IT’S THE EVE OF my mastectomy. The forecast calls for heavy gusts of trepidation amid a downpour of telephone calls from family and friends. Expect seasonal escape for daughter at overnight summer camp, treat-filled vacation for family dog at neighbor’s house, and laid-back night with husband, father, and sexy TV host. There is a 5 percent chance of my cracking a smile.
In the hullabaloo of rushing to appointments and making necessary arrangements, I had forgotten one key thing that I had intended to do—find a meaningful way to honor my right breast while she was still attached.
The last time I honored one of my body parts was fourteen years ago. I was pregnant with Naomi, due to give birth any day, and I had opted out of having a traditional baby shower. Instead, I threw myself a Bless My Vagina party. This was far more practical. Who needs gifts like receiving blankets and baby booties when your vagina is in imminent danger? What I needed was a posse of pussies praying for my private parts. And so, my local girlfriends gathered at my home for a magical night of drumming and incantation. It worked. My baby arrived; my vagina survived.
It is far too late to organize a Bless My Breast party—with gourmet victuals and rituals and wine. Even if it had been planned, I would have canceled—my mood is more funereal than celebratory. So after a simple home-cooked meal with Bergen and my dad, several more ideas surface:
· Gold-plated trophy of a solitary tit with “In Appreciation of Thirty-Four Years of Loyalty”
· Bronzing my first training bra
· Ceremonially burning my 36 C bras
Nothing is feasible or appropriate. And as the evening wears on, I am overtaken by the past three weeks’ worth of worrying and fatigue. There will be no tributes or ceremonial gifts. Just a silent surrendering to fate, with Bergen’s arms wrapped around my bosom and our tears a prelude to sleep.
I wake up in the middle of the night to pee and to ponder. If it’s possible to die of a broken heart, then it’s plausible to die of an amputated tit. In the event that I join the Lucky Ones, as a courtesy to my grieving family, I have composed the following obituary:
ROBYN MICHELE LEVY
In the early morning of August 6, 2008, TV host Craig Ferguson (CBS) lost his biggest fan. Surrounded by her surgeon, anesthesiologist, and nurses, Robyn took her final breath as her right breast took her final bow. She leaves behind the remote control and the corner seat of the couch. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Craig Ferguson’s snake-mug replacement fund, should his current snake mug ever break.
IN THE MORNING, Bergen and my dad take me to the hospital. When I check in at the reception desk, I see my name printed in capital letters on the surgery whiteboard:
ROBYN LEVY 7:45 AM
But I know that nothing is permanent around here. Just like my right breast, my name will be taken off later this morning.
I follow a nurse down the hall to the preoperative area.
“We’ll get you ready in here,” she says, drawing the curtains around a hospital bed and the two of us. She helps me get changed into a flimsy hospital gown while filling an oversized plastic bag with the clothes I struggled to dress myself in this morning. When I’m tucked under the sheets, Bergen and my Dad squeeze into this makeshift room. Having them here with me is as bittersweet as getting a mastectomy—their presence is both life saving and heart wrenching.
The nurse opens the curtains and explains, “Someone will be by in a few minutes with your chart.”
And with that, she heads off toward a group mingling by a door.
Soon another nurse arrives with supplies. And questions. I tell her that everything is empty: my stomach, my bladder, my bowels. This news delights her and is noted on my chart. So are my vitals—temperature, blood pressure, heart rate; existing medical condition: Parkinson’s. Her face betrays a hint of surprise, then quickly returns to her neutral nurse expression. Thankfully, I can’t see my own facial expression. It would be too jarring, like looking into the eyes of a death-row prisoner about to be executed.
“The doctor’s on her way,” the nurse says, drawing the curtains.
My dad steps out and waits in the hall. Bergen stays by my side. Still, I feel lost and alone.
Dr. Chung glides toward me, looking elegant in green scrubs. A smile swoops across her face and lands gently on her cheeks. Her dark eyes say, “Trust me,” with the unflinching gaze of a warrior. And I do. I must.
“It’s almost time,” she tells me, peeling back the sheet, opening up my gown, and exposing my chest. Then she uncaps a red marker and starts scribbling curvy lines and decorative dots and dashes. When she is done, my right breast resembles a preschooler’s drawing, the kind proud parents display on their fridge. It’s that good.
Dr. Chung covers us up—me and the masterpiece—then looks at the clock and says, “Any final questions?”
My mind is swirling. Final questions? I’m flooded with final questions. Especially those morbid ones that drown out hope and are best not asked when you’re lying on a gurney, staring at your surgeon, bracing yourself for a mastectomy.
And so I pose this question instead: “I’m sure I don’t want reconstructive surgery, but what if I change my mind years from now—would an implant still be an option?”
Dr. Chung looks surprised. “Didn’t you read chapter 34 in The Intelligent Patient’s Guide to Breast Cancer? I gave you a copy of the book.”
I sheepishly admit that I’d skipped over this chapter—after all, I’m not planning to get a replacement. She gives me the look that teachers give students whose dog ate their homework. Then she glances at the time again and quickly explains that to keep this option open, she’d have to leave a flap of loose, dangly skin next to the scar. That’s instead of a smooth, flat chest.
It’s time to wheel me to the OR—I’ve got seconds to decide. I think, even if I never get reconstruction, that flap could come in handy. For what, I don’t know. But it’s always good to keep your options open, right? Then I look at Bergen for guidance, and instantly I know: I don’t want any more surgery after this ordeal, not even to install a brand-new breast. So what’s the use of saving something I don’t intend to use? If I want loose and dangly, I know where to get it. Decision made: forgo the flap and stick with the smooth. Dr. Chung nods to the nurses, and then I’m rolling slowly down a hallway, toward a set of swinging doors, my husband’s and father’s faces dissolving in my tears. On this early summer morning, my mourning has begun—before the anesthetic, before the first incision, before the great collector takes my masterpiece away.
I WAKE UP horrified and hazy amid a commotion of concern. Everything hurts. Something is missing. Bergen will help me find it later. First I have to pee. A dark-haired woman leans too close into my face and starts talking, “Easy does it, now. There’s no rush.” She’s obviously speaking to me. Wherever I am.
Now Bergen is leaning into my face. “Hello, sweetheart.”
Then my dad, who just smiles. They’re both blurry. I hope they’re OK. I hope I’m OK. I feel terrible. Nausea. Headache. Unbelievable pressure on my chest. I don’t know why. I struggle to sit up, and the dark-haired woman rushes to my side. She’s dressed as a nurse.
“Are we going to try walking to the bathroom?”
There’s something about the tone of her voice that tips me off—this is not just a question, this is also a warning that somehow involves her.
“Nice and slowly. Let’s scoot your bottom toward the edge of the bed.”
Bed? Another clue. That’s where I am, in a bed with beeping noises and long tubes attached to my arm.
The trip to the bathroom is harrowing, even with the nurse by my side. The combination of shock, anesthetic, and painkillers has exacerbated my Parkinson’s symptoms. I am so stiff and so slow that I feel like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, all rusted and immobile, bladder about to burst, being coaxed along by doting Dorothy to follow the yellow brick road. “You can do it. We’re almost there.”
Miraculously, I make it just in time to pee and to pass out. When I come to, flashes of lucidity break through my delirium. I now know that I am breastless in hospital. And I know the reason the yellow brick road was yellow.
I AM TOO afraid to look. The nurses who change the dressing on my vacant lot assure me this is normal. I’ll look when I’m ready, they say. Dr. Chung drops by at the end of her shift to check up on me. She proudly reports that my surgery went well and everything has been sent to the lab for analysis.
“You mean my breast is on some stranger’s desk?”
Dr. Chung smiles. “Theoretically, yes. But removing a breast is complicated. It doesn’t pop off all in one piece, you know.”
I imagine my subdivided breast, sprawled out on a countertop in some cancer laboratory—just one of the many condemned properties Dr. Chung knocks down. Some vacant lots will be rebuilt. Others, like mine, will remain empty. Either way, the view from this prime real estate will be different. One of these days, I’m going to muster up the courage to have a look.
Dr. Chung is reading my chart. “Your blood pressure is quite low. How are you feeling?”
“Wiped out. Dizzy when I stand up.”
“I’d like to keep you in hospital an extra day, just to make sure your blood pressure returns to normal, before sending you home.”
“That would be great,” I say. The prospect of going home the day after surgery seems reckless.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning to check up on you again, before my first operation.”
My remaining time in hospital is spent under the spell of morphine. Or as I like to call it, “More Please.” It takes the edge off the pain, making it easier for me to sleep. Whenever I wake up, either Bergen or my dad is by my side. Sometimes both. When my dad isn’t around, he’s either napping in the waiting room or out shopping for my comfort foods: freshly squeezed veggie juice, ginger rice muffins, and an assortment of fruits and vegetables. Bergen is busy stickhandling the details of my follow-up homecare, which will include daily visits from a community nurse and occasional visits from homecare assistants. Something tells me I’m going to need all the help I can get. Both of my arms are disabled—the left one from Parkinson’s, the right one from having eleven lymph nodes surgically removed.
Just two days after the mastectomy, my morphine supply is cut off, and I am released from hospital—a one-breasted shadow of my former self. While I am convalescing at home, nothing feels comfortable. Not my pajamas. Not my bed. Not the couch. Not even my name. I long to belong to a culture that honors life transitions, where shamans or elders bestow new reverential names that embody change, that reveal powers, that summon ancestors. I wonder what I would be called.
Somewhere deep inside, I feel a stirring. I let out a grunt, and suddenly I am Gug the Cavewoman again, clutching my empty chest, encircled by chanting clan members singing my praises. For the gods have accepted my sacrificial breast, and I have survived this gruesome test. Together we celebrate this rite of passage with song and dance in my honor as I await the unveiling of my new name. The eldest of the elders approaches, her ancient eyes twinkling, her toothless mouth issuing guttural grunts and groans that epitomize my pitiful condition. And then the elder declares, “Eee-Oooh-Huuh.” My new name, which means “One-Good-Tit.” It fits, at least for now.
BEFORE THE OPERATION, Bergen bought me an MP3 player and loaded it with some of my favorite music. It came in handy while I occupied room 438, drowning out irritating hospital noises with the sweet, soaring voices of Feist, Joni Mitchell, and k.d. lang. Had it been wintertime with the windows sealed tight, I’m sure I would have continued listening to the device when I relocated to my own bedroom. But it was summer, and the windows were open, inviting cool breezes and a cacophony of lawn mowers, barking dogs, crying children, and roaring car engines. And somewhere in the space between the noises and fresh air came the sounds of pounding drums, electric guitars, melodic keyboards, and powerhouse vocals from a neighborhood band belting out a live soundtrack to my first day home: “Brown Sugar,” “Mustang Sally,” “Back in the USSR,” “Hot Blooded,” “All Right Now,” and many more covers of classic rock ’n’ roll songs.
Sprawled out on my bed and loaded with painkillers, I had no idea which neighbor’s house or garage this music was coming from. All I knew was that the band was hot, and, like it or not, I was probably their only one-breasted groupie on the block. Everything else about them was left up to my imagination. So I pictured cute guys in their early twenties—indie rockers with bed-head hair and bad-ass attitudes, wearing jeans and T-shirts, rehearsing in a semifinished basement strewn with empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, and making ends meet by playing cover tunes at weddings and bar mitzvahs. Little did they know that they were serenading a middle-aged dame’s postmastectomy homecoming.
MY MENSERVANTS, Beck and Call, bear a striking resemblance to my father and my husband. Beck is the tall, bald jokester, who brings me freshly squeezed juices and take-out treats and New York Times bestsellers I’ve been dying to read. Call is the silver-haired juggler, who dazzles me with his dexterity, functioning as my short-order cook, housekeeper, confidant, chauffeur, secretary, social filter, dog walker, and nurse.
Beck and Call are a good team, but their days of working together are numbered. Beck is booked to fly home later this afternoon. He makes one last trip to the health food store, and when he returns he packs his suitcase and sets it beside the door. There’s still time to be helpful. So he looks around and sees a basket filled with clean laundry.
Meanwhile, I am in bed, propped up by pillows, reading one of my new books. As I’m turning a page, I look up and see a shiny bald head hovering above a stack of floating folded towels, slowly, cautiously ascending the top stairs.
“Where do these go?” Beck asks.
“They go downstairs,” I say, laughing for the first time in days.
I’m sure going to miss Beck when he goes.
The next day, Naomi comes home from camp covered in mosquito bites and bursting with stories. We don’t say it out loud, but we both know it was good she was away while I was in hospital. It allowed her to keep her spirits up and me to let my guard down. She had called Bergen a few times to find out how I was doing. He assured her that the operation had gone well and that I was OK and explained what to expect at this point in my recovery. So by the time she sees me, she is prepared. She doesn’t even flinch.
I have Nora to thank for making me presentable that day. She’s a home caregiver, originally from the Philippines, with a bachelor of science degree. She’s half my size and double my strength—and unbelievably efficient. In just one hour, she washes and styles my hair, gives me a sponge bath, moisturizes my skin, helps me get dressed, makes my bed, does a load of laundry, tidies up the bathroom, takes Nellie for a walk, and cheers me up enough to laugh at the irony of the neighborhood band singing “Pretty Woman” over and over again until they get it right.
Later on, I give Susan a call. Even though she has spoken with Bergen since I got home, she is relieved to hear my voice. I thank her for the funny get well card, and she asks if I’m up for a visit.
“I was thinking of getting a bit of fresh air. Would you like to take me for a walk?” I ask.
“I’ll be right over,” she says.
We eventually make it halfway down the block, and then I burst into tears.
“I hate this fucking disease!”
“I know,” she says. “It’s awful. Which disease do you mean?”
“Breast cancer,” I moan.
“It’s inhumane—chopping off tits.”
Suddenly I feel faint and crouch down on the grass. Some walk—I’m not even moving fast enough to call it a shuffle or a creep.
“You’re body’s been through a lot.” Susan crouches down beside me.
“This is probably far enough for today. Every day you’ll get a little bit stronger and walk a little bit farther. You’ll see. Let’s get you home.”
RECOVERING FROM a mastectomy is draining. Literally—I’ve got a god-awful drain dangling from my side. Apparently, if Dr. Chung hadn’t installed it after removing lymph nodes from my armpit, a lot of bodily fluids would have nowhere to go. I’m sure this tubular contraption is better than having my arm balloon up. Still, I can’t stand the sight of it. Which is why I have obstructed the view of its bloody contents by slipping a sock on top of it. Out of sight, but not out of mind—the container needs monitoring, so I have to sneak a peek every few hours. The container also needs emptying, and the liquid needs measuring—jobs the homecare nurses really enjoy.
The nurses come in all shapes and sizes and have names like Debbie and Shawna and Barbara. They don’t wear nurse uniforms or scrubs. Instead, they dress in comfortable summer outfits—usually capris and a short-sleeved blouse. Each day, one of them drops by the house with her medical kit and supplies to check up on me, change the dressing on the Steri-Strips, and tend to my drain. There’s a lot of leaning over and hovering above me. The view peering down those billowy blouses is much more titillating than glancing down at my own vacant lot. So I am always happy to see them, even though their visits remind me of what I no longer have.
Plenty of others are around to help me too. My neighbor Helen makes me a beautiful fruit salad. Full of seasonal berries, peaches, pineapple, grapes, apples, and pears. Everything is chopped up into such tiny delicate pieces that each spoonful tastes delightfully different. I used to be able to chop like that.
A few days later, she pops by to say hello. I thank her for the salad, tell her I am feeling better every day—eating healthy food, taking long naps.
“I hope Will isn’t keeping you awake,” she says, rolling her eyes and feigning exasperation.
My heart skips a beat; my cheeks flush with guilt. Does Helen know that her husband is flossing me in my fantasies? And if so, how did she find out? Not knowing what to say, I just stand there in silence.
Then she adds, “I haven’t seen Will this happy in years. I don’t even mind that the band has taken over our living room.”
“The band? Will is in that band?”
“Oh yeah, he plays drums.” Helen smiles. “You should see them. They’re all dentists, around Will’s age, almost ready to retire. Everyone in the band is faculty at UBC’s Department of Dentistry, except for the singer. She works in faculty administration.”
I try to picture mild-mannered Will going wild on the drum kit with his balding buddies riffing on electric guitars and keys, climbing the crescendo of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” But my mind can’t sustain this incongruous image—one minute I flash back to the cute indie rockers I dreamed up while lying in bed; the next minute I flash forward to imagine one of the aging dentists keeling over from a heart attack and Will saving him with an electric-guitar defibrillator. I am tempted to tell Helen what I am imagining, but in the end I hold back—I’m not sure how she would react. The last thing I want is to piss her off. In case I have more body parts removed, I wouldn’t mind another one of her fruit salads.
Then there are my girlfriends. I’d be lost without each one of them. Especially now. They’re like GPS for my soul, helping me navigate through this uncharted territory of disease and detours and dead ends. My Toronto Trio calls me frequently, as does my sister. And my Vancouver friends drop by: Diana, Betina, Joey, Gillian, Linda, Yvonne. Gloria would be here too if she were in town, but she’s spending the summer in Spain.
And then there’s Hildi, my oldest, funniest, most gullible friend. We met in grade 6, when she was honing her skills as class clown—a job she took more seriously than her studies. I was new to the school, and she terrified me so much that I befriended her.
We often played practical jokes on each other, and to this day we still talk about the best one I ever pulled on her. She had asked me when my birthday was, and I told her I celebrate my birthday for eight days—beginning March 29 and going through April 5—because it took me eight days to complete the journey out of my mother’s vagina. First my head, then my neck, and so on until finally my feet flopped out and the doctor cut my umbilical cord. It was the best lie I’d ever told, and Hildi believed me. Mind you, we were only eleven years old at the time, but I must have been extremely convincing and she must have been extremely naïve.
For years, we were inseparable. Best friends. And then our worlds shifted and gaps grew between us until we no longer played leading roles in each other’s lives. Still, we kept in touch through occasional phone calls and visits whenever I was in Toronto. When Hildi heard I had breast cancer, she called me up and made me an offer I didn’t refuse—to fly out and take care of me after my mastectomy.
The minute Hildi walks into our house, she takes charge of everything and everyone. Hildi is good at that. She takes charge of everything and everyone at work. (She’s an interior designer and contractor.) She takes charge of everything and everyone at home (her husband, their three daughters, one nanny, two dogs, one guinea pig, and a chinchilla). And after she gives me a big hug, she sends Bergen out grocery shopping, tells Lourdes what chores to do, prepares an enormous salad for our lunch, bakes chocolate chip cookies for Naomi and her friends, makes a pot of chicken soup that will be ready for dinner, cleans my refrigerator and kitchen drawers, and then persuades Bergen to take a break from looking after me—his first break in days. He goes for a run in the forest, does some errands, and works in his office. When dinnertime rolls around, he is refreshed and relaxed.
After dinner, Hildi makes tea, and the two of us lounge on the couch in the living room. The balcony door is open, and she is massaging my feet while “Hey Jude” drifts in.
“Where’s the music coming from?” Hildi asks, her hands momentarily abandoning my feet for her BlackBerry.
“My neighbor across the street has a band. They’re all dentists. I don’t even know the band’s name, so I have decided to call them the Overbites.”
“They’re really good,” Hildi says, resuming my foot massage. A grimace spreads across her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She drags her hand along my stubbly leg hair and says, “If you want, I can shave your legs for you.”
Another offer I can’t refuse—especially if I want any more of her foot massages.
Naomi is enjoying having Hildi around—and not just because she baked her cookies. Hildi is a woman of contradictions—stylish yet original, unpredictable yet reliable, manic yet composed, hilarious yet philosophical. She is also a woman who never forgets—at least when it comes to other people’s sex lives. It occurs to me that burning my old diaries—if I ever find them—wouldn’t be enough to prevent Naomi from learning about my past. Hildi’s brain contains a top-secret list of who-I-did-what-with-when-and-where. Which is why I’m a little worried. Nevertheless, everyone should have a Hildi.
I’VE ONLY BEEN home one week and already I have dozens of thank-you notes to write to family and friends. My missing tit would be tickled by this outpouring of support: exotic flowers and gift baskets, books and CDs, pajamas and slippers and hats and scarves, home-cooked meals, antioxidant juices, homeopathic remedies, gift certificates, massages. There were also generous donations to breast cancer research on my behalf and in memory of my auntie Glenda.
This showering of gifts is both overwhelming and comforting. But I couldn’t help recalling that it barely drizzled when I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Clearly, in a popularity contest, breast cancer would win a landslide victory over Parkinson’s. The headline would read: “Tit trumps brain cells: Sympathy gifts for middle-aged dame’s diseases skewed.”
I’m not complaining. I’m just pointing out the obvious. It’s easier for people to relate to breast cancer. Breasts are sexy, symbolic, and tangible. They stick out for all the world to see. And because breast cancer is so common and affects so many people, it has become a popular cause to support. Brain cells, in contrast, go about their mysterious business in the dark. And Parkinson’s is a mysterious and frightening disease, gnawing away at our gray matter, hidden from sight.
It’s always harder to relate to the unknown, let alone shop for it. So, to provide a service to the unafflicted, I compiled a list of gift ideas for someone who has just been diagnosed with Parkinson’s—especially the early-onset variety. Here are some presents I would have appreciated at the time:
· flannel pajamas with built-in three-ply Kleenex dispenser
· a rearview mirror inscribed with the words “Warning! Abject woman in mirror is sicker than she appears.”
· a DIY suicide kit with fill-in-the-blank suicide notes and obituaries, plus no-nonsense noose with lifetime guarantee
Simple gifts, really. But all I got were shoulders to cry on—which probably saved me.
I FEEL LIKE I’ve joined the circus, and I’m waiting in the wings for my cue. The ringmaster shouts, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Cirque d’Oy Vey. Get out your hankies for today’s opening act—presenting Robyn the Wretched. She will bravely attempt looking in the mirror at her naked chest for the very first time—a dangerous stunt requiring a safety net. Remember, Ladies and Gentlemen—it ain’t over till the flat lady cries.”
Thank goodness for Hildi. She catches me before I plummet to the ground and enfolds me in her arms. And when the ringmaster waves good-bye, she gives him the one-finger salute.
Had Hildi not saved me, I might have become one of the Lucky Ones:
After a tragic fall under the big top, Robyn the Wretched joined the Celestial Circus in the Sky. She leaves behind her old diaries, a stack of unfinished thank-you notes, and her unfulfilled dream of going to the Overbites’ upcoming gig.
She will be dearly missed by family, friends, neighbors, and pets.
In lieu of flowers, donations to her favorite charity, Naomi’s Soy Latte Trust Fund, would be appreciated.
HAVING BRAVELY VIEWED my vacant lot, I’m prepared for the next day’s showing at a follow-up appointment with Dr. Chung. Bergen and I are waiting for her in the examination room. Soon there’s a knock on the door, and she walks in. She parks her clipboard on the sink counter, greets me with a smile, and says, “Your breast pathology report arrived. It’s good news.”
“Great,” I say, thinking back to my school report cards that were loaded with A’s and accolades. I imagine my breast pathology report card:
It was a pleasure having Robyn’s right breast in my laboratory. I’m delighted to report that it excelled in all areas of testing. Most notably, it distinguished itself from the other specimens by developing two unique cancers in separate locations. The large tumor exceeded all size expectations, proving to be bigger than initial estimates. Both tumors demonstrated superb communication skills by constructing a cancerous highway between them. They were also tidy and considerate tumors, refraining from spreading their disease to any of the eleven lymph nodes that were surgically removed. In light of these accomplishments, Robyn’s right breast has deservedly earned A+ in the following subjects—individuality, ambition, communication, and organization—and hereby graduates with top honors.
Bergen squeezes my hand, and together we let out sighs of relief. Dr. Chung beams with pride and says, “It’s good we removed your entire breast. Let’s have a look at how you’re doing.”
I maneuver myself up onto the examination table and sit on the edge with my legs dangling down. Dr. Chung moves in closely, gently removes the gauze dressing covering my vacant lot, and begins her inspection. Her delicate fingers trace the periphery of my scar, hiding beneath the white Steri-Strips.
“No swelling at all, no sign of infection. This looks great,” she says, moving on to the drain tube jutting out from my side. “This also looks great. You’re healing up quickly. How’s your arm?”
“Painful and tight,” I answer, struggling to lift it up to shoulder height—as far as it can move. Dr. Chung touches my arm and asks “Are you doing the exercises from the book?”
“Several times, every day.”
“That’s good. Keep it up. The mobility will improve.”
When the exam is over, Dr. Chung asks, “How is your daughter doing?”
I tell her that Naomi is coping quite well and fortunately has been out of town for much of the summer. And then Dr. Chung smiles and closes my file. It’s time to go, and I give her a thank-you card, a jar of Bergen’s homemade kiwi jam, and an A+ for likely saving my life.
MY PHONE RINGS, and as usual, Bergen answers it.
“It’s Gloria. She’s back from Spain. Do you want to talk to her?” he asks. I think, of course I want to talk to her, but not over the phone.
“Can you talk to her? Just fill her in, I’m sure she’ll want to drop by for a visit.”
Boy, is she in for a shock. The last time I saw her was six weeks ago—the day before she left for Spain—and just a few days before my diagnosis. We were out for brunch and I didn’t mention my lumps. The timing wasn’t right. Imagine saying, “By the way, I found two lumps in my breast that may be cancerous. I hope you have a wonderful holiday with your family in Spain. Have fun! See you next month.”
When the doorbell rings, I know it’s Gloria. Bergen and Nellie greet her at the door while I shuffle to the front hall. The moment she sees me, she comes undone—tears cascading down her cheeks, arms crushing me close to her chest, deep sighs spilling from her mouth. For a moment, she loosens her grip and I think I will be released from this agonizing tableau with my remaining tit intact. But then she looks me in the eyes, shakes her head in disbelief, and mutters, “Oh, Robyn” several times before she pulls me and my left breast back into her arms. This time my drain gets wedged between our ribs, and I have to wiggle myself free.
She wipes away her tears, then semi-smiles.
“These are for you,” she says, handing me a bouquet of flowers she’d been clutching during the hug. Dahlias and freesias and gerberas.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
A few more drops trickle from Gloria’s eyes, and I wonder—where are my tears? It feels strange to be the dry-eyed witness and not the weeper.
“Come meet my friend Hildi. She’s visiting from Toronto.”
We head into the TV room, where Hildi is stretched out on a couch. She wiggles her toes hello. And soon, the three of us are chatting away, barefoot on the couch while Nellie lounges on my lap.
The conversation turns to how Gloria and I met. We take turns telling Hildi the story.
“It was almost twenty years ago,” Gloria starts, “before we had husbands and kids.”
“That was so long ago.”
My voice startles Nellie, and she scoots off my lap, curls up by Gloria’s feet, and starts licking her pedicured toes. I can’t remember when this first started, but every time she comes over, Nellie goes for her feet.
“Anyway,” Gloria continues, her eyelids beginning to flutter, her mouth growing slack, “I was on a lunch break, at Granville Island. And the moment I saw Robyn’s artwork on display, I knew one of her paintings would make a perfect wedding gift for some friends of mine.”
“So Gloria commissioned me to make a custom painting for the couple.”
“Who aren’t even married anymore,” Gloria laughs.
“Who got the painting when they split up?” Hildi asks.
“She did,” Gloria says, wiggling her wet toes.
“And then Gloria invited me out for lunch.”
“We had so much fun consulting about this project,” Gloria smiles, “I wanted us to be friends.”
By now, all three of us are watching Nellie—her little furry head bobbing up and down at Gloria’s feet. It’s hard to tell who is having more fun—my dog or my friend.
“This feels so good!” Gloria sighs, unabashedly stretching out her legs and arching her back, as if she’s on the verge of an orgasm.
My own toes are tingling with vicarious pleasure, taking my mind off my sore chest and arm. That’s when I realize my friendship pilgrimage is back on track. My friends are coming to me. They’re meeting one another. And I am luxuriating in their love.
THE NIGHT BEFORE Hildi leaves, we take her out for dinner at an Indian restaurant. The place is packed with families and couples. We are seated at an empty booth at the front. Bergen, Naomi, and I go for the all-you-can-eat vegetarian buffet. Hildi orders butter chicken off the menu. The food is delicious, especially my favorites—dal and basmati rice. I make several trips to the buffet at the back of the room, and each time I am delightfully surprised by how polite and considerate the other customers in line are toward me. They smile and let me go ahead of them—some of them even insist. Then they wait until I’ve finished filling up my plate before they approach the bar and begin serving themselves.
When we’re done, a waitress clears our plates and Bergen pays the bill. As I slide out of the booth and sling my purse over my shoulder, the strap catches on my surgical drain, which is pinned to the outside of my shirt. A wave of shame envelops me—I’d forgotten to tuck it out of sight or at least cover it with a sock. What an eyesore! I’ve been parading around the restaurant with this blood-filled contraption dangling in full view. No wonder those strangers at the buffet were so nice to me.
On the drive home, my embarrassment subsides and soon I’m feeling smug. For I have discovered the secret to getting front-of-the-line treatment—the bloody surgical drain.
Back at the house, both Hildi and Naomi haul out their suitcases and start packing. Tomorrow they fly to Toronto—on different flights, for different reasons. Hildi is returning home to her family and work. Naomi is going on vacation, to visit family and friends. Originally, I was booked to go with Naomi. Then along came cancerus interruptus, and I had to cancel my flight. But Naomi still wanted to go. This will be the first time she travels on her own.
Once they’re finished packing, we all sit around the dining table sipping tea and nibbling on fresh fruit. The kitchen looks sparkling clean, and the flower arrangements look stylish—thanks to Hildi’s professional interior designer touch. It’s been a long, busy day, and just as I’m about to suggest we all watch some Craig Ferguson to unwind, Hildi leaps up from the table and declares, “I need chocolate.” She starts pacing back and forth, running her hand along the counter and asks, “Has anyone seen that container of gourmet hot chocolate?”
“You mean the chocolate mix from that beautiful gift basket my cousins sent me?” I ask.
“Yeah. That stuff. I could have sworn I put it away in this drawer,” Hildi says, exasperated, digging through jars and bags of baking supplies.
“It’s not in here. Shit. Where the hell is it?” she yells, slamming a bottle of vanilla on the counter, tossing bags of sunflower and pumpkin seeds beside it.
Of course, if anyone should know the whereabouts of this chocolate, it should be Hildi. Just two days ago, she reorganized everything in our kitchen, from baking supplies to cans of tuna to boxes of cereal. She may very well never forget other people’s sexual secrets, but obviously her exceptional memory skills don’t apply to food. There’s no point telling her this—or anything at all—given the frenzied state she is in. Bergen gets up to help her look, but Hildi is determined to find it on her own.
And so instead of the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, we watch the Obsessive-Compulsive Show starring Hildi—as she frantically searches the cupboards and drawers until the counters are cluttered with everything but that elusive container of gourmet hot chocolate.
“I hate it when something special goes missing,” Hildi moans.
“Me too,” I say. But it’s not chocolate I’m thinking about.
I’M NOT GOOD at good-byes, especially when they involve boarding an airplane, which may or may not be doomed. My fear of flying generously extends to family and friends, so today, with Hildi and Naomi flying to Toronto, I’m a nervous wreck. Standing on the sidewalk, they give me reassuring hugs and kisses, I give them anxious ones in return. Bergen loads their luggage into the trunk. Then there’s a flurry of hands waving from car windows, and for the first time in weeks I’m left all alone—abandoned by the curb, wiping away my tears, silently screaming, “Don’t leave me! Don’t crash! Don’t die! Call me when you land!”
I shuffle through the remaining weeks of summer, vulnerable and moody. On good days, I feel like a wilting flower springing back to life. On bad days, I feel like the compost, putrid and decaying. My right arm is slowly healing, but I still need Nora’s help washing my hair and helping with chores.
The nurses continue their daily visits. They’re pleased to see that my leakage is tapering off and promise that my bloody drain will be removed soon. When that day arrives, the nurse lays a towel across my bed and I nervously lie down on top of it. She spreads out her medical tools and offers these words of comfort: “Don’t watch me do what I’m about to do.” To further put me at ease, she assures me, “This is going to feel strange.” Then she starts tugging at the tube inserted into my side and eventually pries it loose from what I assume is surrounding skin. But I can’t be sure; my eyes are squeezed tightly shut. And then she stops doing whatever it was that she was doing and starts doing something else. A wave of nausea ripples through me, as an alien slowly snakes its way through my innards and out my ribcage.
“There, it’s all out,” she says. “Now you can look.”
I tilt my head in her direction, and my body shudders with disgust.
“That tube is incredibly long. I can’t believe it was actually inside me,” I say.
“It sure was,” she says, smiling, coiling it up, and stuffing it into a garbage bag. Then she bandages up the hole and says, “I told you it would feel strange.”
A steady stream of friends continues dropping by. Betina from Argentina, who became my long-lost sister the moment we met eleven years ago. Diana brings me bottles of mango-steen juice, books on breast cancer, and beautiful blouses. The librarians, Brian and Gillian, bring us home-cooked meals and travel stories. Then Gillian takes me shopping for my first falsie. It’s a little foam insert that slides into a soft cotton camisole. Under loose-fitting shirts it adds dimension, but when worn under something tight it looks weird—like an oversized hard-boiled egg that’s been cut in half. It also moves around, shifting to the left or the right or sometimes straight up, as if trying to escape. I don’t blame it—my vacant lot is not the most hospitable of places.
I HAVE BECOME a morbid measuring stick. When I ask, “How are you doing?” people reply, “Compared with you, I’m doing great.”
And when I ask, “How are you feeling?” they shrug and say, “I’ve got nothing to complain about, considering what you’re going through.”
I’m tempted to retort, “But what about your loveless marriage? Or your debilitating debt? Your sciatica? Your hemorrhoids? Or your beloved dying pet? Your lack of employment? Your loss of enjoyment? Your mysterious aches and pains? Your whiplash? Your mustache? Your varicose veins?”
But instead I bite my tongue and crank out my new business cards:
ROBYN MICHELE LEVY
Morbid Measuring Stick
Certified “Sight for Sore Eyes” Specialist
Department of Poor Health and Comparative Happiness
I HAVEN’T SEEN Marg in months, but we keep in touch through e-mail. The last time she wrote, she invited me over for tea. Better late than never, I’m responding today:
Dear Marg,
FYI, I have discovered a fail-proof distraction from Parkinson’s disease—a distraction I don’t recommend. Breast cancer. I was diagnosed mid-July, right tit lopped off early August, and now I am in recovery mode waiting to find out if I need chemo or radiation or both or none. It sure has taken my mind off my PD. In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t lost my mind, but strangely enough part of me finds this all wickedly hilarious. What else can one do but see the humor, albeit black humor, in life?
I’m still up for a cup of tea . . . but just one cup, since that’s all I now require.
Be well,
Robyn
Dear Robyn,
What a blow—and an insult. I’m so sorry about your cancer and mad too . . .
Tea soon,
Marg