welcome to sit up if I’d like.
“Sure, that’d be terrific. It’ll be easier for me to throw up that way,” I reply. I’m pretty sure I’m not joking.
The doctor comes in and introduces herself. She has me lie back and begins her scan. The ultrasound tech taps on the screen and says, “That’s the spot I was telling you about.” The doctor repositions the wand and begins to press.
Okay, I say to myself. This is fine. She’s going to look at this area for ten seconds and I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to put my pants on, roll on some Secret, and I’ll be good to go. Perhaps we’ll go out for sub sandwiches, since Fletch has been waiting so long.
I count to ten, and when she doesn’t finish pressing, I up my count to twenty. She’ll be done here in twenty seconds; I just know it.
Correction. Thirty seconds.
Fifty seconds.
Okay. Let’s be done at sixty seconds.
By sixty, I meant seventy.
Shit.
Eighty seconds?
Please?
After almost one hundred and twenty excruciating seconds the doctor is finished. Finally.
The ultrasound technician hands me a towel. “Here, you can use this to wipe off.”
“That’s what she said,” I reply.
Holy crap, I hate me sometimes.
Or maybe I don’t?
Maybe these one-liners are the little bits of happiness trying to manifest themselves?
“You’re set,” the doctor says, and I cover myself. “Now, here’s what I found—there’s a lymph node that we’re only now seeing because we took so many shots of the bright spot. Most likely it’s been there your whole life and it’s no more worrisome than, say, a blood vessel. What I’d suggest—”
I interrupt. “Is this bad or am I okay? If I’m okay, then I’m not telling you how to do your job, but maybe you want to lead with the good news.”
The ultrasound tech lets out a tiny snort in the darkness.
I’m instantly mortified by my fat, uncontrollable mouth, but that’s when it occurs to me that my humor is a self-defense mechanism. Even though I may come off like a stark raving asshat, being funny is the most important tool I have to stay sane. The ability to say what I think is the key to allowing me to feel in control.
So my perpetual inappropriate quips have value in keeping me happy…even though they might also cause me to have to knit the radiologist an “I’m Sorry I’m Such an Asshole” ascot.
Fortunately the doctor has a sense of humor, or at least a decent bedside manner. “Yes, you’re okay. We’re going to keep an eye on the spot and we’ll have you back in six months for a recheck. But you’re fine. Although there’s no way to prevent breast cancer…”
I interject, “Dr. Oz and his superfoods beg to differ. Related note? My friend Lisa appeared on Dr. Oz after she went public with her weight loss from having the gastric sleeve. I was all, ‘Did he ask you about your bowel movements?’ That question is his home-run swing, to the point that I have to wonder if he’s creepy in real life wi
th the poop chat. I bet at dinner parties, people are like, ‘Yo, Oprah—Dr. Doody asked me if my last dump was smooth or like marbles. Please don’t seat me next to him ever again.’”
Yep. Still an asshole.
The doctor and tech exchange looks.
Yeah, I’ve seen those looks before.
“Ahem, yes. As I was about to say, early detection is key. Just be very cognizant of changes and be diligent on your self-exams. So, you’re all done and you’re free to go.”
I nod, letting her information sink in. “Thank you so much. But let me ask you something. When I diagnose this on WebMD—and I will be diagnosing this on WebMD—what specifically do I need to look for? Do I type in ‘breast lymph node’ or what?”
“You don’t have to Google anything. Just come back in six months.”
Pfft. I did not earn my imaginary medical degree for nothing, lady.
I make a plan to follow up with my primary-care physician and then I pretty much fly back to the dressing room and into my clothes. I know I’ve been given the all-clear signal, yet part of me wants to make sure I’m gone before they change their mind. Also, poor Fletch has been waiting for two hours and he must be a wreck. I haven’t e-mailed him any updates because I didn’t know anything until right now. The last thing I wanted to do was commit my freakout to electronic paper, dredging up all that scared him ten years ago when we lost everything.
When I get to his waiting room, I give him a big thumbs-up. That seems easier than launching into an entire explanation on how I’m the Lake Forest Hospital Women’s Center’s answer to Jerry Seinfeld. So I simply tell him, “I’m never taking off my pearls again.”
While we drive to the sub sandwich shop, Fletch explains that he didn’t really grasp the gravity of the situation until a woman came out crying.
“Whoa, wait, which woman?” I ask.
“I think she had one of those bob haircuts?” he says.
I suddenly feel queasy all over again. “What happened?”
“Her doctor said she was cancer-free.” I let out an enormous sigh of relief. So she and I are both okay—I hope the other six ladies who were waiting are just as lucky. “She was crying; her husband was crying. Now they’re going out for a celebratory lunch. Say, should we be doing something more festive than sub sandwiches?”
I think about how excited Fletch was when we discovered the authentic Jersey Shore–looking shop in Deerfield earlier this week. That’s what I love so much about having worked on this project. Not only do I understand what it takes to lift my spirits, but I’ve imparted that wisdom to Fletch, too. We’re both so much better at taking the reins when it comes to acting on happiness increasers. With his bliss at the forefront of my mind, there’s nowhere else I’d rather go right now.
“We’re good,” I tell him. Then I open my bag and straighten out the knitting I stashed in there. When I was called back the third time, I just shoved the whole lot in there haphazardly, and I want to untangle the yarn before it’s too late.
But it’s not too late. All is well. I’m okay.
We pick up our subs and bring them home to eat. We’re at the table in the kitchen and Fletch does that thing I see only when he’s really content—he smiles when he chews.
I’m okay; ergo, we’re okay.
“Hey,” I say. “I just discovered a new tenet in the Tao. Ready for it? ‘Living is a verb.’”
He chews and nods. “Profound. But what does that mean?”
“That means you never know what tomorrow brings. Today is a gift. You have to embrace the now.”
“Seems more of an Oprah thing to say and less Martha,” he comments.
Apparently I need to be clearer. “In terms of the tangible, that means you can have Twinkies for dessert.”
“Cool.” He takes another bite, chews meticulously, and then swallows. “What about the Ding Dongs?
“They’re open for business, too.”
He grins. “I love today.”
I smile back at him. “I love today, too.”
But I have no time to swim in the well of emotion.
For I have cookie recipes to ogle…and Apology Scarves to knit.
AND THEN WE CAME TO THE END
My gratitude for getting back to the banalities of my life is immeasurable, and I’m thrilled that my greatest worry at the moment is treat-based.
Over the course of this year, one of my goals was to learn to cook the kind of comfort foods that I normally buy premade. I’ve since mastered brisket, pulled pork, buffalo chicken, corn pudding, apple pie, and cheesecake, among other dishes. (Invite me to your next barbecue; you shan’t be sorry!)
None of the above was particularly difficult, either, once I had a few tries under my belt. Cheesecake’s crazy-simple; it’s just that it requires a special pan and a water bath, which always seemed daunting but wasn’t. Given the ease of preparation, I now feel like a huge sucker for paying ten dollars for a half pound of all things pulled and smoked when I could have made them at home for pennies on the dollar.
Therefore, when I ran across a recipe for easy toffee, I was all, “Oh, I got this.” I love toffee like a fat kid loves cake. (I realize this statement is redundant given my present pant size, but humor me, okay?) Good toffee is like crack, which explains why vendors dole it out in tiny cellophane wrappers.
I searched through Martha’s repertoire for toffee but I kept running into recipes that required a candy thermometer or were made with corn syrup. Neither of those options worked for me. I recently ruined a batch of cinnamon rolls because my candy thermometer reads a constant seventy degrees, regardless of being immersed in boiling buttermilk.
As for toffee made with corn syrup?
No.
The key to perfect toffee is butter. Each bite should be creamy and melt in your mouth. Corn syrup is too sweet in this instance.
Anyway, this recipe seems like a no-brainer, and I quickly assemble the four required ingredients. I mean, four ingredients? Come on! Easy toffee, indeed.
While I melt butter and brown sugar in a saucepan, I chop walnuts and sprinkle them over a buttered eight-by-eight Pyrex pan. Then I stir some more and admire my beautiful cooking vessel. A few years ago I took a cupcake boot-camp class and we used these amazing copper saucepans that were shaped like soup bowls. I was in awe of how consistently they heated, so when I found out I could order one, I did.
Fifteen phone calls, countless e-mails, and twelve months later, the pan finally arrived. Somewhere around month three, the clerk at the cooking school asked if I wanted to cancel my order, but at that point I was committed. I was going to get my pan, damn it, no matter how long it took.
Really didn’t see it taking a year.
Around the sixth month, I figured this was an elaborate ruse to scam my credit card information, and at nine months, I contemplated giving up. But that’s when the clerk told me that the French workers were back in the factory and my pan would arrive any day. Ninety days, any day—same diff. Yet the pan was worth the wait.
So, my mixture boils and it already smells heavenly. The sweet tang of the butter makes my mouth water. It’s all I can do not to stick my tongue in the middle of it…and give myself second-degree burns.
I reduce the heat and stir vigorously. I considered using a wire whisk here, but was afraid if the whole mix became sticky, that would be the wrong tool. So I’d grabbed a white silicone spoon for stirring.
I’m supposed to keep mixing for seven minutes. Around minute five, the toffee bubbles up and then reduces down, turning the most gorgeous caramel color. I want to wear this color, I want to paint my walls this color, and I want to pour this color directly into my maw all shot-girl style. This color is tantamount to perfection.
That’s when I notice a blob, so I figure the candy’s starting to congeal. I must be getting close to being done. Huh. Looks like there’s a chunk of unmelted butter in there, which is odd, considering the mix has been boiling for a while now. Weird.
I pul
l out my spoon to inspect, but all I’m left with is the stem. The bowl of my spoon has completely disintegrated into the toffee. Um…apparently I wasn’t using silicone. I immediately grab the pan and dump the contents in the garbage disposal, but not before calculating exactly how much melted plastic might be “dangerous” to consume.
Okay, Easy Toffee, that was not your fault.
Let’s try this again.
After washing my awesome pan, I reload all the ingredients and begin the boiling/simmering process again. The instructions are very clear that I have to heat and stir for seven minutes. I imagine the timed element is the trade-off for not using a candy thermometer or having to mess around with the “soft ball” stage, which always sounded less like a treat to me and more like a medical condition.
So I boil and then I reduce. Around the four-minute mark, the contents bubble up like they did before, and again my kitchen fills with a heady aroma. This time I’m definitely using a silicone spatula, so all should be well.
Around five minutes, the mix turns dark and begins to swell again. (No soft balls here, amirite?) I reduce the heat a bit more and I continue to stir. Personally, I’d have taken this off the stove at the four-minute mark, but the recipe was really clear about the time constraints, so I keep going.
At minute six, the toffee begins to blacken and smolder. Yeah, I think we’re done. The smoke pouring from the pan seems ominous, but maybe this is one of those instances like when roasting marshmallows—the crusty blackness looks horrible, but inside it’s an obscenely gooey treat. So I pour the mix onto the walnuts and sprinkle the chocolate chips on top.
As soon as the toffee comes into contact with the nuts and chocolate, it begins to bubble and smoke in earnest and the Pyrex’s contents morph into a bowl of molten lava. I quickly reread the recipe and at no point does it mention this should look like Mount St. Helens.
The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING; Or, Why I'm Never Getting All That Glitter Off of the Dog Page 27
