Vivian calls, again and again and again, until finally, I pick up. She wants to run a postmortem on our pitch, by which she means a debrief of my monumental fuckup.
“I’ll start with what I could have done better,” she says, her tone bristling with efficiency. “I shouldn’t have thrown you in the deep end. It was our first time pitching to an investor for our first round of funding, and I should’ve been more cognizant of the pressure that put on you. It was a mistake to go for it so quickly, and I’m sorry. Okay, your turn.”
I press myself into the far corner of a conference room. Beyond the glass walls, Hoffman House employees sip takeout lattes and send lightning texts. “Something’s happened.” I tell her everything. She’s silent throughout, to the point I’m unsure if she’s still on the line. “Hello?”
“I’m here,” she says. “Just processing.” Another pause. For a wild second, I think she’s going to fire me: flush the last eight months down the drain. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Lacey.”
Is happening, I want to correct her. “I’m sorry about the party,” I say. “I know Tom was a big deal.”
I expect her to scoff this off, reiterate that my health is the most important thing, that Tom doesn’t matter at all.
“He was,” she says. “But there’ll be others.”
“Sorry,” I say again. “I’ll catch up on everything by the weekend.”
“Okay, good.” There’s a pause before she adds, a tad hastily, “No rush. Take all the time you need.”
Knowing how high her standards are for everyone, from the guy who works at her local bodega to her own parents, I’m sure she doesn’t really mean it. And I don’t want more time. The ticking clock is already deafening. I find a handful of organizations for women at risk for hereditary cancer. They have strong, sassy names: Bright Pink and FORCE: Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered. I become addicted to their website forums, staying up night after night to lurk on the graphic, emotionally raw discussions of our collective fate: Ovaries out, or just fallopian tubes? and Best post-op bra for silicon implant? and 23 y o BRCA2 + scared. I feel like a stalker, reading confidential medical files. Threads discuss fertility issues, the pros and cons of “nipple saving surgery,” feelings of fear, of isolation. The frankness and the normalizing nature of the discussions are overwhelming. Confronting. They even have a name for women who choose prophylactic (preventative) surgery.
Previvors.
The thread I can relate to most right now: Anyone else here sick of waiting?? They don’t call it being a patient for nothing. If you have a mutated gene, you better get ready to wait: for appointments; follow-up appointments; tests; test results; first, second, third opinions. Guess what I’m not? Patient. I am so hysterical with the stress of waiting for my biopsy result that I accidentally spend $200 on shoes, which I definitely cannot afford, as I keep pushing back all my clients. I try to meditate for the first time since . . . for the first time. I breathe in and out. In and out. I try to find inner calm, but all I can think is: I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. Burying my mother’s death—something I was barely even conscious of—wasn’t enough to escape it. I’ve always wanted life to move faster: to get to the next thing, and the next, and the next. Now I want time to slow down. To stop from delivering me to the future written under my skin.
After forty-eight agonizing hours, Dr. Williams calls while I’m in line at Starbucks. The biopsy is clear. The lump is a benign growth—something common and harmless. To say I am relieved is like calling Charlie Sheen “a bit of a drinker.” But all I say to the doc is, “Well, that’s good news.” I switch the phone to my other ear, conscious of idle eavesdroppers. “And what about my . . . other option? The more permanent one. What are the main benefits?”
“Reducing risk,” she says. “Almost to nothing.”
The line shuffles forward. “What about the downsides?”
“It’s a major surgery,” Dr. Williams says. “Anything from two to twelve hours on the operating table. Possibly multiple surgeries . . .”
She continues with a laundry list of nightmare details. I try to keep my face even, as if we’re discussing a no-stakes work presentation. “How do you think I should proceed?”
“You are young,” she says. “But I have seen breast cancer form in BRCA1 women younger than you. You don’t need to rush into a decision, Lacey. But my feeling is, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.”
Because being sorry might mean being dead. I order a black coffee, then instantly change it to a white chocolate mocha Frappuccino. As I wait for my order, anxiety builds in hot, uncontrolled waves.
What if a tumor starts forming now, right now? Judy-Ann said tumors form like that: aggressive ones, triple-negative. That’s really, really, really bad. I’d need tons of chemo to kill that. Tons. But what’s the alternative: mastectomy? Breast reconstruction, what, with implants? Fake boobs and scars? That’s horrific! Barbaric! That would be torture—
“Shut up!” I gasp, inadvertently bolting back a step.
No one in Starbucks even flinches, except one old man who gives me a knowing look and says, “I hear it too, sweetheart.” Hashtag New York.
* * * *
I have always been good at making a plan and sticking to it. My college nickname was “Lil’ Robot.” I know what I’m doing when I wake up because I’ve thought it through the night before. Which means I’m generally good with decisions. I don’t second-guess my lunch order or my life plan. But right now, and quite possibly for the first time, I am ripped down the center. After gorging myself on research and forum threads and what my insurance actually covers, I have information but no direction. Each possible path is frightening and badly lit. I can’t make a choice.
Finally, I accept the inevitable.
I need help.
Which is why, come Friday night, I call an emergency meeting of the minds at the loft.
* * * *
Steph hugs me hello as if I just returned from the frontline. Vivian permits a scaled-back version of Steph’s signature embrace. (Viv is not a hugger, but this has never deterred Steph from trying.) I don’t think they’ve ever spent time together without me, which suits me just fine. They sit on opposite ends of the loft’s old sofa, wineglasses in hand. I’ve brought all the vino I had at home to stop it from tempting me with its cab sauv and sauv blanc siren song. Steph is comfortably cross-legged in a Blondie T-shirt, purple leggings, and socks patterned with peace symbols. Vivian is trying to find a spot on the sofa that doesn’t sag. Her expensive black slacks and a crisp white button-down indicate she came straight from our “office,” an overpriced shoe box in a coworking space in Tribeca that has free beer and Ping-Pong.
I am standing in front of a whiteboard. I am ready to begin. “As you know, I have a very important decision to make about my”—I indicate my boobs—“Golden Globes.”
Steph raises her hand. “Can we order pizza? Sorry, I know this is important, I just think I’ll have a clearer head if we had pizza.”
“I’ll order it.” Vivian is on her phone.
“I can do it.” Steph looks around. “Where’s my phone? Lace, have you seen my phone?” She runs her fingers between the couch cushions. “I just had it—”
“Done.” Vivian slips her phone back in her pocket. “Thirty minutes.”
“Shit, that was quick.” Steph gives Vivian an uneasy smile. “What’d you use, magic?”
“Yelp.” Vivian looks back at me. “You were saying?”
On the whiteboard, I write PRO and CON, and draw a vertical line between them. “Scores out of ten for each pro or con. Six for each column. Got it?”
My friends nod. It’s go time.
It takes us over an hour to finish the board. An hour of discussion and debate and wine and more wine. In the end, our pro column looks like this:
Lower lifetime risk of cancer = 10
Surgery / reconstruction covered by current health insurance (mostly) = 8
Don’t have kids / less responsibility right now = 5
Cheaper and less complicated / horrific than cancer treatment = 9
Time off protected by Family & Medical Leave Act (won’t lose
benefits etc.) = 6
Won’t have saggy tits when old = 3
I explain the last one: if I get implants, my breasts stay pert while the rest of me doesn’t. It’s not a huge bonus, but it won’t hurt.
The con column is considerably more grim.
Losing healthy breasts = 10
Recovery could affect career / no income = 6
Won’t get to breastfeed = 3
May be for nothing (might not get cancer) = 5
No sensation in new boobs = 9
Guys might find it weird / turnoff =
It’s this we can’t agree on. “The right guy won’t care!” Steph slaps the sofa. Her teeth are slightly purple from the wine. “One. One fookin’ point.” Her British accent always gets stronger when she’s drinking.
“Eight,” Vivian counters. “Eight points. This is New York. Dating is a blood sport. Guys will use anything to knock you out of the running. Having scarred, fake tits because of cancer at twenty-five is an instant pass, even if you are hot and smart.”
Steph gasps. “That is so mean.”
“It’s not what I think,” Vivian exclaims. “I’m just giving you a straight male perspective; you’re gay.”
“I sleep with men. I have sex with men.”
“More than I can say.” I take a bite of cold pizza.
“I’m still aware of the existence of men,” Steph says. “Who happen to be human, like me. If I really liked someone, I wouldn’t care. They won’t care.”
“Yes, they will.”
“Lacey’s perfect guy is compassionate and open-minded.”
“Lacey’s perfect guy is a guy. With eyes and a cock.”
“I think my perfect guy would be both,” I say. “A compassionate cock.”
“What is your type?” Vivian turns to me. “I could never figure it out.”
“My type?” I shrug. “Shoes and a MetroCard.”
“Seriously,” Steph says. “What do you want in a guy?”
The Punch-and-Judy show have broken the fourth wall and are staring at me expectantly.
“I don’t know . . . Gainfully employed college grad with the wit of Steve Martin, the body of a Montauk surf instructor, and the sexual appeal of a hot cheesy pizza. Ideally done a main-stage TED talk or started a literary salon or something. Funny but not sarcastic. Smart but not a show-off. Financially comfortable but doesn’t work all the time. I don’t mind curly hair but not tight curly: JT solo career not JT *NSYNC . . .” I notice the girls’ expressions and cut it short. “But I’m flexible.”
Vivian looks skeptical. “On what part?”
I think hard for a long moment. “I’m not flexible.”
“Wow.” Steph looks worried. “Maybe I’m too open-minded.”
“Straight girls could be cut from your list,” I offer.
“That is my list,” Steph says.
The front door opens. Cooper, Steph’s new roommate, comes in carrying what looks like a tote bag full of books. “Hello roomie,” he says. “Hey Lacey.”
I freeze.
To Vivian, “I’m Cooper.”
“Vivian Chang.” They shake hands. Steph’s already on her feet, next to him. “Can we ask Coop about . . .” She gestures unsubtly at the board that, to my alarm, he’s examining with interest.
I’m surprised to find myself shrugging. Cooper has the sort of diplomatic open-minded ease borne of well-funded public schooling. Besides, he’s already reading it.
The girls tag-team an explanation: “You know, like Angelina Jolie.”
“So,” Steph says. “What do you think?”
“Be honest,” Vivian says. “You’re only hurting her if you’re not.”
Cooper’s thinking. We all wait. He is pretty cute, in that scruffy-haired-nerd-who-likes-political-humor sort of way. I actually care what he thinks.
“Assuming that we’re not talking about some sort of medical horror show,” he says, “I think it depends on if the girl finds them sexy.”
Vivian and Steph look taken aback.
“I can’t speak for all guys,” he continues, “but, generally, guys like it when girls like their bodies. I’m sure there’d be an adjustment period, but if she was into it, I probably would be too. Our bodies are changing all the time. But confidence is what’s really attractive.”
He gives me a That okay? look.
“Wise words.” I smile at him. “The Buddhists are rubbing off on you.”
“Namaste.” He bows jokingly, and heads to his room.
“Maybe you should be rubbing off on him,” Vivian murmurs, after he closes his door. “He’s cute.”
“No,” Steph jumps in. “No way. This house is finally a drama-free zone. No one’s shagging my roommate.” She taps the whiteboard. “One point.”
Vivian says, “Eight.”
They fold their arms and look at me.
So it’s up to me? And my sexual confidence? Fan-fucking-tastic. Silently, and with no small amount of shame, I write . . . 7.
I hate that it matters. But it does.
Final score: Cons 40. Pros 41.
A flutter of relief, even happiness, flickers through me. I have an answer! The indecisive nightmare can stop!
Then it hits me.
I know, intellectually, that it makes sense: a medically sound 127 Hours. The fact I even have a choice is a privilege: millions of women can’t make the decision I can. But it’s not a decision I want to make.
I look over at the girls. Whatever they see in my face causes them both to straighten, momentarily sober. They exchange a worried glance. Their open, alarmed need to join forces while I’m right in front of them makes me groan and sink to the sofa, my face in my hands. The urge to curl into a tiny ball is overwhelmingly powerful.
Steph rubs my back. “It’s okay. Lace, it’s okay.”
“But it’s not,” I say into my hands. “It’s kind of not.”
A pause. Then Vivian speaks. “How about this.” She’s using her negotiating-in-meetings voice. “You just commit to thinking about it. That’s it. You don’t have to make any hard decisions. You just have to think about it.”
I look up. I have the distinct impression I look like an orphaned puppy. “For how long?”
Steph uses her soothe-the-baby voice. “However long you like.”
I whimper.
“Six months,” Viv replies, matter-of-fact.
A deadline. Good. “Six months,” I repeat. “I can make a decision in six months.” With that airy buffer of time in play, I suddenly feel a little more expansive. I’m up above the whole thing, looking down at landforms, seeing the big picture. The reality is, it’s not an emergency. Of course there’s the possibility of aggressive cancers forming sooner in younger generations, and I agree that prevention is better than cure. But I still don’t need to rush into anything. I want to give myself time to really think about this. And six months feels like a perfect amount of time: luxuriously but not recklessly long. I try something, tentatively. “Say you were gonna do it. In six months. Is there anything you’d, I don’t know, want to . . . try or do before then?”
“Do you mean, like, tests and consultations?” Steph says.
“No, I mean the final hurrah. Saying ta-ta to the tatas.”
“Oh,” the girls say. We all lean back into the sofa, absentmindedly squeezing our boobs.
Steph’s gaze goes dreamy. “I’d sunbathe topless in the Greek Isles.”
Vivian sips her wine. “I’d titty-fuck a boy band.”
I cough laughter, muting it for Cooper’s sake. “I’ve never titty-fucked anyone.”
“Oh, Lace.” Steph gives me a look of pity. “Even I’ve titty-fucked someone.”
“If we’re being honest,” I say. “I don’t usually ‘get there’ with a guy. Orgasmically speaking.”
The girls pause. Too late I comprehend this is a significant reveal.
“How often do you come?” Vivian asks.
I want to laugh or affect indignation. But they’re both looking at me like this is a perfectly legitimate line of questioning. Which of course, it is.
“I’d say eighty-five percent of the time . . .”
“Oh.” Steph relaxes.
“. . . Is how often I fake it.”
Steph spits out her wine. “What?”
“I’m a faker,” I say. “I know I need to be more communicative, but I tried that and it was so awkward. I didn’t know what to say. And most of the guys I’ve hooked up with were basically half-night stands. It’s all over so fast.”
“You’ve never had a regular sex friend,” Vivian says, like she’s just putting this together. “You haven’t had a boyfriend in New York.”
“Nope,” I say. “Just hookups. Hence my salient Meg-Ryan-in-Katz’s-Deli impression.”
“What about college?” Vivian asks. “You had a boyfriend, right?”
“Ash.” I nod. “Total sweetie. But Ash and I were more like best friends than fifty shades of any color palette.”
“That was not my college experience.” Vivian stretches, her sinewy arms tightening. “I basically didn’t wear pants for four years.”
“I just had a lot of threesomes,” Steph says thoughtfully. “At the time I figured I was really into group sex. With girls.”
“What finally clued you in?” Vivian asks.
“First season of Orange Is the New Black,” Steph says, and we all nod sagely.
I remember the scenes Steph is talking about: full, soapy breasts in a steamy shower. Neck-arching pleasure. Heat radiating from pert nipples. “That could be gone for me,” I murmur, glancing at the small dip of my cleavage.
Steph squeezes my hand. “I’d say it doesn’t matter, but it really does. To me. I love having my boobs touched.”
Vivian nods, like it’s a no-brainer. “I can come from just nipple play.”
I blink. “Holy polymorphic pleasure zones, Batman.” Annoyingly, I’m blushing. I resist the urge to squirm, trying instead to channel my friends’ unfazed cool. “Would you guys do it? A mastectomy?”
Vivian answers first. “I would. For sure. Prevention is always better than cure.”
I look to Steph. Her face twists into uncertainty. “Maybe, one day? But to be honest, I don’t think I could do it now, in my twenties. What if they invent a cure or I changed my mind? It just seems so final.”
A cure. What if they invent a cure?
Or what if they don’t?
“But wow, I’d miss my breasts,” Vivian adds, skimming her fingers over the small mounds under her shirt. She drains her glass. “Lace, you have to have the Big O before you even think about the Big M.”
Steph nods vehemently. “Many O’s! You deserve that much.”
“But I hate dating,” I say. “It’s the most unfun fun thing in the world.”
“So don’t date,” Viv says.
“Yeah, just find some bloke to shag,” Steph says, then hiccups.
This extensive honesty is not my forte, but if not now, when? If not with the girls, who? “I think my childhood kind of screwed me up. By the time I worked out everything I’d been told was basically BS and my body is, in fact, a pleasure garden, it just seemed too late.”
“But it’s not too late,” Vivian says. “You’re twenty-five. Go nuts. Go to a play party or have a threesome.”
“I don’t like the idea of being one of two girls some guy gets to hook up with,” I say. “I don’t want to be there for his entertainment.”
“But what about your entertainment?” Vivian jabs a finger at me.
“Why can’t you be the center of attention?” Steph says. “Sex happens with other people, but it’s really about you, how you feel, yourself.”
Sex is about . . . me. I’m responsible for my own pleasure. For working out what turns me on, what I like. And for acting on it. That was not the advice passed down to me by the well-meaning PTA moms of Buntley, Illinois, in their control-top panty hose and beige grandma bras. Sex wasn’t a rollicking adventure park. It was a deserted parking lot you’d best not walk through alone at night. Steph and Vivian are worldly women. I’m a naive child. “I’m a lost cause,” I groan. “It’s too late for me.”
Steph elbows me. “Oh, stop moping. You’ve got six months.”
“A lot can change in six months.” Vivian arches an eyebrow.
That’s true. A lot can change in six months . . .
Energy swirls inside of me, jettisoning me to my feet. I flip the whiteboard. Uncapping a marker, I write three words in big, bold letters.