A salmon glow oozed through the blinds as my alarm clock radio clicked on Thursday morning. I rolled off my futon, still in my workout clothes from the night before and tried to focus on the numbers on the clock. I had been up most of the night researching CT scans and LEEP procedures and had finally fallen asleep less than an hour before. The silky-voiced newscaster said Hurricane Mavis had gained strength off Cuba. Despite a mild hurricane season thus far, the newscaster pointed out that early September storms could be some of the worst. I knew from my research that was due to the warm Gulf Stream swinging north in late August. I staggered into the bathroom. I wanted to go to work and study the possible market effects of a direct hit to the Carolinas rather than drive to the hospital that morning to get a CT scan before my “procedure” that afternoon.
I twisted the shower handle to the limit and waited until the room filled with bleach-scented steam. I was tempted to bathe myself in the bleach I scoured the bathroom with every Sunday. I felt dirty just thinking about people touching my body later that day. I climbed into the tub and scrubbed every inch of my body with a bar of deodorant soap and a stiff brush. When my skin was good and raw, I turned off the water. I wrapped a threadbare, yet clean, towel around my long hair and looked at myself in the mirror while I brushed my teeth. I looked like a healthy 29-year-old woman with finely freckled skin and good muscle tone. I was a little on the short side and kind of skinny, but I looked okay. I didn’t look like a woman being slowly devoured by rogue cells.
I didn’t see any point in ironing chinos and a work shirt to wear to the hospital. They would make me strip as soon as I got there. An old pair of jeans and a T-shirt would do fine. I didn’t have the energy to blow my hair dry or even thoroughly brush it that morning, so I pulled it back in a low ponytail. When I left for the hospital, I looked more like a coed than a young woman going to have a piece of her cervix removed.
***
The Ellery Cancer Center was already bustling with activity at half past the crack of dawn. I was not the only person with a full day of tests and treatments that morning. I joined the inchworm of cars winding their way through the parking garage and found a parking space on the roof of the concrete parking structure. Now that I had solved the hospital’s code, I knew to follow the orange dots at the bank of elevators to the orange tile path leading to the radiology department. A cherubic lady, wearing a coral sweater against the clinical chill, took my name. Her kindly smile seemed more suited to sitting behind a table selling Bingo tickets than coordinating a room full of patients waiting to have radioactive fluids pumped through their bodies. “Did you already drink the contrast, dear?” she asked.
“No! Should I have?” I squawked. None of my research said anything about drinking contrast ahead of time. I gripped the counter to keep my hands from shaking. “I didn’t know. Did I mess up the timing? Can I still get the test?”
“It’s fine, dear. Just relax. I’ll buzz them in the back and they’ll be right out to talk to you.” The receptionist peeled my white knuckled fingers from the counter and patted my hand. “You’re fine, dear. It takes about an hour to drink the contrast but you’ve got plenty of time.” I stared dumbly at the receptionist for another moment. “You can sit anywhere you’d like dear. Did you bring something to read? We have some nice magazines over there.”
I realized the entire line of people behind me were watching me freak out and felt my face redden. I found a chair far away from everyone else and pulled out Jane Eyre. I liked the way the pages of my worn copy opened to my favorite parts. No matter how terrifying my reality, I had always been able to lose myself in Jane and Rochester’s yearning for each other. However, when I opened the pages that morning the words swam in front of my eyes.
Why didn’t anyone tell me that I needed to prepare for the test?
Maybe they told me on Tuesday. There was so much talking. I didn’t catch half of it. Oh shit, maybe the cancer has spread to my brain. What if my brain is turning to mush? Come on, think. I read about this. What does it mean?
Suddenly a woman in orange scrubs squatted down in front of me. Holy crap, where’d she come from? Orange Scrubs held two tall foam cups with my name, my doctor’s name and a series of numbers written on the sides in her gloved hands. What exactly is in those cups that she has to wear heavy gloves to protect her skins from it?
“Are you Lara Blaine?”
Can I say no?
I nodded. The woman set the cups on the table next to me. “Good morning, Ms. Blaine. Could you verify your date of birth?”
“April 21, 1984.”
“Your address?”
“9E Crepe Myrtle Terrace.”
“You are having a CT scan this morning. Correct?” We both nodded mechanically as the woman continued, “I have one of our special contrast drinks for you.”
Special? Yummy special? Or special it-could-kill-you?
“We need you to slowly drink these over the next hour.” The woman continued to nod like the little velvet dog with the weighted head that the Lee’s kept beside the cash register. “When you’re finished, tell the desk and they’ll bring you back. Okay?” She stood up. “Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m fine,” I replied. I had done my research. I understood how the contrast worked, in theory. I waited for the woman to disappear back into the bowels of the building before picking up one of the cups and sniffed it. Smells like Coke. I wonder why they have to make sure the wrong person doesn’t drink it? Is it poisonous to some people? I know I need to drink it slowly so it evenly fills my intestines. Will it kill me if I drink it too fast? I noted the time, 7:09. I was already behind schedule. I took a tentative sip. It tasted like an amalgamation of Coke, skunked beer and pickle juice. How am I ever going to drink all of this? I rubbed my forehead. Okay, think. You have an hour. You can do this. Just split it up. I reached into my backpack for a pen and drew a horizontal line across the center of each cup, pinched my nose, and took another sip.
A middle-aged man watched me from a tangerine armchair on the other side of the room. I assumed he was ogling my breasts and regretted not wearing something less revealing than a thin T-shirt. I glared at him but he didn’t look away. He raised his matching foam cup in a toast and smiled. Isn’t a girl safe anywhere? Do men have to be pigs even in a hospital? I pretended to be concentrating on my book and studied him in my peripheral vision as I continued to take sips of the foul drink. The man’s suit pants were worn at the cuffs, but his coat was pristine as if it spent more time on a hanger than his back. He reached deep into his sleeve to check his watch, which had slipped nearly to his elbow, then quickly slugged down the rest of his drink. On his way to the desk, he paused in front of me and pointed to my cup.
“You’re doing that the hard way, you know.”
“Excuse me?” I scoffed.
“I said, you’re doing it the hard way. The gunk sinks to the bottom. You need to shake it up real good, and then slug it down like a whiskey. Don’t sip at it like a fruity cocktail.”
“Really?” I looked from my cup to the cup in the man’s hand. His sticker said Norman, T. He had a Band-Aid wrapped around his wedding band to keep it from slipping off his finger. “No one told me.”
“Of course they didn’t.” He rolled his dull eyes. “They never tell you important stuff like that.”
“Why wouldn’t they tell me?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it down after you do it a few times. This is my ninth CT. I think.”
The contrast solution sloshed in my stomach. Ninth? I thought this was a one-time thing.
“Yup, get one every six months. Colon cancer.” The man looked around the room. “Well, it’s not too crowded in here today. Maybe we won’t have to spend all day waiting around in the hall with our butts hanging out.”
My breath caught in my chest. My research the night before taught me to be afraid of what the doctor would be doing to me later that afternoon, I didn’t know to be afraid of drinking the solution incorrectly or being left in a hallway half-naked. As he shuffled away, I could see the seat of the man’s pants hung off his body like shed skin.
I vigorously swirled the cup in my hand and took a big gulp. It was not nearly as disgusting as the first sips had been. That was really helpful. Why didn’t Orange Scrubs tell me to stir it? She should have told me. I contemplated the chair where the man had been sitting. Wow, colon cancer. Yuck! Gosh, I hope my cancer hasn’t spread to my rear end. I stared into my cup.
This keeps getting worse and worse.
***
As 8:00 approached, a long line of people carrying cups identical to mine formed at the reception desk. They knew to start drinking at home. How hard would it have been for Dr. Lander’s office to tell me to start drinking the stuff ahead of time? The pumpkin-colored chairs and cantaloupe sofas slowly filled. People were soon spilling out into the hallway like a toppled fruit display. I moved to a tiny settee in the corner and put my backpack and book on the seat beside me. I only had half a cup of solution left when a woman in a cherry red tracksuit pranced in and greeted the receptionist as if they were old friends. The receptionist said something to her before they turned in unison and looked at me. I cringed as she made a beeline for me and sat down. The woman would have sat on Jane Eyre had I not snatched her out of the way just in time.
“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!” the woman drawled. “I just had to nab this spot before someone took it. This place gets so darn crowded at this time of day.” She shoved a rolling suitcase under the settee then examined me. “I see you’re drinking one of their delicious cocktails this morning.”
I glanced into her cup. “Why is yours red?”
“It’s red Gatorade,” she tittered.
This woman is way too happy. Maybe she’s been drugged.
“One of the nurses back home gave me a tip that you can drink the contrast in almost anything. I like Gatorade. You got Coke?”
“That’s what they gave me. Should I have something else?”
“I have trouble getting it down in Coke. One time I had some Gatorade with me, you know just to have, and the nurses suggested I try it. Now, I always take it in Gatorade. Of course, I’ll never be able to drink red Gatorade again, but it’s not like I’m an athlete or anything.” The woman laughed, a bit too loud. “It tastes just awful, but I can gulp it down right quick.”
I peered down into my still half-full cup. This whole process was so much more complicated than I thought it would be, and I was just beginning.
“It really helps to know some tricks of the trade, but you’ll get the hang of it, honey. For instance, I always wear just a cami under my clothes when I come up here. If you don’t have any metal on, they don’t make you wear one of those nasty gowns.” I considered my clothes—I had metal closures on my bra and a metal zipper on my jeans. There was so much I still didn’t know after doing hours of research.
The woman’s bag had a luggage tag on the handle and an airline ticket sticking out of the outside pocket. “You said a nurse from back home gave you the tip about the Gatorade?”
“I live in St. Augustine, that’s in the northern part of Florida,” the woman replied. I didn’t need to prompt her. She seemed more than happy to tell me all about herself. “I started treatment at home, but once they figured out that I have this unusual kind of breast cancer, my doctors sent me up here to Dr. Bishop and his team. He’s doing research on my kind of cancer, so I came up to be part of that. I can take a flight up early in the morning and be home the same day. It’s a long day, but I’d rather not stay overnight.” She finally took a breath. “Where are you from?”
“I live right here in Magnuson.”
“You’re lucky to live so close to such a good hospital. That would have made my life a lot easier over the last few years.”
“Did you travel back and forth all the time? Didn’t your boss get mad?”
“Oh, bless your heart. I had to go on disability. I stayed here for a few months while I was in treatment. Now I come back twice a year to get checked and talk to the doctors. If I have time today, I’m going to try to go see some of the research people to catch up with what they’re doing.”
“That sounds nice.” That sounds terrible! This lady has some rare awful cancer that could only be treated by the super-specialists here and she’s all happy about it? I think the cancer ate away part of her brain.
I gulped down the last of my drink and said, “Well, nice meeting you. Have a safe flight home.”
“Have a blessed day!” the woman replied.
Oh yeah, I’m just so blessed.
I stood up, marched over to the reception desk, and declared myself ready for my scan.
The CT scan itself proved uneventful. The technicians asked me to take off my jeans, T-shirt and bra but let me keep my panties on under the roomy gown. I didn’t feel as exposed as the man in the waiting room implied I would. Once inside, I compliantly lay there and let it happen. It was over quickly and then they were sending me on my way. No one even touched me.
***
I had three hours of unscheduled time before my procedure. I followed the orange tiles back to the reception lobby and stood outside the Starbucks where Jane Babcock Roberts and I had shared the initial shock of our diagnoses. I wondered what she was doing at that moment. Was she running her business like it was any other day? Did she feel stymied by her diagnosis?
People pity young women. I didn’t want people pitying me for sitting alone in a hospital coffee shop, so I walked outside and wandered across the brick courtyard between the Cancer Center’s most recent additions. The humid air told of the coming storm. High thin clouds lined the eastern sky, but the actual storm clouds were still hundreds of miles offshore. I wondered if any oil tankers had been re-routed yet. I considered calling Letitia and telling her to check the tanker movement feeds, but I didn’t want to risk her asking too many questions.
The set of doors at the far end of the courtyard led to a section of the Cancer Center the colored tiles hadn’t taken me before. I explored the paths to the blue pulmonary clinics and purple hematology clinics until I came to a set of frosted glass doors with etched pictures of books.
A library. Exactly what I needed.
In the years I lived in New Hampshire, the Hawthorne Public Library was my refuge from the awful realities of the farm. My grandfather was a geologist, so reading about minerals made me feel like he was still with me somehow. I spent my afternoons doing homework at one of the oak library tables in the nineteenth-century reading room or poking through the stacks. In the first years I lived there, I slowly worked my way through the Earth science section until I knew everything I could about rocks and elements.
Behind the frosted glass doors, I discovered an extensive collection of books on cancer and its treatment. Off to the side was a bookshelf where people could take books they wanted and leave books they were finished with. I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs scattered around the room and crossed my legs under me. The library was empty but I didn’t feel alone at all. I pulled a leather bound copy of The Heart of Darkness from the shelves and inhaled the moldering scent of its yellowing pages. It was like going home.
When the Hawthorne Public Library closed at eight, I would walk the four miles out Clemmons Road to Dale’s farm, quietly eat the plate of food Mama had left on the counter for me, and go to my room to read some more. Weekends were spent hiding in the loft of the barn. The cows didn’t seem to mind my being there. Perhaps they sensed Dale had branded me as well.
One afternoon during my sophomore year, Susan Patterson, Hawthorne’s head librarian and local fallen woman, came up behind me and draped a white cotton cardigan over my shoulders. “It’s chilly in here today, hmm? This will cover up those bare arms.” She ran her hand over my upper arm and inclined her head a little closer. “If I can see those bruises on your arms from way over there at my desk, so can those upstanding citizens in the meeting room. You wouldn’t want to give them any more grist for the mill.” She raised her voice so everyone in the library would hear her. “Yes, that’s so true. It is a shame we can’t turn the heat on until next week. Research project going okay?” She winked at me and glided back to her desk.
I was ashamed that the librarian had seen the black and blues left by Dale’s fingers as he held me down. I cringed to think how appalled she would be to see the bruises on my side where he had kicked me the night before. On my way out, I placed the folded sweater on the returns desk. “Thanks for the sweater, ma’am,” I mumbled.
“That’s okay, dear. You can borrow it any time. I keep it on a peg in the staff room.”
When I turned to leave, Miss Patterson called after me. “Hey, wait up a minute.” She hurriedly locked the library door and followed me out to the sidewalk. “I don’t want you to miss your ride.”
“Huh?”
“Doesn’t your mother pick you up?”
“No. I walk.”
“But it’s got to be—” I stepped out of the puddle of light near the library door making Miss Patterson rush on. “I was wondering, would you like a job here at the library? We have an opening for a shelving assistant. It only pays minimum wage but you’re here most days anyway, and I’m pretty sure that research project is long finished.” I stretched the sleeves of my T-shirt down to my elbows. “You can do some dusting and re-shelving for a few hours then do your homework. What do you say? You’d really be helping me out.”
Thus, my love of research was born. I worked at the library part-time after school and three full days a week during the summer. I did shelve books and clean, but I truly excelled when Miss Patterson asked me to help a patron research something. I learned all about the native birds of the Mississippi delta for old Mr. Shaw in anticipation of one of his birding trips and about the cathedrals of Spain for the Rotary Club’s trip to Barcelona. On slow days, Miss Patterson and I would take our breaks on the cool granite steps at the front of the building. Over cups of Lady Grey tea, Miss Patterson taught me all about Charlemagne and the Hapsburgs. She’d been within months of earning her Ph.D. when she had returned to care for her terminally ill father and missed talking about history. Susan Patterson helped make my days in Hawthorne tolerable. No one could make the nights at the farm bearable.
***
Thirty minutes before my scheduled appointment, I left the solace of the library to make my way to the green waiting room. Perched on the edge of an avocado colored chair, I flipped through the account of a woman hemorrhaging to death after the simple procedure, but the words moved on the paper like a line of ants. The words began to consume the edges of the paper like leaf cutting ants devouring a banana leaf. I dropped the piece of paper with a shudder. When I looked again, it was just a piece of notebook paper covered with my own handwriting. No ants. No leaves.
I picked up the piece of paper and held it on my lap. The description of the woman who died was the same as it was when I copied it down from the deep recesses of the Internet the night before. As I read the terrifying account over a few times, the green walls seemed to lean over my shoulder as if reading along with me. The empty couches felt like they were creeping toward me on their dented wooden legs. I could feel the snake of anxiety creeping up my spine. For the next few minutes, I clung to the worn arm of the avocado colored couch, fighting to keep a hold on reality.
Eventually, Dr. Lander’s nurse came and led me through the maze of hallways. I must have been holding it together okay because she didn’t seem to notice my anxiety. The procedure room was three times the size of the one I had been in on Tuesday. One wall housed equipment panels and monitors. The nurse said, “I’m Cindy. I’ll be assisting the doctor today.”
“I know who you are. We met the other day.”
“Great! Do you have any questions about what we are doing today?”
Don’t use that supercilious tone with me, girlie. Like you give a damn about my questions. You don’t even know who I am.
“No,” I barked. I plopped down in the pink plastic patient chair and prepared for another long wait. “I understand what they’re going to do to me. Just leave me alone.”
The nurse stopped in the middle of pulling a paper gown from a drawer and looked at me. “Okay then,” she responded, dropping the gown on the examination table like a used rag. “Take everything off from the waist down. The doctor will be ready for you in a few minutes.” She exited the room, shaking her head.
Once half-naked on the examination table, I securely tucked the gown under my thighs on both sides. I read over my crumpled sheet of notes yet another time as I fiddled with the edge of the paper table covering. Perhaps I should be lying down so I’m ready for the procedure. I swung my legs up and reclined like a corpse. Muffled voices passed in the hall. They sounded like curses. I stared up at the yellowing ceiling for several moments imagining the doctor using long scissors to slowly cut out my organs one by one until my head felt like it was going to burst through my chest.
No. I shouldn’t be lying down when they come in. That puts me in a submissive position. I popped up to sit on the edge of the table. I need to be ready for it. I should be facing the door when they come in. Or, maybe I should sit over there in the chair.
No, that won’t work. Then I’d need to move over to the table after a while. I don’t have any bottoms on. I hunkered down against the wall with my legs again swaddled in the sheet. No. I’ll stay here.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the door opened. Dr. Lander and the nurse filed in without making eye contact. “Ms. Blaine? Sorry to keep you waiting.” Dr. Lander sat down with her back to me while Cindy prepared a tray of instruments. “How did you tolerate the CT scan?”
“You should have told me to drink the contrast at home. I had to wait around for a whole hour in a room full of sick people.” The doctor and Nurse Cindy exchanged startled looks.
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience,” Dr. Lander replied. She didn’t sound sorry. She moved to the sink to wash her hands. “Did you have a reaction to the contrast? Do you feel unwell?”
“I feel fine,” I mumbled. I felt stupid. I felt afraid. I felt alone.
“Well then, I have the results here from the scans this morning and it looks like the cancerous cells are confined to a small area.” The doctor turned to me for the first time and smiled. “That’s good news!”
How can anything about this situation be good news?
Dr. Lander put on some latex gloves and started to collect her tools. “So, do you have any questions before we begin?”
I whipped my list of questions out from under my leg and stormed ahead. “Yes. Yes, I do,” I snapped. “How can I tell if you’re cutting out my bladder? What if you perforate my bowel? I won’t let you do a full hysterectomy!”
Dr. Lander blinked in astonishment and stepped back a few feet with her palms raised in surrender. “Whoa, Ms. Blaine. Where is that coming from?” She placed her tools on the small counter and peeled off her latex gloves. Dr. Lander perched her glasses on top of her short blond spikes. She rubbed her eyes for a moment before she turned to the nurse and said, “Cindy, I think Ms. Blaine and I are going to need a few minutes to talk. I’ll buzz you when we’re ready to proceed. Could you have Dr. Rosen check in with the patient in four?” Cindy glanced at me as if I were a lunatic and rushed out of the room.
“Okay, Ms. Blaine, what’s going on?”
“You can’t fool me!” I screeched. “I read all about it on the Internet. You tell women it’s just going to be a little part of their cervix but you take everything. Everything!” Oh my god, I sound like a crazy person. I caught a glimpse of my face reflected in the paper towel dispenser. My eyes looked mad and pink blotches stained my pale cheeks.
Dr. Lander stepped forward and looked me squarely in the eye. I blinked back desperate tears. “Where is this coming from?”
“I read all about what people like you do to girls like me.” I wanted to sound fierce, but my resolve had petered out. I was tired, and this conversation wasn’t going the way I planned.
Dr. Lander stepped back again and started pacing. As harsh as her touch had been, I preferred it to her letting go. “Now, it sounds like you found some real horror stories on the Internet but—” She stopped pacing and picked up my file from the desk and held it in front of her. The doctor placed her glasses back on her nose. “Perhaps we should go over your treatment plan now. Okay?”
I glared at the doctor but didn’t say anything. I knew when I was beaten. “Firstly, we can remove all the affected area today. In a twenty-nine-year-old woman, I feel it is better to aggressively treat the cancer now so we don’t have to treat it ever again in the future, so I recommend you undergo a course of radiation as well. Do you understand what is involved in radiation treatment?”
I nodded. I had no idea what radiation entailed, but I wouldn’t give Dr. Lander the satisfaction of admitting my ignorance. Not now.
“Now back to today. Do you have any questions about the LEEP procedure itself?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Why did this happen? Why am I here?
“No, let’s just get this over with.”