A MONTH HAS PASSED SINCE that first moonlit flossing. For a while, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. But now I have other things on my mind.
Today Nellie found a ten-dollar bill. It was folded in half, lounging on a patch of grass near the park. I’m not sure if it was the sweet smell of money or the stench of well-anointed grass, but when she caught a whiff she woofed, then launched into a sniffing frenzy. Sensing the inevitable, I limped into action and rescued the cash before Nellie had a chance to squat and squirt all over it.
This was the first time she found money. I wish she’d find more of it, instead of all those pointy sticks, food scraps, icky insects, and used tissues I dig out of her mouth. But who am I to talk? I can’t even remember the last time I came across a nickel, let alone a ten-dollar bill. But I did find something of significance the other day.
I wish it were something joyful, like my elusive G-spot, or something musical, like Naomi’s lost iPod. Instead, I’m afraid it’s rather dismal: two lumps in my right breast. The small one feels like a pebble—hard and round. The larger one feels formless and spongy. And even though they are practically neighbors, just inches apart, they have never been formally introduced. Being the hostess and all, I got the ball rolling by asking their names.
“I’m Little Lump,” chirped the small one, curled up by my sternum.
“And I’m Big Blob,” bellowed the other.
He had set up camp behind my nipple, in the shade of my areola. Compared with Little Lump, he was huge.
At first, I was worried that they wouldn’t get along. After all, one is timid; the other is aggressive. The last thing I needed was a bra-room brawl. So I read the riot act to each of them, in private, and they both assured me they won’t pick a fight. But Little Lump was still scared.
“Why should I trust him?” she asked.
“Because Blob’s your uncle,” I said.
Ever since my auntie Glenda died of breast cancer, I’ve kept close tabs on my tits. I’m always on the lookout for lumps or bumps and other ominous signs. By now, I know them inside out. So does Dr. Mintz. When you have breast tissue as lumpy as mine, medical exams and mammograms are essential for peace of mind. And that’s exactly why I’m here, again, in Dr. Mintz’s office. For peace of mind. While Dr. Mintz examines my breast lumps, I study the expression on his face. I’m looking for clues and cues: should I or shouldn’t I panic?
“It’s probably nothing,” he says, “but I’d like to get you in for a mammogram. Just to be sure.”
The tone of his voice pushes my panic button.
“Do you think it’s cancer?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he says. But what I hear is, “Maybe.”
When I get home, I tell Bergen about Little Lump and Big Blob. He stays calm and reassures me. “You know, there’s no point worrying, until we know what it is.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t want to tell Naomi.”
But I do call Lisa.
She says, “It’s good that you’re getting it checked out, Robbie, but it’s probably nothing to worry about.”
Sweet Lisa, the eternal optimist.
ONE DAY I save an earthworm. Not in any evangelical way—I only proselytize to praying mantises. I simply save this worm from imminent death. While taking Nellie for a walk, I spot the wiggling creature, smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. Baking in the hot sun.
“Look, Nellie,” I say.
She gives it a sniff, then watches me slip my hand into an empty poop bag and gingerly pick it up. I carry it away from the concrete, to a nearby garden, and place it in a shady patch of grass.
“Take care, little worm,” I whisper.
Then Nellie barks at it three times—sage advice that I translate for the benefit of that critter: “Location. Location. Location.”
This is the first time I have ever saved a worm. This must be what happens to people who spend too much time looking down at the ground. People like me who don’t have a job, who are clinically depressed, who do the Parkinson’s shuffle while walking a dog that loves to swallow sticks. People who know that one day they could be the wiggling creature—lying smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk, baking in the hot sun—in need of saving.
OVER THE YEARS, I’ve bartered my art for many things: photo sessions, dental work, toy boats, handmade dolls, clothing, hats, jewelry. But this is the first time I’ve bartered for therapy. When I arrive for my session with Theresa, I present her with a large rectangle wrapped in brown paper. Theresa smiles and says, “Is this my painting?”
“If you like it,” I say.
“I’m sure I will. May I see it?”
Together we unwrap the package, revealing a colorful collage of three childlike figures holding hands, next to a cat, on a tree-lined street. The sky is filled with swirling dots. The trees are overflowing with hundreds of tiny cutout painted leaves. The houses are simplified boxes with lace windows. I lean the framed artwork against the wall and say, “The title is Down the Street, Hand in Hand.”
“It’s beautiful. There is so much joy—I love it.”
“One reason I chose this one is because it has a lot of purple in it, and you wear a lot of purple. It’s also one of my ‘Dancers’ series. When you looked through my portfolio, you liked that style.”
“Thank you, Robyn. I can’t wait to find a place for it in my home.”
I curl up on the couch while Theresa sits down on her chair. We allow our breathing to synchronize, letting our shoulders relax and our heads roll slowly from side to side. And then Theresa gently asks, “How are you?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, pressing my right hand against my tightening chest. “I found two lumps in my breast. I’ve started picking up worms off the sidewalk. And I’m fantasizing about getting flossed by my neighbor.”
Theresa’s face turns serious. “Have you gone to your doctor about the lumps?”
“Yep. I’m booked for a mammogram and ultrasound soon. But I’m worried.”
We talk about the challenges of waiting—for the examinations and for the results. We explore the best- and worst-case scenarios, as I imagine how they might unfold. We review techniques to help me cope with my tendency to catastrophize. And when I’m all lumped out, we talk about my newfound affinity for worms and Will the dentist and my deteriorating manual dexterity—all within sight of my painting, leaning against the wall, reminding me that I haven’t painted in a very long time.
Soon after my session with Theresa, Bergen and Naomi abandon me to go on a road trip, up to Williams Lake, in northern British Columbia, to visit Bergen’s cousin and go to the Williams Lake Stampede and Rodeo. They left this morning, the first day of Naomi’s summer vacation. I was invited to join them. But we all knew I’d say no. Considering my low energy, and my daily nap and exercise routine, I decided to stay in my comfort zone—at home with Nellie. They’ll be gone for two weeks—long enough to soak up some traveling adventures and to get a much-needed break from me. I get the house to myself for a couple of days, and then the visitors arrive. First Ruthie. Then my dad.
When Ruthie arrives, she is in demand. She has friends all over the world, many of them right here in Vancouver. We all want a piece of her, so she is parceling out her time judiciously. Today is my day.
She arrives bearing gifts, and I welcome her with tears. Nellie starts licking her pedicured toes.
“You call this a dog?” Ruthie laughs, leaning down to rub her belly.
“I know—she’s a crouton compared with your pooch.”
Maya. The massive Great Dane.
“How is Maya doing?” I ask.
“Getting old. She has arthritis. She’s staying with friends, the ones who always look after her while I’m away.”
Good friends, no doubt. Because Ruthie is away a lot. She loves to travel. And she looks the part: exotic, voluptuous, comfortable in her sun-kissed skin. I feel like a gargoyle in the presence of a goddess.
I’ve known her since high school, where we became instant friends. Together we pursued typical teenage obsessions: sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, and moving out of our parents’ homes. But I quickly learned there was nothing typical about Ruthie—she was an overachiever. At sixteen, while I was still planning my escape, she had her own apartment and a full-time job and had boldly upgraded from boys to men. At eighteen, while I was still living at home, she was traveling overseas. When Ruthie returned home, seven years later, the world had penetrated her heart. She was fulfilled and ready to settle down, for a while. She started a small business—a mobile juice bar—that grew into a chain of vegetarian restaurants called Fresh. While she had been traveling, I had finally made several escapes—from my parents’ house, from university, from Toronto. I was by then living in Vancouver, establishing my art career. In so many ways, our lives had changed, are still changing. But our sisterly love has remained constant.
“What’s up with you?” she asks. “Lisa mentioned you’re getting some tests.”
“I’m scheduled for a mammogram next week. I found two lumps. What if it’s cancer? What’ll I do?” Tears stream down my face.
“You’ll fight. That’s what you’ll do. Right? You’ll fight.”
But I’m not so sure. Part of me thinks breast cancer would be a blessing, a morbid means of escape from Parkinson’s.
“What would you do?” I ask her.
And without hesitation, Ruthie says, “Whatever it takes to beat it.”
She stares at me with those green eyes, then she issues her command: “You’ll fight. And we’ll be there to help you.”
My tears come and go for the rest of the day. While we walk Nellie. While we go out for lunch. While we drink tea and talk about her travels, her man, her miscarriage. And before you know it, our visit is over—time flies when you’re having phlegm. I wipe my nose; we hug good-bye; I escort her to the door. Then the gargoyle blows the goddess a kiss, and she drives off in her rental car.
MY DAD TRAVELS light but always packs dozens of jokes and one-liners. Never newish, mostly Jewish, borrowed from the best: Henny Youngman, Groucho Marx, Jackie Mason, Rodney Dangerfield, Woody Allen. I’ve heard them all a million times, but I don’t mind hearing them again. I know that the more jokes he cracks, the happier he is. When we get home from the airport, I can tell he is no longer depressed.
“Are you tired?” I ask.
“I was born tired,” he replies.
When he’s settled in the guest room, I ask, “Are you comfortable?”
“I make a living,” he quips.
When he winces while getting up from the couch, I ask, “Are you all right?”
“I told my doctor my back hurts whenever I stand up, so the doctor told me, ‘Then don’t stand up,’” he laughs. He’s seventy years old and still remembers them all.
This is the first time in years that my dad has visited me on his own, without my mom. She stayed in Toronto, to help look after my brother’s and sister’s kids. She likes to be where the action is—and it sure isn’t here. Left to our own devices, my dad and I devolve: we are two peas in a Parkinson’s pod. Moving in slow motion. Lounging on the couch. Reading the newspaper. Taking midday naps. We’re both perfectly content to hang out at home. And when we do venture out, it’s to walk the dog or buy groceries or go out for dinner.
“I feel like I’m on holiday,” my dad confesses after waking up from a snooze. He is so easy to please.
I have arranged a special surprise for him. It’s opalescent blue and seats two. It pulls up to the curb—curvaceous, flirtatious—be still my beeping horn.
“Hop in!” says Will the dentist. “I’ll take you for a spin.”
My dad is smitten. He loves Jaguars, and this one is vintage: a 1967 convertible. He slides into the passenger seat. Will’s nimble fingers grip the wheel. Then the purring engine lets out a roar, and off they drive into the sunset.
Will’s wife, Helen, is standing beside me. She’s so happy to wave them off.
“That’s one less car ride for me. I wish your dad would stick around so that I wouldn’t have to be Will’s only sidekick.”
Then she smiles and says, “You should get Will to take you for a ride.”
The thought had crossed my mind, but only if he can floss and drive at the same time. “Maybe I will, one of these days.”
My dad flies home this afternoon. There’s only one thing left to do. So I set up my mini-disc recorder and microphone and begin. Over the years, he’s told me his stories, the details of his life, but I have forgotten key facts and mixed up dates and even remembered things that never happened. This is my chance to set the record straight. I ask him about his childhood, the jobs he had as a kid, his business, the charitable work he’s done.
I want to remember my father. I want something to remind me of him—something quintessential and sentimental—if he dies before I do. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and there’s only one thing that fits the bill. I work up the courage to make my request:
“Can you bequeath your hairbrush to me?”
He lets out a laugh and gives me that “you can’t be serious” look. But I assure him that I am dead serious. This hairbrush is an heirloom; it’s half a century old and is as bald as his head. He paid five bucks for it when he was nineteen. Back then, they were both young and invincible, brimming with bristles, oblivious to the perils of male-pattern baldness and repetitive use. And while my dad had the means to buy a new hairbrush every day, he remained loyal and devoted to this one.
“Well, I could even leave it for you today, if it means that much to you. Nobody else has ever asked for it.”
This doesn’t surprise me. “No, I just want you to will it to me,” I reply.
“Consider it done,” he says.
IT’S QUIET WITHOUT my dad in the house. But I’m not lonely or alone—I’ve got Nellie to keep me company. And Little Lump and Big Blob. It turns out that these two are quite mischievous. Yesterday during my mammogram, they played hide and seek so well that no one could find them. But the ultrasound blew their cover. Now they want to do a biopsy on Big Blob to see what he’s made of. Something tells me it ain’t sugar and spice and everything nice.
Today is Big Blob’s biopsy. The forecast calls for morbid jokes from a middle-aged dame, with periods of emotional turbulence and disbelief. Expect hovering doctor with long, pointy needles and hand-holding nurse with soothing voice. There is a slight chance of internal bruising. Apply-pressure advisory in effect.
I’m half-naked, flat on my back, scared stiff—in a room so small and so cramped, surrounded by blinking, beeping, humming high-tech machines, that I feel like I’m in a medical cockpit:
“This is your doctor speaking. We’ll be cleared for your core needle biopsy shortly. Kindly unfasten your hospital gown and remain in a reclining position.”
Up until now, I have been amusing the doctor and nurse with my lie-down comedy routine. Joke after joke after joke. But the minute the doctor tells me, “Hold perfectly still,” the kidding stops and the tears start flowing.
“Does something hurt?” she asks, pointing this menacing needle at my nipple.
“No,” I whimper, “my defense mechanism just broke down. This isn’t funny anymore.”
“I know. It’s scary. But I need you to hold perfectly still, OK?”
“OK.”
“You’ll feel some pressure.”
And I did.
“You’ll hear a loud clicking sound.”
And I did.
“Now let’s do this again . . . and again.”
Three samples, and it’s over. I feel rattled and relieved. I’m glad I followed Susan’s advice and let her accompany me to this appointment instead of waiting a week until Bergen gets home. By the time he’s back, we should know exactly what Big Blob is made of.
MY TRAVELERS come home with stories and photos and gifts and laundry. Naomi looks taller. Bergen looks tanned. They say I look rested and Nellie looks scruffy—but it’s probably the other way around. Life returns to normal for five summer days. The house goes from clean to cluttered; the telephone rings and rings; there are family walks and visits with friends. And then normal disappears.
When I call the doctor’s office this morning, my biopsy report has finally arrived.
“Can you tell me the results over the phone?” I ask.
“No, I can’t do that,” the assistant, Peggy, says. “You have to make an appointment with Dr. Mintz.”
“Well, then, can you tell me if I should bring Bergen along, to cry on his shoulder? Or should I just come on my own.”
“Better bring Bergen.”
Behind every great man, there’s a great woman. And at Dr. Mintz’s office, it’s Peggy. She’s been his loyal assistant for twenty years. Her work never ends: schmoozing with patients, answering the phone, arranging referrals, collecting specimens, managing files, booking appointments, keeping Dr. Mintz well fed. These last two tasks go hand in hand and often lead to mouthwatering delights that magically appear just in time for lunch. Here’s how it works: with a little luck and some culinary cunning, Peggy cooks up the perfect storm by scheduling certain patients’ appointments between noon and one o’clock. These certain patients tend to be Greek grandmothers—AKA Yayas—or East Indian women, with the usual aches and pains but also with heartfelt appreciation. They adore Dr. Mintz, and they know what he adores. So along with their bodily complaints, they bring him homemade spanakopita, samosas, baklava, ouzo, and wine. And every second Friday, butter chicken.
Today when we arrive, the waiting room smells like cinnamon.
“Someone baked us coffee cake,” Peggy says. “You can head into Dr. Mintz’s office; he’s expecting you.”
Bergen takes my hand and leads me into the room, where two empty chairs await. Everything feels surreal and distant—as if I’m in the theater of the absurd. I watch myself sitting down. I see Dr. Mintz moving his mouth. But the words I hear him say get mangled in my mind.
“We caught it early bird.” “I know an excellent circus.” “Paging invasive ductal carcinoma. Please meet your party at stage one.”
On our way out, Peggy hands me a slip of paper.
“I got you an appointment—for tomorrow—with Dr. Chung. She did my surgeries. I told her it was urgent, and she squeezed you in.”
Good old Peggy. I’d forgotten that she’s had two bouts of breast cancer. How lucky for me that she’s well connected to this surgeon.
“What’s she like?” I ask.
“She’s one of the best and busiest surgeons in town. Look at me, I’m still here.”
“Is she nice?”
“She’s serious. When you meet her, you’ll understand.”
A wave of relief sweeps over me and I think, it’s terrible to have such a critical disease, but wonderful to receive such urgent attention.
TODAY’S APPOINTMENT with the surgeon is scheduled for late afternoon. Happy hour. If I were a drinker, I’d cheer myself up and calm Big Blob’s nerves with a few cocktails. But I’m no drinker—I’m a walker. That’s how I clear my head. And there’s just enough time to take Nellie out for a stroll.
We wind our way through the neighborhood, dodging lawn mowers, barking at kids, rescuing worms. When we reach the top of the hill, we turn left onto Dunbar Street—the business section. A few stores down from Diane’s beauty salon is an art school for young children. I walk by it all the time, admiring the cheerful paintings displayed in the storefront window. There’s always a theme. A few days ago it was Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. Before that it was Claude Monet’s Water Lilies. And before that, Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. These pipsqueak forgeries of masterpieces always make me smile, but today’s new display—various versions of Edvard Munch’s The Scream—not only makes me smile but also sends shivers down my spine. All the elements of the original artwork are simplified and cartoonlike—the helpless hands against the skeletal head, the turbulent orange sky, the ominous bridge over murky water. Yet the essence of emotional suffering comes through loud and clear. I can hear the shrill screams escaping the gaping mouths. These childlike paintings are hilarious and horrific, just like my life. The perfect backdrop for my happy hour meeting with the surgeon.
This is the saddest waiting room I’ve ever seen. There must be twenty chairs in tidy rows, all of them occupied by breast cancer patients and their loved ones. When more people arrive, it’s standing room only. There is a three- to four-hour wait to see the surgeon. The décor is dismal. We are surrounded by floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets, overflowing with thousands of multicolored folders. I wonder what color my file will be. Red for right breast? Blue for Big Blob?
Three and a half hours later I find out: it’s white with red and yellow tabs. Dr. Chung apologizes for the long wait. She says, “You are my last appointment of the day. I’m going on vacation tomorrow; there were a lot of patients to squeeze in.” Bergen and I give her understanding looks and sit quietly while she reviews my file. I watch her delicate fingers slide across the pages while her dark eyes dart back and forth. She looks poised and petite while sitting down. She glances up from the file and says matter-of-factly, “You were diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease eight months ago. And you have just been diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“At least I don’t have testicular cancer,” I reply.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
Obviously she didn’t get the joke. But Bergen did, and now he’s giving me a disapproving look, while mouthing the words “Not now” and pretending to slice his neck with his hand—code for “Cut out the morbid jokes.”
Then he says, “Robyn has a black sense of humor, especially when she gets nervous.”
This seems to patch up any damage done to Dr. Chung’s sensibilities, and we move on to the physical exam.
Dr. Chung’s hands are intuitive instruments—they press and plunge and squeeze and dig and oscillate and calibrate every nook and cranny of my breasts, my chest, my underarms, my neck. I have never been palpated like this before. She is very concerned about the size of Big Blob. And flabbergasted that Little Lump was not biopsied.
“That should have been done at the same time,” she huffs, reaching for her pad of requisition forms. “I’ll set up an appointment to have this biopsy taken right away. And also an MRI of both your breasts. Depending on the lab results of this second lump, you will need either a lumpectomy or a mastectomy. Plus some lymph nodes removed. How does three weeks from today sound?”
It sounds inconceivable, hilarious, horrific. Too soon. Too real. It also sounds inevitable.
“Three weeks from now would be fine,” I say.
She marks my name down in her calendar; then I add, “My auntie Glenda died from breast cancer. Could this be genetic?”
“Are you Jewish?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“There is a higher incidence rate of breast cancer among certain Jewish women. Your ancestry—are you Ashkenazi or Sephardic?”
I know the answer. But I can’t seem to locate it in my mind. So I hesitate and guess. “Sephardic. My grandparents were from Eastern Europe.”
“Then you are Ashkenazi,” Dr. Chung says, laughing. “Now that’s funny. You didn’t know which one you were.”
I start laughing too, then Bergen joins in.
At the end of the appointment, Dr. Chung hands me a thick folder. “This is for you to keep,” she says. “There’s lots of useful information in there.”
In other words—homework. When Bergen and I get to the car, I look in the folder and find brochures and a book titled The Intelligent Patient’s Guide to Breast Cancer. Stupidly, I start reading the chapter on mastectomies—detailed descriptions of surgical procedures, potential health complications, photographs of mastectomy scars. It’s all so graphic and gruesome. I feel sick with worry about this pending surgery. I may have signed up, but do I have the balls to show up?
IT’S A WARM sunny day. Bergen, Naomi, and I take a drive to Commercial Drive and eat lunch on the patio of a favorite restaurant. The little hand on my watch is pointing at Naomi, and the big hand is pointing at my breast. Tick. Talk. Tick. Talk. It’s time to tell Naomi. Before dessert, I casually say, “I have some news.”
She looks at me, then Bergen, then down at her hands, and shuffles nervously in her chair.
“I’ve just been diagnosed with breast cancer.”
I watch her face flutter with surprise.
“You have that too?” she moans. Her question is so sad and so funny—she’s my daughter, through and through—that we all start laughing and crying, at the same time.
“I’m lucky, I caught it early. I’m going to be OK. So don’t worry, all right?”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I just found out two days ago. You’ve been so busy with your friends these past few days; I’ve hardly seen you. That’s why we arranged this lunch.” There are plenty more questions to ask and answer, but first there’s pie and cake to share. A little sweetness to add to the sorrow.
That night, lying in bed with Bergen, words are whispered, then brushed aside by searching fingers and aching flesh. His touch distracts me from my bewilderment at having two diseases and all that entails. But not for long. My muddled mind interrupts with questions: How can Bergen still find me desirable as Parkinson’s distorts my body? How will he react when my breast is gone? What will I look like? How will I feel? Who will I be? Tears stream down my face and dampen his shoulder.
“Do you hate me?” I ask.
“I love it when you say that. It brings us closer together,” he laughs.
Then he wraps his arms around me and says, “I’m lucky to be with you. You’re very sexy, you know.”
“I don’t feel very sexy.”
“Oh, but you are very sexy,” he says in a Scottish accent.
“You won’t be saying that when I only have one tit.”
“Oh, yes, I will. You will always be my bonnie lass.”
We kiss. I veer my mind away from my worries, toward the possibility of pleasure. After all these years, our bodies still transport us to electric places. Even now. Maybe even after my breast surgery.
A few days later, I have an appointment with Theresa. She has a new office; I have a new disease. Both take some getting used to. This office is bigger and brighter than her previous one, and this new disease is more deadly than my first. Both feel foreign—discombobulating. But Theresa’s my anchor. I tell her about the diagnosis.
“I’m so sorry, Robyn,” she says. “You seem remarkably calm, considering what you are dealing with.”
I suppose it’s possible to confuse a stunned “deer in the headlights” demeanor with calmness, but I know that’s not what she means.
“I know. It’s so strange. It’s as if my Cry Lady is incognito, keeping a low profile. Sure, there have been tears—but nothing melodramatic. I almost feel numb.”
“It must be quite a shock,” Theresa says.
“Yeah. But it’s also a kick in the pants. There’s so much to do before the surgery.”
“Like what?”
“Get all these tests done, the second biopsy, the MRI, X-rays, blood work. Tell my family and friends. Finish my will and find and burn my old diaries.”
“Your old diaries?”
“Yeah. From my university days. If I die in surgery, the last thing I want is Naomi rummaging through my stuff, reading about my sexual adventures.”
Theresa laughs.
“What if I die in surgery?” I wonder out loud.
“It’s highly unlikely, but it’s possible.”
“Lots of women die from breast cancer.”
“That’s true. And lots of women survive.”
“When I first found the lumps and was waiting for the biopsy results, part of me thought I’d be lucky to die this way—I wouldn’t have to worry about Parkinson’s anymore. I also wouldn’t be a burden to my family. But now that I know I have cancer, I realize I don’t want to die. Not yet. I want to live.”
The moment I say this, my chest tightens and I feel like I can’t breathe—I’m having an anxiety attack. Theresa remains calm and focused.
“Try doing this,” she says, placing her hands on her chest, taking deep breaths in, exhaling loudly. I copy her motions and feel the panic subside a bit.
“That’s good,” she nods. “It’s OK to feel scared. I’m right here.”
And with that, my body surrenders to some primordial force. I’m Gug the Cavewoman, quaking like thunder, weeping with abandon, summoning the gods. The sky is falling, and I am falling apart. Finally.
BONNIE IS COMING to visit me. She got a deal on a last-minute flight. By the time her plane arrives, I’ve recovered from yesterday’s therapy session. My plan is to pick her up at the airport, be cheerful and chatty, then break the news when we get home. In other words, avoid a public display of affliction. I spot her by the luggage carousel looking tanned and trim.
“Beachface!” I shout.
Several people turn their heads in my direction, but only one person answers to that nickname. Bonnie smiles, grabs her bags, and walks over.
“Hi, Robbie,” she says, giving me a great big hug.
That’s my cue to be cordial, to stick to the plan and say, “Hi, Bonnie. Did you have a good flight?” But as our bodies meld, my plan is hijacked by a sudden surge of emotion ripping through me. Oh, God—here it comes—premature revelation!
“I have breast cancer,” I blurt out, exploding into tears—right here, at YVR domestic arrivals.
Once we’ve loaded the luggage into the trunk, we hop into the car. There’s a gift waiting for Bonnie inside.
“Go ahead and open it,” I say. “It’s for you.”
She unwraps the package and finds a shiny red plastic case, decorated with a cartoon of a little boy dressed up as a doctor.
“A toy medical kit?” she asks, opening the lid.
“I have a few appointments this week—some blood tests, X-rays, a biopsy. I was hoping you’d come along; you could be my make-believe nurse. I know you loved volunteering at the leper colony in Calcutta years ago. I’m sure it won’t be as exciting as cleaning festering wounds, but it could still be fun.”
“Of course I’ll go with you,” Bonnie says. “I just want to hang out with you. It doesn’t matter where.”
ANOTHER DAY, another waiting room. I’ve got the right person for the right job. Nurse Bonnie, oblivious to the watchful eyes around us, is busy checking my vitals—taking my temperature with the yellow toy thermometer, listening to my heart with the blue stethoscope, checking my blood pressure with the tiny inflatable armband.
“There. Everything seems normal,” she smiles, packing away her medical instruments.
Normal? If only that were true. What a difference a lump makes. Or two.
When my name is finally called, I leave my purse with Bonnie, change into a hospital gown, and wait in an examination room. My fingers slide along the right side of my collarbone, then travel down my ribs until they bump into Little Lump. Woe is we—me and my lump—waiting for this second biopsy is more nerve-racking than it was waiting for the first one—now that we know exactly what to expect. But when the doctor arrives and preps us for the procedure, it turns out all that worry was for nothing. Little Lump is located too close to my chest wall.
“Instead of a core needle biopsy, you need an excise biopsy,” the doctor explains.
“Does that require a priest?” I ask, recalling The Exorcist, where Linda Blair plays the devil-possessed girl whose spinning head spews vomit and vulgarities.
The doctor either didn’t hear my question or just ignores it. “You’ll need to call your surgeon. She’ll probably do the biopsy for you.”
“LET’S GO to the Naam for lunch,” Bonnie says.
It’s her favorite vegetarian restaurant in Vancouver. Mine too. The service can be slow, but the food is always great. And today, as far as I’m concerned, they can take their sweet time filling our orders—Bonnie and I have lots of catching up to do. I want to hear all about her two young boys, her husband, and the amazing lighting designs she is creating for theatrical productions around the world.
I’ve known Bonnie since high school, but it wasn’t until after graduation that our lives intersected, at the corner of Yonge and Bloor, in downtown Toronto. It was summer, and we were both street vending our handcrafted jewelry. Bonnie’s earrings were elegant, made of shiny silver and shimmering beads. Pretty enough to wear to a wedding. My earrings were not elegant or pretty. They were called “cute” and “weird” and “rude” and “funny.” I sculpted teeny-weeny people from special Plasticine—some wearing bathing suits, others wearing birthday suits. These sold steadily, but it was my Gumby knockoffs that killed. That retro green clay toy figure was making a pop-cultural comeback at the time, and I couldn’t keep up with demand. I churned out thousands of these mini-Gumbies, most of them modest in boxers and bikinis. But I also cranked out nude versions that were anatomically correct.
Bonnie and I would often set up our displays next to each other. We’d spell each other off for bathroom and lunch breaks. And between sales, we’d talk. By the end of the summer, we were friends. And then Bonnie moved out west to study theatrical lighting design at the University of British Columbia.
We didn’t reconnect until the following summer when I transferred from psychology at the University of Toronto into fine arts at UBC. I was driving my car across Canada with my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend and his buddy. We broke up along the way—somewhere in the Prairies, just off the Trans-Canada Highway, in the parking lot of some coffee shop, in the pouring rain. I wish it had been one of those mutual “let’s just be friends” endings. But it wasn’t. I broke his heart. And then he lost his left boot, his appetite, and his interest in bathing. So by the time we showed up at Bonnie’s house in Vancouver—which she was renting with several other students—my ex was an existential, one-booted mess. In spite of the awkwardness of the situation, Bonnie’s compassion prevailed, and with my acquiescence, she let my ex stay a couple days until he found other accommodations.
Although this was not planned, I moved in, first into Bonnie’s room and then into my own room when one of the roommates moved out.
By the end of the school year, our lives were intertwined and forever changed. We were soul sisters. Bonnie moved again—to take a job in Halifax. I also moved—into an apartment of my own, in Vancouver. But this time we kept in touch. There were long-distance phone calls and cross-Canada visits. And always Bonnie’s presence in my life—her steady, fearless love that whispered, “No matter what happens, or where you go, I will be there for you.” Like she is now, here with me in Cancerland. And like she would be, if I were to wind up in a leper colony.
I HAVE A CONFESSION: I’m seeing another man. Almost every night. He has baby blue eyes and manly tattoos, and when he talks, I glisten. He’s charming and funny and sexy and smart. He’s married. But so am I. He’s smutty and I am smitten. It took me by surprise.
It was my dad who introduced me to him, while Bergen and Naomi were away. We were watching the evening news. Then my dad changed channels and there he was—gazing into my eyes, extending his arms, smiling seductively.
“Welcome to The Late Late Show. I’m your host, TV’s Craig Ferguson.”
His mellifluous voice melted my heart—I’m a sucker for Scottish brogues. He had my vagina with his monologue. And then he had the rest of me when he pulled out his puppets.
“It’s a great day for America!” Craig teases me each night, arousing my adulterous desire. This unrequited lust can’t last forever, but it sure feels good for now. And so I wait with bated breasts for Craig to cross my border and plunge his patriotic flagpole into my foreign soil—hopefully before my surgery.
And when he does, I’ll say, “It’s a great day for Canada!”
IT’S TIME to climb back on the bad-news bandwagon—I’ve delayed it long enough. There are people I have to tell. I’ve been dreading all these phone calls I’m about to make. If only there were an easier way. . .
For Immediate Release
Middle-Aged Dame Diversifies Disease Portfolio
Vancouver, B.C., July 2008—Robyn Michele Levy has diversified her disease portfolio with the unexpected acquisition of breast cancer. This follows hot on the heels of her recent partnership acquisition of Parkinson’s “R” Us, formerly a sole proprietorship owned by her father, Gordon Levy.
As part of her strategy to survive, she is planning to postpone her summer vacation, lop off her right tit, and try not to wallow in self-pity.
Robyn deeply regrets any distress this may cause family, friends, and pets.
Robyn’s right breast deeply regrets any distress this may cause brassieres, plunging necklines, and ex-boyfriends.
THE DEED IS DONE—well done. It’s left me medium rare. Marinating in other people’s calamitous tears. I now have a cache of their concerns, unsolicited advice, and heartfelt offers of help.
My poor father—he’s been down this road before. It was a dead-end street for his sister, Glenda. Neither of us mention her name while we talk on the phone. We cradle our memories of her in our silence.
“I want to be there for the operation. I’ll fly out,” he says, pushing through fear, grasping for hope.
I am hesitant to say yes, for both of our sakes. “Let me think about it, OK?”
“What about Mom? I know she’ll want to come help you too.”
His question lands in my lap like a hot potato. After all these years, my dad is still trying to bring my mom and me closer. I don’t blame him. He’s only doing what he thinks is best. But considering how scared and vulnerable I feel now—just imagining the horror of possibly having a mastectomy—I expect to feel worse after my breast has been amputated. And in this fragile state of recovery, I’ll need plenty of rest and nurturing. Sadly, just thinking about my mom visiting me under these circumstances makes me feel anxious. My decision is difficult to make and even more difficult to convey to my dad. But the more we talk, the more sympathetic he is to my wishes and the deeper I understand why he needs to be by my side. So I say yes to him and no to my mom. We agree that he will fly back here in two weeks—the day before my surgery.
In the meantime, Bonnie has gone home. She left her toy medical kit behind.
She said, “You should keep it. It might come in handy.”
It’s got the cutest little yellow plastic scalpel. I was going to take the kit along to today’s biopsy—it’s Little Lump’s unlucky day—but Bergen thought it best to leave it at home. He’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to give Dr. Chung the wrong impression (again). She might think I need a lobotomy in addition to a biopsy.
I ask Bergen to come along to help keep me calm. Of course, he says yes. He would never turn down an opportunity to accomplish more than one thing at a time. He could be helpful by providing moral support, while stimulating his scientific curiosity by watching a surgical procedure.
Soon after we arrive at the hospital, Dr. Chung’s face says, “Hello.” That’s the only part of her petite body we can see. Everything else is shrouded in green hospital scrubs and latex gloves and hair net and booties. On all the other surgeons and nurses, this outfit looks sloppy and bland. But on Dr. Chung, it looks elegant and chic; she could be a doctor on call at a cocktail party.
“Hors d’oeuvre? Champagne? Bilateral mastectomy?”
In the operating room, we chat, and I’m struck by her radiant smile and the excitement in her eyes. It’s obvious that she is raring to go. I watch her flip through some paperwork, nod to her nurse, then announce, “We’re ready to begin.”
The operating room is bright and cold. Bergen’s hand is strong and warm.
“Do you enjoy performing surgery?” I ask Dr. Chung’s hovering head.
“It’s my favorite part,” she says from behind her mask, while painting antiseptic on my exposed skin.
“I’m going to give you some local freezing now, so I need you to lie perfectly still.”
“I have Parkinson’s. That won’t be a problem.”
I am awake the entire time, squeezing Bergen’s hand. I purposely don’t watch her making the incision or scraping away my flesh. I’m afraid if I did, my reaction might be impolite or foolish—I tend to fart or faint under extreme pressure. So to prevent any one of us from needing resuscitation, I keep my eyes on Bergen, sitting quietly in his facemask by my side, and together we calmly breathe the antiseptic air in and out.
Meanwhile, Dr. Chung keeps on digging, prodding, swabbing, dabbing. When she finally extracts Little Lump from my anesthetized breast, she holds it out for me to see. And there it is, glistening between the tweezers, no larger than a pea, looking more boogerlike than bogeyman.
“This doesn’t look like cancer,” she says. “But we have to know for sure.” That’s why Little Lump is sent off to Biopsy Land in the bottom of a sterilized jar. And I am sent off to Worryville to wait for test results that will determine the fate of my right breast.
THERE’S NO REST for the weary, or the teary. My Cry Lady and I were swamped. We had ten days to get this pre-surgery to-do list done. It was daunting but doable, provided we took one Parkinson’s shuffle at a time.
The items on the list fell into three familiar categories: calamity, sanity, and vanity.
My calamity checklist looked like this:
· Go to the cancer agency to get an MRI of both breasts.
· Go to the local health clinic to get a preoperative blood test.
· Attend an urgent meeting with my neurologist, Dr. Stoessl, to discuss specific medications and anesthetics that should not be administered to Parkinson’s patients during surgery and recovery.
· Attend a follow-up meeting with my surgeon, Dr. Chung, to hear results of Little Lump’s biopsy report and MRI, as well as her recommendation for either a lumpectomy or mastectomy.
· Go to the hospital for a preoperative meeting with the anesthesiologist.
· The day before surgery, go to the hospital for a nuclear medicine injection for sentinel node biopsy.
The good news is I managed to get all these things done, and I didn’t panic in the MRI (I just focused on John Lennon’s soothing voice in my headphones), I didn’t faint during the blood test, I didn’t need to worry about the drugs (Dr. Stoessl knew exactly what to avoid), I didn’t joke with Dr. Chung, I didn’t sleep with the anesthesiologist, and I didn’t glow in the dark after the nuclear medicine injection—though in my mind, these were all distinct possibilities.
The bad news is that Little Lump is also cancerous: invasive ductal carcinoma Grade 3. Although she may be smaller than Big Blob, she’s more deadly. Now the writing is on the chest wall: hello, mastectomy; good-bye, boob gone bad.
My sanity checklist was smaller:
· Book a massage with Jessica.
· Schedule a session with Theresa.
· Hire a part-time housekeeper.
Jessica is a registered massage therapist. Week after week, I venture downtown to lie prostrate in her presence. Blessed with strong peasant fingers and athletic prowess, she coaxes my rigid muscles to relax. This is no easy task for either one of us. It’s demanding physical work: pressing, being pressed; pulling, being pulled; kneading, being kneaded. And I need her now more than ever—she’s a necessity in my life.
“Oh, dear,” she uttered, when I told her my breast was doomed. She offered to make postsurgery house calls if required. And then she silently deployed her healing fingers into my mournful flesh, expanding time and extracting tears.
I finally found someone to help clean the house. Her name is Lourdes, and she comes highly recommended. She’ll schedule us in every other Monday, but she’ll pray for me every day.
How can my tit be so sick when it doesn’t even hurt? How is it something so small can be so catastrophic? Fear and grief and disbelief—these are the dominant themes of my bon-voyage-breast session with Theresa.
And finally, my vanity list:
· Get legs waxed.
· Get mustache zapped.
· Get a haircut and color touch-up.
So that if I die in surgery, I’ll die smooth and coiffed.