Dead Stars

by Bruce Wagner

  The eldest lawyer spoke up.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  What? He’s thanking me? Why he is——————

  “I won’t sugarcoat it, Mrs. Ballendyne”——Mrs. Ballendyne? Huh?——“this isn’t going to be one of your best hours. And it’s certainly not—not one of the hospital’s finest. Dr. Bessowichte will be the first to tell you that.”

  Though it wasn’t a cue for him to speak, the restless doctor squirmed & broke free of the muzzle.

  “I wanted to come to the house, Gwen. I wanted to tell you at the house but they said no, that wasn’t a good idea—the hospital forbade me. I didn’t want to listen.” He sighed, and repeated, “I didn’t want to listen.”

  Gwen felt like she was watching a play.

  “What is it, Donald, what’s happened?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her.

  “They tied my hands, Gwen—”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It has been a nightmare. Not just for me, but the other doctors on the team. On Telma’s team . . .”

  “GODDAMMIT, DONALD, you tell me what you’re talking about & YOU TELL ME NOW.”

  Two of the lawyers spoke up.

  She turned to them with ferocity.

  “No! Don’t talk! HE talks! Only HE talks.”

  “There was an error,” said Dr. B. “A series of errors. 1 in 10,000,000. And I can walk you through it, when it’s time. We have already constructed a very specific timeline of events.”

  He paused.

  The air was brittle, frozen.

  Everything got bigger and smaller (for Gwen), all at once.

  “Gwen . . . Telma doesn’t have cancer. She never did.”

  (Almost inaudibly)

  (As if jarred from a private thought)

  “What?”

  “There was a mistake—a series of freak mistakes & switch-ups, on the clinical & the—on all levels.”

  “You’re telling me that my baby never had cancer?”

  “That’s right,” said the eldest lawyer, gingerly stepping in. “It is a terrible, tragic event based on both human and machine error. The hospital is heavily insured for this sort of—”

  “This sort of thing?” railed the doctor at the men, as if suddenly, in the play, taking the rôle of the injured mother. “This sort of thing? This sort of thing? I don’t think you understand!”

  He pivoted toward Gwen in mid-monologue, as if to show her how eager he was to give voice to injustice, thus lending her a voice, until her own did come. As if seeking support for any effort he would make to redeem himself. As if asking forgiveness.

  “‘This sort of thing’ just doesn’t happen, it doesn’t happen! In 45 years, I’ve never seen it—never! Never.”

  Indeed, with this last word, this remark, the ruined doctor spoke as if it hadn’t, that what they were discussing was a thing so far outside his and any other practitioner’s realm of possibility and experience that it would, with calmer heads, inevitably be acknowledged even by the most aggrieved parties as the supernaturally statistical anomaly that it was; and that Dr. Bessowichte (& Team Telma) could not, in the end, have had any way of avoiding its preordained inevitability . . . for a few tortuous moments, the defenseless, prideful physician, himself mutilated, freefloated in a sphere beyond denial, speaking from his ethical, frightened no longer as a preacher but as a child who wishes to think back together something precious they had dropped and broken.

  “O God. O my God!”

  Someone pushed a box of Kleenex at her.

  Dr. B stiffened, bracing for blows, & the dangerous pelting hail of oncoming tears.

  “Gwen, I’m so sorry—”

  “Then what did she have?” She wasn’t fully comprehending. “If she didn’t have it, what did she have?”

  “Something that looked like cancer,” said the doctor. He leaned bravely in, for the first time. “It’s not simple—”

  “Not simple . . . . . . . . . . . . . .”

  “Gwen, I don’t know how to express in words how sorry——————”

  “You’re SORRY. You’re SORRY!—O my God my God my God. What am I supposed to do? How can I———what am i o what am i supposed to do to do o what o what what am i————”

  (Her lamentations directed to the ether)

  “First, you get a lawyer,” said the eldest partner. “There are a half-dozen the firm can recommend, all the best at what they do—medical malpractice. Until you’re represented, we ask that you keep what we’ve shared today in confidence. Disclosure at this juncture would potentially do both you and the hospital great harm.”

  Dr. B, patron saint of bees & schoolchildren, of candlemakers, chandlers, & domestic animals, buried, as they say, his head in his hands.

  “Great harm?” she said.

  She stood, unwell.

  The doctor rose along with her out of sheer clinical reflex, seeing/sensing even in his periphery that she was unsteady, she looked ill, she was a wounded human being, it did not matter that he had been her assailant, he was still a healer, by definition & by oath. In medical school they taught that given an existing problem, it may be better to do nothing, than to risk causing more harm————————She went flush, she had no rage, no stratagems, no emotions. They tried getting her to sit back————————primum nil nocere . . . . . . . doctrine & principal of nonmaleficence reminding the physician he must consider the possible harm an intervention might do————————down, they tried giving her water, they tried to comfort. She struggled to keep the vomit from rising. They gave her a box of Kleenex that sat in her limp arms, her eyes like smidged windowpanes————————may thy rod & thy staff comfort you, rod of Asclepius, ancient symbol of medicine & healing, Hippocrates himself a worshipper of Asclepius—————————————————————————and all she could do was

  send Telma for a sleepover at her grandma’s. Of course not telling the grandma/her mother, telling her mother instead that a friend of hers had an emergency, her friend from Ojai, which friend asked her mother, what do you mean which friend, my friend from Ojai, my Ojai friend said Gwen, & I may be out of touch for a few days. It’s an emergency, a family emergency, no she’s fine, yes, it’s marital trouble, yes, no I’ll be fine. She took three 100-mg pills from an old bottle of Seroquel. She hadn’t walloped herself w/Seroquel since the early days of Telma’s surgery/recovery. She slept 16 hours & upon awakening, was curious to note she had no recollection of how she got home from that nightmare meeting.

  It took her a while to replay the Century City horror film, which she did for about an hour, & then the phone rang.

  If it was Dr. Bessowichte, she was going to hang up.

  If it was a wrong #, she was going to blurt it all out.

  If it was Mom, she was going to ask her to keep Telma another day. She wouldn’t tell her what was going on, wouldn’t even tell Phoebe, not yet. (Maybe Phoebe.) (But not yet.) She wouldn’t tell anyone, how could she? She wasn’t even sure she’d told herself.

  “May I speak to Ms. Ballendyne?”

  If it was Jenny Craig, she was going to blurt it all out. If it was Mary Kay, she was going to blurt it all out. If it was ProActiv, she was going to blurt it all out.

  “This is she.”

  “Great! I’m Beth, Ryan Murphy’s assistant, and the reason I’m calling is that Ryan wanted to know if you and your daughter would enjoy being VIP guests for a taping of the show! He’s heard so much about Telma—from Michael Douglas—and is very excited to meet her.”

  Enjoy. Being VIPs. Yes we would.

  “Thank you. Yes.”

  “Great! And I know that Ryan wanted to make sure both of you came for lunch with the cast and crew! Are there any days that are better for you than others?”

  CLEAN

  [Telma]

  Brittelma

  She

  started “journaling” (the word that her therapists used) a few yea
rs before she got cancer. Telma wrote all thru pre- & post-surgical times, darkest times, and was determined to publish an edited version one day called Diary of A Kancer Kid. Everyone on the ped/oink ward kept journals, the on-ward psychologists encouraged them to write down their hopes & dreams, their fears & affirmations. Some of the pages of her notebooks were crinkly from dried tears—she hoped when it got published, a photo of one of those pages could be included. She knew it would be a bestseller, & was currently mad at herself for dropping the ball. It was too late to go on Oprah anymore.

  When Telma got diagnosed, Phoebe, her outside shrink, asked her to pick a magic number. (Phoebe as opposed to Samuel, her ward shrink. She loved Samuel but loved Phoebe more.) When Telma picked 16—which was perfect because she watched My Super Sweet 16 marathons on the weekends & was currently obsessing about her own Super Sweet 16 to come—Phoebe said to write an affirmation 16 times a day, and to go ahead & say each affirmation outloud 32 times a day, for good measure. Phoebe told her to pick a few, and write them down, but not say them outloud, to keep the affirmation a secret so it didn’t lose its power, Super Sweet 16 Secret power affirmations were FOR TELMA ONLY, Telma and her diary, she wasn’t even supposed to tell Phoebe. She wrote KANCER-FREE 16 times & HERVIVOR!!! 16 times (shouting them aloud as well) & wrote VICTIM VICTIM VICTIM (as in, NOT) 16 times (shouting “NOT a victim! NOT a victim!”), she wacky-scrawled affirmations & fancy penmanshipped declarations to the world 16 times a day, every morning, afternoon & evening, and sometimes even before going to bed at night. That’s why she was in the middle of Journal #21, and the notebooks weren’t thin either, they were thick, & lined.

  Telma wrote about her dreams and her pets—like her fish Goldie & her parrot Mighty Man, & Sir Vivor, the cantankerous terrier, a tire-chaser who lost a leg as a result of his passion. Depending on what side of the bed he woke up on, Sir Vivor would accompany her on St. Ambrose “rounds.” (When the fellow was obstreperous she had to leave him home because the hospital said there were liability issues if he bit a nurse or even one of the kids.) She wrote about her crushes too—currently, Biggie was looming large, though as yet had only bashfully been apportioned a few lines—and poems & little stories/lyrics of songs (with affirmations in-between), and original songs too.

  She wrote down her Glee fantasy, & didn’t show it to her mom. She wasn’t even going to share it with Phoebe (not yet), so it wouldn’t lose its power:

  When we arrive, the Oscar Awardwinning Mr. MICHAEL DOUGLAS is waving, he’s been waiting for me and my mom at the 20th-Century Fox Studio gate, which happens by an unusal twisting of fate to be only a few miles from where we make our home in Cheviot Hills. MICHAEL DOUGLAS is sitting looking very handsome with that winning rogueish smile in one of those golfcarts with a canopey & wants me to come with him. Which of course I really do & yet I do not wish to be rude & leave my mom all alone there, but then my mom said to Mr. Douglas, “Why of COURSE she may go with you, let me simply park our car & meet you both ‘on set.’” And off we go!!!

  Weaving throughout the backlot streets (NOT “of San Francisco”!) The golfcart happens to have a bag of In-and-Out burgers fries & milkshakes that MICHAEL DOUGLAS has so kindly arranged to be on a nice tray and ready for consumptchion. “Dr. House,” from the smash television show “House” waves to Michael & I as we zip past, shouting to Michael that he is a very big fan. I take this oportunity to wave back, & I can distinctly over-hear Dr. House whisper to someone next to him, “I do not know who she is, but I can simply tell you that I know she will one day be a huge star.” It is only then that Michael informs me as we zip away that the gentleman Dr. House was whispering to was none other than Mr. Simon Cowell. Simon replies, “Yes, I don’t know her name, but I saw her sing and dance to ‘(All the) Single Ladies’ at a Kids With Kancer benefit—and you are right she was wonderful. I wonder how we may get in touch with her, and if she currently has an agent or manager?” To which Dr. House replies, “I believe they are headed for the GLEE stage, it should be later easy enough to find out.”

  All the people are waving as we continue on our way, everyone from janitors and guards to show biz superstars, it is just like being in a magical dream. But instead of driving to the set, Michael stops the golfcart in front of a big building. He steps off, extended an arm like a True Gentleman, or just like a knight would to a millady. We enter the glass building & a guard waves us through with a smile, saying, “I know who you are!” The elevator WHOOSHES us to the offices of Ryan Murphy, Creator. He is so very nice, & takes my hand like a knight would a millady’s, and falls down on one knee and bows. We are corjually invited to a huge room where all of the doctors and nurses who ever took care of me are waiting.

  Ryan said, “Telma, when Michael told me about you, I YouTubed your performance of ‘(All the) Single Ladies’ in Kentucky and it was simply and utterly amazing. Perhaps you have heard that some viewers have been very upset that we did not hire a True handicapped person to play Artie because Artie is played by Kevin McHale an actor who just pretends to need a wheelchair. As opposed to the viewers liking very much that Coach Sue’s niece was a real Down’s Syndrome mongol. The viewers enjoyed that Glee had a cast member who did represent a pairaplegic boy (Artie), but now that the show is such a HUGE success (even tho it is now starting to die, & I know that you will help the show to continue to LIVE) & reaches—reaches out—to so many people, helping to raise awareness for so many causes not the least of which is tolerance toward the very fat and ugly, and all gays, well, this legitamate issue of our viewers has been keeping me awake at night. If I may say I had been hoping that THE GLEE PROJECT would have yeilded a True Handicapped type but a lass, it did not. I ask myself, ‘Why should we have to pretend?’ And that was precisely when I got the call from Michael asking if I would meet you. And I said, you know, this is absolutely amazing, it was like God put you right there in front of me! God said, ‘Ryan, you don’t have to pretend anymore. (God the creator told RYAN THE CREATOR!!!!) I have brought you a girl who’s a genuine hero. She’s not pretending. She has been through Hell—the h-e-l-l of pediatric kancer—and come out the other side to be a CNN hero & example of courage not only to other kancer kids but to their parents & anyone struggling with disease and diversity.’ [she did some cribbing from the introduction they gave her when she spoke at a Young Heroes Brunch in La Jolla] So here is what I have done, & I have received the full permission & backing of all of the studio bosses. It is, as they say in the Business, a ‘green light.’ I have written a character, just for you. & I hope you don’t mind but I’ve called her Telma!”

  Now comes the part where all of us walked—a whole mob!—to the GLEE soundstage, and it is incredibly dreamlike and like a dream. When we enter, it seems like the soundstage is a DARK MAZE but we keep walking, one of my hands is in that of MICHAEL DOUGLAS, the other hand is in that of RYAN THE CREATOR, I am in-between them and following them as if it is a dark, dark jungle, and when finally we emerge into the cave of the GLEE club set, all heads & eyes turn, and the creator Ryan is instantly applauded, which is what happened ANY time he danes come to set, because without RYAN THE CREATOR they would all be nothing.

  And now, he stands in their midst quieting them.

  “Guys and dolls,” he says, “I would like you to meet someone VERY special, someone I have been TELLING you about for at least 2 weeks, ever since the Academy Awardwinning actor MICHAEL DOUGLAS informed me of her by email, Twitter, Skype & the telephone. She is 4 foot ten & a real hero. She happens to be, currently, the OFFICIALLY youngest known SURVIVOR of breast kancer in the United States and the world. Please give it up for the latest addition to the GLEE club: Telma Belle Ballendyne!

  {and then the applause, not just from Tina & Rachel & Finn & Kurt & Brittana, Artie & Becky the mongol, Blaine & Quinn & Will & Mercedes, Santana Puck Coach Shannon & Chord Overstreet and The GLEE PROJECT Damian Samuel Lindsay & Alex, and Oscarwinning GWYNETH PALTROW & Mr. John Stamos & too many to mention but all of the little peop
le who cook the food for the craft service and do the makeup and camerawork and build the sets and the awardwinning CHOREOGRAPHY of which much of the show’s success is based on. & there is my mom standing back and smiling, she has been there all the time, and her face is wet with tears, for a minute I feel bad that I wasn’t even thinking of her so swept away was I in the magic of this dream—my Mommy, who is my best friend, so kind & sweet & knowing enough to let her daughter have her as Nicki Minaj sang “moment4life.” How far I—WE— have come! From kancer to GLEE, from hervivor & hero———hervivor Moms were heroes too . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  ———then RYAN THE CREATOR is saying that he hates to tell me this without proper notice (except as it turned out, he DID already tell my mom), We are shooting your first episode as a full-time cast member of GLEE, & do you happen to know the song ‘Smile (While Your Is Breaking?)’, which of course I did so happen to, having sung it at the “Topeka Convention Center” & on “Weekend Edition” & even with Kourtney Kardashian duetting on Khloé’s birthday (for which I was paid $25,000 for my services, of which 100% of said fee went straight to the Telma’s Warriors Scholarship Fund), I just HAPPENED to know the song FRONTWARDS & BACK!!! I even still to this day sing myself to sleep by it—& suddenly I hear a voice, the voice of an ANGEL singing the very song & it takes me a few moments to realize. . . . The person whose voice I hear is MY OWN!!!!!!! It’s ME who is singing, like a bird, without even knowing I had BEGUN.

  And the beautiful set that they constructed starts to move and kind of crack open & I find myself still singing but standing upon a MOVING RUNWAY, and yet still never do I break my singing stride. . . . & I am dancing too!!! (I catch sight of myself in a mirror and magically, I am of a sudden in the MOST beautiful tuxedo, and I am wearing a derby and carrying a long black Kane . . . . . .)

  Smile tho yr is aching

  Smile even though it’s breaking*