Chapter 29, Lake Tahoe, 2015

CHECKING INTO THE BETTY FORD CENTER SOON

It seems like Carolyn is in bed all the time. Her condition seems to be declining. The elevation at Lake Tahoe makes her balance worse, and things that were enjoyable, like movies and television, cannot hold her full attention. I feel her slipping away. I see her struggle to communicate with friends when they stop by. She has begun rolling her eyes at the prospect of visitors. The social girl (the queen bee of all social occasions, really) that I once knew is only present in rare moments. I update friends on social media that Carolyn’s journey is becoming more “private.” She wants fewer visitors. She wants less interaction if she goes into town. I encourage friends to wave or blow a kiss but not to instigate conversation. This is difficult in a town of 8,000 when, everywhere you go, there is bound to be someone you know.

Dines’ cousins from out East come to town, and we meet them at a restaurant. They don’t know about my sister. These are cousins I have never met. I ask Dines to say nothing. It feels good to have a night off from cancer talk. It feels good to be with people not consumed with pity for me or my family. I realize almost every conversation I’ve had has been about glioblastoma or cancer or someone’s family/friend’s death. Instead, with the cousins, we talk about Telluride, where they have a second home. We talk about the incredible Telluride Bluegrass Festival held every summer. We talk about all the triathletes that live in our town and how the cousins like to bike. We talk about a local boarding school to which their son is applying the following school year. I find myself laughing and actually full of appetite. I never mention a word about what has been consuming us on the home front. I don’t want the fantasy I am experiencing, that life is normal again, to ever end.

We have just returned from another week at majestic Lake Tahoe. We took two trips this summer to our favorite spot. This last trip was terrible for Carolyn. Elevation is not her friend. Most days were spent in her room. The right side of her body has gone almost completely numb and the walks she would take daily –almost two miles – can no longer be part of the routine. Her vision is worsening again. She tells me, squinting, that she always sees two of me standing in front of her. She is using one hand to cover one eye to prevent this. I suggest a patch. “NO WAY,” she says. She falls in the driveway. Chris suggests a wheelchair. “Hell, no!” she yells. I have our assistant, Emma, pick up a walker and place it in the garage. Carolyn sees it and spends the next day livid and talking to no one. Trying to distract her from her anger, I suggest we go out to eat. Her hair has grown back nicely, cut into a pixie style, and she feels better being out. Her taste continues to disintegrate. She is no longer the Carolyn we once knew. She has dyed her hair platinum white (a look I once had in college that she despised). The clothing arriving daily, which she has ordered from the internet, is not in her normal taste and style. We have all noticed these changes but have said nothing. Whatever keeps her occupied and happy is good.

We arrive at Azu Restaurant for dinner at 5pm. The building is visually cool, once a home for the premiere bakery in Ojai. The bread oven is still in the middle wall as a decorative accent from the building’s past. We like to eat early to avoid seeing too many people. I have called before our arrival to request a table in the front room so Carolyn doesn’t have to walk too far before sitting down. It takes two of us to help her to her seat. She is wearing an orange and blue tie-dyed slip dress that is tightly fit, causing her bosom to erupt fully over the collar line. Fliss loudly exclaims, “OH MY GOD, WHAT IS AUNTIE WEARING?” I cover her mouth with my hand.

“Don’t comment, Fliss,” I whisper. “Let’s just try to have a peaceful dinner.” Carolyn cannot read the menu, so I read some items from the specials I think she may like.

She says, “What do you think?”

“You’d like the pork,” I say. Before Carolyn was ill, her favorite thing to cook and eat was pork.

“Okay,” she says, shrugging her shoulders and fiddling with her white table napkin. Chris asks me about work, and I proceed to list my usual whirlwind of activity– a décor installation at an empty home, two run-of-the-mill home staging consults, management of an overly manic client who is becoming impatient with the construction of her home and taking it out on me rather than her contractor. Jokingly, Chris remarks that Dines looks stress-free. He asks, “Did you have the energy to send out an email or two today, Dines?” He and Dines laugh.

“Shut up!” Carolyn yells suddenly. “It’s not funny! She’s going to get cancer like me if you’re not careful.”

“Babe, we’re just joking around,” Chris loudly whispers. “No one’s getting cancer.” Carolyn pounds her pale fist on the wooden table top.

“Look at my sister! Look at me! We both have worked too hard! Lila, you have to stop it or you’ll get cancer,” Carolyn continues. “Chris made me work and work and work. And now I’m like this!”

“Babe, calm down,” says Chris in an even more quieting tone.

“You shut up!” she snaps back. “You gave me cancer, making me work so hard, and I’m not going to have my sister be the same.” The conversation has hit a new low. Chris looks crushed. People at the other tables are staring. The Carolyn we once knew would have given a lot of credit to Chris, who was an exceptional husband and was Carolyn’s number one supporter. Carolyn would never have created a public scene. Her manners have gone out the window. She has turned into a woman no one recognizes. This was exactly what, at the onset of her diagnosis, she said she did not want to become. Dines motions for me to move aside, and he slides in the chair next to Carolyn.

“Remember that great trip we all took to Whistler?” he asks her. “You plan such great trips. Where should we go next? Maybe France to ski at Christmastime.…You and Lila always want to go there…skiing in Chamonix…no working, just lodging and drinking Sancerre with lunch.”

Carolyn is once again calm as our dinner arrives. I have no appetite, and Dines finishes my Caesar salad while talking about dream-like things we can all happily anticipate. Chris and I are silent and order another round of vodka tonics. I write on my cocktail napkin, “We’re going to have to check into Betty Ford soon.” I slide the napkin over to Chris.