LAST SUMMER is a hard act I don’t want to follow. So planning this year’s summer holiday requires a leap of faith (or in my case, a limp of faith) that I will not diversify my disease portfolio or discover metastatic cancer or succumb to anything tragic. If all goes well, we will entertain out-of-town guests, relax at our cabin on Saturna Island, go to some festivals in Vancouver, and visit family and friends back east.
So far, the season is off to a good start. Naomi has attended Camp fYrefly—a groundbreaking national leadership retreat for sexual minority and gender variant youth. Or as she calls it, Gay Camp. She had a fantastic time. I’m not surprised. For the first time in her life, she took a hiatus from being an outsider in the heterosexual world and discovered life as an insider in the LGBTIQQA2SA alternative universe. When she rattles off that acronym, I test my knowledge and say, “Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender. I don’t know what the other letters stand for.”
In one breath, she blurts out, “Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersexual, queer, questioning, asexual, two-spirited, autosexual/ally.”
“Now I know.”
“That’s not including pansexual.”
“Let me guess—people who like to cook and make love at the same time?”
“Very funny. But no. Pansexual is when a person chooses to be with someone because of who they are, not their gender or orientation.”
“That makes sense,” I say. It’s comforting to know that when it comes to sexual identity, there are so many options, so many descriptors. I bet there’s even a word to describe someone like me. And if there isn’t, I’ll invent it.
THROUGHOUT MY LIFE, I’ve pursued many artistic endeavors: sketching, painting, animation, jewelry, collage, printmaking, sculpture, poetry, theater, stand-up comedy, freelance writing, and radio broadcasting. Not surprisingly, my creativity came to a screeching halt when I crashed. But ever since my ovaries came out, and I went on Parkinson’s meds, my creativity has been reignited.
Writing has become my outlet—though Bergen calls it my obsession. I carry my notebook everywhere I go. And every week or so, I’ve been cheering up family and friends by e-mailing them a story about my diseases. They, in turn, cheer me up by writing back. Here is the most recent missive, followed by a friend’s heartwarming response:
Hello everyone:
I’m feeling popular these days. Dare I say—in demand. Just this past week, I have received three special invitations in the mail. Not to anything fancy, like swanky summer weddings or elegant cocktail parties—events where I’d get all gussied up in a sexy dress, paint my toenails, braid my armpits. The invitations I have are to more sterile affairs. Where the dress code is scrubs, lab coats, and hospital gowns, and the only alcohol being served is isopropyl. I’m talking about clinical research studies. And apparently, scientists consider me a hot commodity because I’ve got, or at least had, something of great value: breast cancer.
Partly out of curiosity, and partly because I have time on my hands, I accepted all three invitations. So far, I’ve undergone testing for the first research study, where I am affectionately known as #109. The nurses kept me busy with computer questionnaires, face-to-face interviews, and biospecimen collection. While donating a bucket of blood, I discovered an alternative to fainting—I just whined like my dog. This really amused Nurse #1, who was drawing my blood.
The other one, Nurse #2, did not find me so amusing. Nurse #2 measured my bone density and administered numerous other tests, including the “Tanita Body Composition Analyzer.” She had me stand, barefoot, on this electronic scale-like machine, with my hands gripping spongy detachable handles. When she instructed me to squeeze hard, it occurred to me that since she is a practical nurse, she might appreciate a practical joke. So while squeezing the handles, I pretended I was being electrocuted, rigidly shaking while making this awful sputtering buzzing noise. She jumped out of her chair. Then, realizing she’d been fooled, she smiled in my direction. But not a friendly smile. It was one of those wide menacing smiles, where teeth look sharp and dangerous and poised to bite.
After a few more tests, my first volunteer session was over. I was surprised how quickly two hours had flown by. As a token of appreciation for participating in this breast cancer study, the nurses presented me with a ten-dollar gift card to a grocery store, which I graciously accepted.
When I got home, I was greeted with an invitation to participate in yet another clinical research study. The covering letter stated: “Thank you in advance for helping us in our continuing effort to understand the causes of breast disease. A tea bag is enclosed in the study package. Please accept this gift as a token of our appreciation.” This made me laugh out loud.
Swayed by the solitary tea bag, I signed up right away for this study and resolved to sign up for any more that come my way. Donating my time, biospecimens and high jinks to science is a token of my appreciation—that I’m still here, lucky to be playing a small part in the search for a cure.
And now, my dear old camp friend’s reply:
Dear Volunteer,
Very good of you to offer up your body for science. I can remember a time when your body was in hot demand.
It was looked at, squeezed until juices were flying, and, in the end, much by way of clinical research was learned.
I am so proud that you are keeping up with science and lending your parts.
They are lucky to have you.
I am most proud of your antics, keep them on their toes. Good for you.
xox Susie
FIVE MONTHS HAVE PASSED since my surgical initiation into instant menopause, and surprisingly, nothing terrible has happened. Quite frankly, I was worried my vagina—who I have always considered to have a mind of her own—would be grief stricken over the loss of her ovarian and fallopian friends. So I’ve been watching over her, in case she did something drastic—like go out on a limb and start binge douching or sport fucking. Anything to fill the void. But so far, despite a few lonely tears and melancholic moments, she’s kept a stiff upper lip, stayed upbeat, and maintained her composure. Talk about resilience and inner strength!
Unlike my valiant vagina, I’ve turned into a whining wimp. A whining wimp with a limp who sweats like a pig. Not all the time, thank goodness. Just during hot flashes—say, twenty, thirty, forty times a day. It’s all so unpredictable. No matter what I’m doing, where I am, or who I’m with, at any given moment I’ll be suddenly ambushed by a stupendous surge of heat deep within my core. This heat quickly radiates throughout my body, and soon I feel like an egg roll cooking in a deep fryer: boiling hot, greasy with sweat, begging for mercy.
Regrettably, I’m not witty when I whine. I make whimpering noises while mopping up beads of sweat with dinner napkins or facial tissues, even toilet paper, my hand swabbing discreetly under my shirt, aiming for armpits and phantom cleavage. I suppose I could dig out my stash of super-absorbent sanitary napkins and tampons. But after consulting my vagina, who endured thirty-five years of menstruating, we agreed to never use feminine hygiene products again—not even for unconventional purposes.
We would make one tiny exception—if Hollywood came knocking and paid me big bucks to star in my own reality TV show. It would be called Hot Flash Hell. And it would chronicle my hilarious journey through instant menopause. There’d be close-ups of me sweating buckets while out shopping, fanning myself furiously with a menu at a restaurant, and even time-lapse photography of me sprouting sexy new chin hairs.
As my fantasy unfolds, the director takes me aside, whispers in my ear, then shouts, “Lights—camera—action!”
And right on cue, all flushed and soggy, I rattle off an original one-liner: “I’m melting, I’m melting!”
Then I unwrap a sanitary napkin, unfurl its wings, and mop up my sweat. When I’m done, the director praises my performance and calls a short break. To cool down, I sip an icy mint mojito while lounging in my air-conditioned dressing room and prepare for my next scene—the one where I try to convince viewers that I am not crazy and that millions of other menopausal women are not crazy either. We’re just hot and bothered and fixated on finding some relief, even if it means letting our imagination run wild.
WHEN GERMAN PHILOSOPHER Friedrich Nietzsche coined the phrase “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” he obviously didn’t have Parkinson’s disease and breast cancer—at the same time. Because if he had, he would have written this instead: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stranger.” I should know; I’m getting stranger every day. One disease makes me move weirdly. The other disease makes me look lopsided. And they both make me feel self-consciously conspicuous, like walking around with a ready-to-pop pimple on your nose on prom night. And that’s on good days, when I’m well rested and I’ve remembered to take my Parkinson’s medication.
I’m supposed to take this medication three times a day, with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But sometimes I get distracted and forget to take a dose. That’s when I get even stranger. The first time this happened, I was standing by the stove, cooking pasta. The pot needed stirring, and as I went to pick up the spoon, my hand could barely move. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, I discovered my hand wasn’t the only immobile part of me. My entire body seemed stuck. There I was, standing rigidly erect, head cocked, arms stiff, muscles tight, heart pounding against flushed skin. And even though I don’t actually own one, I’ve seen enough of them to realize what I resembled: a giant penis with a robust erection. And if I didn’t take my medicine soon, I feared I might wind up like those unlucky men with long-lasting Viagra-induced erections, in need of medical attention. Not a pretty sight. But one that leaves a lasting impression.
No doubt I left a lasting impression with Dr. Mazgani, the surgeon who performed my oopherectomy six months ago. Because she recognizes me out of context—here at the grocery store, standing beside the green beans, wearing street clothes—not in an operating room, lying down on a gurney, wearing a hospital gown. She smiles and asks how I am doing. While we chat, a wave of embarrassment sweeps over me, as I imagine how strange I must have looked at the hospital: I wasn’t on Parkinson’s meds yet, so my body was constantly rigid and stiff.
There’s a lull in our conversation, and she wishes me well and says good-bye. Then, right on cue, a hot flash flares up, and I’m sweating like a pig, watching my surgeon disappear down the street. She seems like a nice woman, that Dr. Mazgani, even if she does have a strange job—yanking out ovaries and fallopian tubes, launching ladies into instant menopausal hell.
SOME DAYS SLIP by without a focus, but these days a definite theme is emerging. Since I bumped into Dr. Mazgani yesterday and am scheduled for a follow-up with Dr. Chung this afternoon, I am officially declaring this week to be Surgeon Appreciation Week. The timing is perfect. My macaroon-baking phase has fizzled out. Now I’m cranking out banana breads. No one is complaining about this switch, though Bergen stills asks, “Is this for our family, or are you giving it away?”
Today I tell him, “I’m baking this cake for Dr. Chung.”
“Didn’t you bring her some banana bread last time?” he asks.
“Yep. But just a piece.”
“Are you sure she liked it?”
“She mailed me a thank-you letter! For a piece of cake,” I beam.
“Makes you wonder how she’ll respond when you give her a whole cake.”
I soon find out.
When I arrive for my appointment, the waiting room is packed. I carry the cake to the reception, to ask where it should go, but no one is at the desk. So I set it down on a table in the hall. It looks festive, covered in chocolate frosting and sprinkles. A few minutes later, the assistant returns, I give her my name, and she says, “Please have a seat, there are two people ahead of you.”
A while later, I hear a door open, and a solemn couple leaves the office. Dr. Chung’s voice rings out, “Where did this come from?”
“Where did what come from?” her assistant asks.
“This. A cake.”
I twist in my chair and watch Dr. Chung suspiciously inspecting my offering, as if it might contain a bomb.
“I don’t know where it came from,” her assistant confesses.
“Cakes don’t just appear out of nowhere,” Dr. Chung huffs, lifting one side of the serving platter up, causing the cake to tip.
Afraid it might slide right off, I wave at her and say, “Hi, Dr. Chung. I brought the cake.”
She looks over at me, and her face relaxes. “You did? Thank you.”
Then she takes her next patient.
When it’s my turn, Dr. Chung greets me with a great big smile.
“Thank you so much for the cake; it’s very nice of you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She conducts her usual exam and assures me everything feels and looks normal.
Then I ask her, “Do you bake?”
Dr. Chung smiles sheepishly and says, “Not very often.”
This doesn’t surprise me—she works such long hours, even on weekends. She once called me on a Sunday morning to tell me the results of my mammogram. I figure, for every cake she doesn’t bake, she probably saves one woman’s life.
Next up is a visit with Zoë. The forecast calls for devastating deterioration and the brutal reality of breast cancer. Expect shortness of breath, shattered hopes, and gusts of grief. There is a 100 percent chance of palliative care.
We are two one-breasted friends, sitting at her kitchen table on a Sunday afternoon. Zoë is wearing long pants and a sweater, a colorful knitted hat, matching gloves and socks, and her trademark smile. She is trying to stay warm, even in this hot weather. I wish I could harness the heat from my hot flashes and offer it to her. I also wish I had cooked her something useful—like oxygen soup or lung-inflating flan or miracle remission cookies—instead of banana bread and black bean stew. She’s having trouble breathing. Her cancer—or as she calls it, her “mets”—has spread to various parts of her body, including her lungs. One has partially collapsed. But she doesn’t dwell on this for long. She is still Zoë, after all, and nothing can quash her curiosity. So, while speaking is hard for her, not speaking is even harder.
She wants to know the latest news about me, Bergen, Naomi, and Nellie. I fill her in about my superhero drug, Dopamine Agonist, good old Dolores, instant menopause, volunteering in breast cancer research studies, and my rekindled passion for writing. I tell her that my family is doing well and we are enjoying our summer. When I ask about her son and daughter, her face intermittently lights up and clouds over—every story and thought and feeling she shares about them is imbued with fierce love and the torment of leaving.
Zoë’s pain medication is wearing off, and her thin, frail body needs to rest. As tired as she is, she walks me to the door. We hug good-bye, and our vacant lots momentarily fuse.
“You are such a wonderful mother,” I hear myself say.
These unplanned words pierce her heart, then ricochet into mine. We are stunned into silence. And then swept away by the past tense:
You were . . . she was . . . they had . . . they will miss . . . Our good-bye drowns in grief.
I’M DREAMING OF WINTER. All the typical things: snowstorms . . . icicles . . . sub-zero temperatures . . . extramarital affairs with snowmen. Anything to turn down the heat of these hot flashes. They’re brutal in the summer. And to think I used to love this season. Not anymore. Now I shun the sun and hate the heat. Menopause has changed me—right down to the molecular level.
Feeling sexy is not easy to do with just one breast, especially in cleavage-flaunting weather, but wearing my plastic prosthesis in sweltering heat is not exactly titillating—and it might not even be safe. With all that trapped hot air, it becomes a fiery furnace raging within my sizzling bra. And I imagine all it would take is one menopausal hot flash to set off a chain reaction, and BOOM—another case of spontaneous human combustion.
Of course, I’m doing what I can to prevent this calamity. Besides dreaming of winter, I’m also avoiding the sun, guzzling ice water, and taking cold showers.
Every little bit helps. Which is why Dolores doesn’t mind staying tucked away in a shady drawer until autumn arrives. If only I could do the same. Together we’d escape this hellish summer and re-emerge when cooler temperatures, glorious gusts of wind, and tight-fitting sweaters prevail. Perfect conditions for us to make our sexy comeback.
WHEN I WAS A KID, my favorite thing to do at the park was play on the swing set. I would fly back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—pumping my legs vigorously, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of invisible arcs etched in midair. It was never boredom that made me dismount. Only a full bladder could do that. Or someone else’s meddling mother determined to let her whining child have a turn.
Eventually, I outgrew this childhood pastime. But since the Parkinson’s diagnosis, my preoccupation with swinging has swung back into my life—with a vengeance. And in the most peculiar way. No, I’m not the crazy lady hogging the best swing at the local playground. Not yet. For the time being, I’m the limping lady who doesn’t swing her left arm while out walking her dog. It’s not that I don’t try. Because I do. I’ve tried everything to get my stubborn appendage to budge.
So far, pep talks and affirmations have flopped. Apparently, motivational phrases such as, “You can do it, oh powerful one; swing your arm like a pendulum” aren’t powerful enough to override the faulty wiring in my brain. Neither are guided meditations and visualizations—which I like to call naps. For a while I tried acupuncture and homeopathy. But the only upper-limb movement these treatments triggered was my good arm digging my wallet out of my purse and forking over way too much cash.
Both physiotherapy and massage seemed promising, since treatments relax my tight muscles and reduce rigidity. And if you saw me walking down the street after one of these therapeutic sessions, you might notice my left arm getting into the swing of things. But that’s because I’m cheating. While my stiff arm is temporarily floppy like a rubber chicken, my right arm reaches across my chest and gives it the occasional push—giving the impression that it is swinging to and fro.
There was a time I believed Nordic walking poles would be my savior. I imagined they were equipped with a high-tech mechanism that positions and propels arms to swing in perfect repetitive formation—right arm forward, left arm back, left arm forward, right arm back. I’d seen people gliding by me at the park, their hands gripping these lightweight poles, their arms swinging sweetly, steadily, inspirationally. So the other day, I bought myself a pair. I tested the right pole first, and to my delight, it worked like a charm. My right arm swung upwards, bending at the elbow, then stretched out, planting the pole firmly on the ground. The left pole was next. Gripping the handle, I expected it to propel my left arm through the same movement sequence. But instead, the pointy stick clumsily flailed about, randomly whacking at objects, pets, and people, including me. Heartbroken, I realized that one of us was defective. So I returned my Nordic savior back to the store for a full refund.
It’s quite discouraging—no matter what I try, nothing gets my left arm swinging. Not even my Parkinson’s medication. But since I’m off to Toronto for a couple weeks, I’m hoping to try something on the wild side: a night out with my friend Belinda and her husband, at their swingers club. Because I hear anything can happen there—anything at all.
Naomi and I are going to Toronto together. I have been looking forward to the two of us spending some time together. Away from the routine distractions of home. A chance to reconnect, build mother-daughter memories, discover common ground.
Bergen drives us to the airport and says, “I’m missing you both already.” We give him good-bye hugs and kisses, then check our luggage and get our boarding passes.
There is a long lineup at Security. This gives me plenty of time to practice looking innocent while hot flashes rage through my body and sweat pours down my flushed face. When it’s our turn, I watch our carry-on bags pass through the X-ray machine, while Naomi glides gracefully through the metal detector. The security guard gives me the nod, and as I walk toward him, he says, “Please remove your scarf.”
“Welcome to the one-boob universe,” I mumble under my breath, remembering that I’d packed Dolores. I pass the test and go to collect my carry-on bag.
“Is this yours?” a female guard asks, looking suspiciously at my knapsack.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Can you open it for me?”
“Sure,” I say, unzipping the bag.
The guard starts rummaging through my stuff, and when she finds a square box she grins. I say, “That’s Dolores.”
“Who?” she asks, opening the lid.
“Dolores. My prosthesis. I have only one breast.” I point to my vacant lot.
“OK. You can go.”
I pack up my bag and walk over to where Naomi has been waiting.
“Well, that was fun,” I say.
She smirks and says, “The security guard tried to pick me up. He asked for my passport, boarding pass, and phone number.”
“Lucky you. The only number I get asked for is my health card number.”
We laugh and walk to the waiting area. We may be going in the same direction, geographically, but we are clearly living in different time zones.
WHENEVER I GO to Toronto, my dad always picks me up at the airport. Sometimes my mom comes along. But not this time—tonight he has passed the torch to my brother-in-law, Bob.
We throw our luggage into the car and drive to my parents’ house. When my mom greets us at the front door, her electric-pink hair, jangling jewelry, sparkly outfit, floral perfume, and high-pitched squeals send me into sensory overload. This always happens when I haven’t seen her in a long time. But within a few minutes, I acclimatize to her stimulating presence.
I wonder if she is also adjusting to mine. It might be just as jarring for her to see my deconstructed body, with its vacant lot and menopausal perspiration. If it is, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she does what she does best—puts on a brave, smiling face and launches into party-girl mode, squeezing out every ounce of fun she possibly can. And why not? Naomi and I are in town!
My sister and her kids are in the family room. I give Fern a hug, while Kayla and Josh’s sweet voices ring out in unison: “Hi, Auntie Robyn.” I bend down for more hugs and kisses and marvel at how much they’ve grown. Kayla is now eight and Josh is five. Naomi walks into the room, and then it’s her turn to be embraced.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask my mom.
“He was resting in the bedroom. He should be on his way down.”
I step back into the hallway, and sure enough, there he is, slowly, cautiously, walking down the stairs.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Robyn. Stick around; I’ll be there in a minute.”
A Parkinson’s minute, I think. When he finally reaches the bottom, our hug transcends “hello” and conveys a depth of understanding and compassion that comes from being held captive by this cruel coincidence—a father and daughter, decades apart, united by dying neurons.
“How was your flight?” he asks.
“It was good. No turbulence,” I say.
My dad smiles and asks, “Where’s Naomi?”
Right on cue, she pops up by his side.
“Hi, Zaidie,” she says, wrapping her arms around his stooped shoulders and giving him a kiss on his cheek.
Parkinson’s is often called a designer disease. This sounds glamorous and chic—like a fashionable affliction you catch from wearing expensive clothes. But it’s not. There is nothing glamorous or chic about my wardrobe. Or the sickness. It turns out “designer disease” refers to the uniqueness of every patient’s affliction—from onset and variety of symptoms to the severity and rate of progression to the response and tolerance to medication.
So while my dad and I have some similar symptoms, we are at different stages in the disease and respond differently to drug therapy. So far, I have been lucky. My antidepressants work wonders, and I tolerate Dopamine Agonist. My father is not as lucky. It took a while for him to find the right antidepressant. And since he had an adverse reaction to Dopamine Agonist, his neurologist prescribed Sinemet—the gold-standard medication (something I will require in the future).
For a while, his meds kept him in good spirits and mobile enough to go to the office regularly, socialize with family and friends, play golf, travel with and without my mom, and enjoy life. But lately, his depression is creeping back, and his physical symptoms are getting worse. I’m saddened to see the extent of his decline tonight.
“Who’s hungry?” my mom roars from the kitchen.
“I hope Mom made enough food for all of us,” my dad jokes.
We sit down at the table, and Naomi asks, “Where’s Uncle Jonathan, Auntie Ariella, and Gabby?”
“They couldn’t make it tonight. But we’ll see them tomorrow,” my mom assures her while uncovering the serving platters and bowls. Then she kicks off dinner with rapid-fire questions: “Who wants some teriyaki salmon? Honey garlic ribs? Mashed potatoes? How about roasted vegetables? Corn on the cob? Rice? Kayla, I made you your favorite—spaghetti. There’s also sweet and sour chicken balls. Josh, I boiled you some plain hot dogs. Have some salad, Naomi. Robyn—you love my teriyaki salmon. Gord? Can you get some ginger ales from the fridge? Kayla and Josh—there’s no chocolate cake unless you eat your dinner.”
We eat and talk and nibble some more. As usual, my mom doesn’t allow anyone in her kitchen—not even to help her clean up—so Naomi and I join Fern, Bob, and their kids in the family room. Together, we read books and draw pictures, while my mom tidies up and my dad dozes on the couch. Just like old times. It’s comforting to see that some things haven’t changed in the midst of so much that has.
In the morning, we go out for breakfast to my dad’s favorite Jewish restaurant, Bagel World. The minute we walk in the door, my parents recognize half the people in the room. Everyone recognizes my mom and her hair. Some wave; others come over to say hello.
“You remember my daughter Robyn? And this is our favorite oldest granddaughter, Naomi,” my parents beam.
“The granddaughter from Vancouver?” they all ask.
“Oy, is she gorgeous!” some add.
The waitress seats us in a corner booth. Naomi and I look at the menu, but my parents don’t bother—they already know what they want. We order our breakfasts—bagels, omelets, grilled cheese sandwiches, fruit salad, juice, and coffee.
“When did you start drinking coffee?” my mom asks Naomi.
“This year,” she says, her fingers wrapped around her cup.
As she takes a sip, I watch both my parents smile. They have just learned something new about their long-distance granddaughter, the one they long to know more about.
“Tell us about some of your friends,” my mom says.
“What did you ask? I can’t hear you,” my dad blurts out.
“I asked about her friends,” my mom says.
He leans forward, hoping to hear the conversation.
“The crowd I hang out with is really diverse,” Naomi answers. “I have one friend who is transitioning.”
“Transitioning from what? High school to university?” my mom asks.
“High school to what?” My dad is struggling to catch every word.
“University,” she repeats.
“Transitioning from female to male,” Naomi corrects.
I casually glance at my mom’s face, expecting to see a puzzled expression, but she is smiling and nodding her head. My dad is also smiling ever so slightly as he leans back in his seat.
“Some of my friends are bisexual, gay, and lesbian.”
I sit quietly beside her, resisting the impulse to laugh. My brave daughter is testing the water. On the plane, she told me she was considering coming out to my parents. She is tired of them always asking her if she has a boyfriend. Perhaps now is her chance.
My mom’s face slides into neutral, as she mulls over Naomi’s words. And then she says, “That’s nice. I’m glad you are accepting of people that are different from you.”
Moments later, the waitress delivers our meals. And before we have a chance to start eating, an old friend of my parents walks over to our table.
“I just had to come say hello.”
My parents are happily chatting away with this heavyset bejeweled woman. My dad introduces us his usual way, “You remember my daughter Robyn? And this is our favorite oldest granddaughter, Naomi.”
“How old are you, Naomi?” the woman asks.
“Fifteen.” Naomi smiles politely.
“Oy, have I got a boy for you!” the woman announces.
Naomi and I glance at each other quickly, rolling our eyes.
“That’s what they all say,” I smile.
Later on, my dad drives us to his massage clinic. He booked Naomi and me for treatments with Julie, his massage therapist. When he walks us to the lobby, he looks exhausted and stressed.
“Why don’t you take my appointment, Dad? You could use a massage more than me.”
“No, thanks. I don’t want a massage right now.”
“How about sitting down and resting for a while?” I ask, pointing to a chair.
“I just want to go home.”
“Are you OK to drive?” I ask.
My mom has been quiet all this time. “Do you want me to drive you home, Gord?” she asks.
“No. I can drive myself. But how are all of you going to get home?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”
And with that, Naomi heads into the room for her massage, and my mom and I walk my dad to the car. As he drives away, I look at my watch and tell myself, it’s only a fifteen-minute drive. He’ll be all right. But really, I’m not so sure. My sense is that his driving days are numbered. Twenty minutes later, I call him on his cell and breathe a sigh of relief that he made it home, safe and sound.
The next few days, Naomi and I make the rounds: visits at my brother’s home, my sister’s home, my aunt and uncle’s, my cousin’s. My mom takes Naomi shopping for back-to-school clothes. And in between the visits, I keep my dad company at the house—rubbing his feet, massaging his head, sitting quietly by his side—doing what I can to ease his anxiety. And mine.
I hate this fucking disease.
OUR TRIP TO TORONTO has an intermission—a four-day getaway plan. Out of the city. Into the woods. With my Toronto Trio. It’s another one of Ruthie’s good ideas. She has rented a lovely cottage on a private lake in the Muskokas and invited Lisa, Bonnie, and me to visit. She also invited our kids. In total there will be four adults, two seven-year-olds, one teenager, and a dog.
Naomi and I drive up north with Bonnie and Oliver. It’s raining lightly. As the scenery changes from concrete and glass to trees and farms, my worries about my dad start to recede. While Naomi and Olie chat away in the back, Bonnie asks me, “Did you read Naomi’s latest Facebook status?”
“Nope, I’m not her friend.”
“Really? I am.”
“What did she write?”
“Something like: Naomi is going to a cottage with two little kids and a bunch of middle-aged women.”
“That’s hilarious!” I say. “I think that’s the first time I’ve been called middle-aged by someone else.”
“Oh, I’ve been called it a few times. But it still takes getting used to.”
After nearly three hours and several Tim Hortons pit stops, we finally pass through the town of Bracebridge. According to Ruthie’s directions, we are almost there. Soon, we turn onto a bumpy dirt road that snakes its way through a pine forest and ends abruptly at a cottage.
“Hi, guys!” Ruthie yells out from the top of the porch stairs. “Stay here, Maya,” she instructs her arthritic Great Dane.
“Hi, Ruthie!” we all shout.
She hops down the stairs, sweeping her long wavy hair from her face.
“Sorry about the rainy weather,” our hostess smiles, giving us hugs. “It’s supposed to clear up and get sunny in a couple days.”
“That would be nice,” I say, swatting at mosquitoes and black flies, waiting for nipple-sized itchy red welts to appear on my exposed flesh.
“I forgot you’re afraid of bugs,” Ruthie says.
“I wish they were afraid of me. But they find me irresistible.”
We see Lisa’s car pulling up and her and Dani waving.
Then there’s a round of hugs, bags to carry in, groceries to unpack, and four glorious days to treasure with my daughter, my soul sisters, and their youngest kids.
Once we sort out the sleeping arrangements, we head downstairs. Since every kitchen needs a chef, and our hostess happens to be an award-winning restaurateur, Ruthie assumes this role. She also assumes we know The Rule. But we don’t. At least not at first. Fortunately, we are fast learners. All it takes is one “Hey! Who changed the music?” admonishment from Ruthie, waving her chopping knife, to realize the chef controls the iPod. And apparently she hasn’t had enough of Michael Jackson or his song “Don’t Stop ’til You Get Enough.” She resets the playlist, and the song starts over. When it’s finished, the recently deceased King of Pop serenades us with more ’80s hits: “Billie Jean,” “The Way You Make Me Feel,” “Beat It,” “Thriller,” “Bad,” and “Man in the Mirror.” I feel like I’m back in high school.
There’s only one contender for the job of bartender, and that’s Sweet Lisa, AKA Ms. Margarita. She unpacks her blender, bottles of tequila and triple sec, limes, and sugar and gets to work. In case things get out of hand, Bonnie is the designated bouncer. Blessed with exceptional bladder control—even after two babies—she happily bounces up and down for hours on the trampoline with Olie and Dani. And my job? I’m the floater, pitching in wherever help is needed: prepping food, washing dishes, shopping for groceries, hunting for mosquitoes.
THE DAYS UNFOLD in a slow, steady rhythm: Eating. Reading. Yoga. Swimming. Bouncing. Baking. Cooking. Eating. Drinking. Cleaning. More eating. Sleeping. I even squeeze in some writing when inspiration strikes. And I marvel at Naomi, as she flows effortlessly between children’s games and adult conversations. Watching her interact with my girlfriends and their kids, I catch glimpses of the young woman she is becoming—resilient, outspoken, compassionate, independent, and fun.
One sunny afternoon, she surprises me. We are all down by the water, and she offers to take seven-year-old Oliver out for a canoe ride—revealing an adventurous side I’ve never seen before in her. Bonnie gives her permission, and the two of them strap on life jackets and get in the boat—Naomi in the stern, Olie in the bow, paddles in hand. It occurs to me that Naomi’s canoeing skills may not be as proficient as she imagines they are. Then again, I could be wrong. I keep my eyes on them as they paddle away from shore. Either they are not interested in synchronizing their strokes, or any attempts to do so fail.
Bonnie asks, “Do you think Naomi knows what she’s doing?”
“Yeah. Floundering,” I say, my heart beating rapidly as we watch her struggling to turn the canoe around.
“I’m going to get them,” Bonnie announces, plunging naked into the water. Mama Bear to the rescue. We watch her swim out into the middle of the lake and slowly swim back, the canoe and the kids in tow.
“The current surprised me—it was stronger than I expected,” Naomi says. “Thanks, Bonnie.”
“No problem,” Bonnie smiles, toweling off.
With Naomi and Olie safe and sound, I announce, “I’m going inside. These black flies are brutal.” Walking toward the cottage, I hear Naomi ask, “Who wants to go for a ride on the inflatable raft?”
Not me, I think, curling up on the couch, opening my journal to a blank page. Absorbed in my writing, I lose track of time until the sounds of footsteps and voices break my concentration. One by one, the gang walks through the door. Dani is laughing hysterically, and says, “Hey, Robyn. You missed another rescue!”
“Really?”
“This time my mom swam out to help Naomi, me, and Olie get the raft back to shore.”
I look over at Naomi, who is smiling sheepishly by the door. I smile back and say, “Why am I not surprised?”
TODAY’S THE DAY we head back to the city. We spend the morning cleaning up, doing laundry, making the beds, and packing our bags while k.d. lang belts out spine-tingling cover songs: Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” Neil Young’s “Helpless,” and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Her voice fills me with melancholy and longing and gratitude. I can feel my Cry Lady beginning to stir. Resting on the couch, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them, Lisa is sitting next to me.
“Hi, Robbie,” she says.
“Hi, Sweet Lisa,” I reply, wiping away my tears.
“Are you sad?”
“Not exactly. More like relieved.”
“Relieved about what?”
“It’s so strange. I feel like I’ve had a holiday from my diseases. You’ve all been acting as if I’m still the same old me. Treating me as if I’m normal.”
“Aren’t you normal?”
“No. I’m abnormal.”
Lisa looks at me strangely, while I conduct a silent inventory of all my defects: my limping leg, my dearly departed breast, my missing ovaries, my stilted arm, my dopamine-deprived brain.
“Abnormal?” Lisa exclaims. “Gosh. I wish you’d told me earlier. If I had known you were abnormal, I would have treated you abnormally. And that would have been way more fun!” She laughs. So do I.
Lisa gets up and joins Ruthie and Bonnie in the kitchen. I watch my Toronto Trio chatting away. These women are my best friends, my soul sisters. Maybe they know something I don’t? I find this both comforting and confusing, especially since my social interactions are often tinged with pity—usually other people’s, sometimes my own. As far as I can tell, there’s not a drop of it to be found here. Of course, over the years, we’ve all had our share of heartaches and crises. There have been miscarriages, sick children, dying pets, cheating husbands, cash crunches, marital strife, ailing parents, work woes, and pesky aches and pains. And now there’s Parkinson’s and cancer thrown into the mix. Plenty to complain about, which we sometimes do. But pity? Not a chance. We are resourceful, we are resilient, and when in one another’s company, we are resplendent. Even if we are middle-aged.
NAOMI AND I drive back to Toronto with Bonnie. The closer we get to the city, the more her BlackBerry buzzes, and the more excited I am to go home. I miss Bergen. I miss Nellie. I miss my Vancouver life.
When we turn onto the 401, I ask Bonnie, “Do you ever miss living in Vancouver?”
“No. I love living in Toronto. But I love working on shows in Vancouver. So I get to visit you.”
“When are you coming to town next?”
“No plans yet. But I’ll let you know as soon as I get a contract. Hey, did I tell you that I bought critical care insurance?”
“No. Isn’t that really expensive?”
“Really expensive. But you inspired me.”
“Really?”
“When you were diagnosed with Parkinson’s, I realized that I needed to protect my self and my family, in case I get sick and can’t work. So I splurged.”
“It’s a good idea. I wish I had thought of that.”
We spend our last few days in Toronto with family. My dad seems even more fragile, more anxious than he was before my trip to the cottage. It’s heartbreaking to watch him suffer with this body-snatching disease. Before Naomi and I leave for the airport, I massage his feet while he rests in bed. I can feel his legs relax a little. I can hear him breathing more calmly.
“Can you rest your arms and hands on the bed?” I ask.
He glances down at his rigid limbs levitating a couple inches above the covers.
“I’ll try,” he says quietly.
I watch him bending his stiff arms and wiggling his frozen fingers.
“Is this better?” he asks.
“A little,” I lie. “Let me help.”
One at a time, I massage his floating arms, coaxing the tight muscles to relax. Eventually, his left arm surrenders and flops down by his side. Then the right arm begins to relax too. As I set it down on the bed, his left arm rises up—as if an invisible pulley connects the appendages. I can’t help smiling. And I can’t resist the urge to see what will happen next. I grasp his left arm again, and sure enough, as I settle it back down on the bed, his right arm lifts up into the air. This time I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” my dad asks.
I don’t have the heart to tell him about his levitating arms. So I resume rubbing his feet and say, “Our disease. If I don’t laugh about it, I’ll cry.”
A while later I hear my mom’s voice announcing, “Robyn. Naomi. The taxi’s here.”
My dad has drifted off to sleep. I lean over and give him a kiss on his forehead and whisper, “Bye, Dad. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”
His eyes flutter open and he gives me a smile. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah. Our ride is here. I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too.”
I head downstairs, hug my mom good-bye, and join Naomi in the car. My Cry Lady has been patiently waiting, and as we pull out of the driveway, the tears begin.
BERGEN PICKS us up at the airport.
“How was the plane ride?” he asks.
“It was a one-Ativan flight,” I say, feeling a little woozy.
“In other words, Mama thought we were going to crash,” Naomi says.
When we get home, I have just enough energy to give Nellie a belly rub and get myself ready for bed. Then I conk out for the night.
TWO DAYS LATER, I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Chung. When she’s finished examining me, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t bake you a cake this time, considering it’s our anniversary.”
She smiles. “Our anniversary?”
“Exactly one year ago today, you did my mastectomy.”
“Well then, congratulations.”
“Congratulations to you too.” I look down at my chest. “Anything to worry about?”
“Everything looks and feels normal,” Dr. Chung reassures me.
“That’s a relief.” And there’s that word again: “normal.”
“Do you want to continue coming to see me for your six-month checkups? Because your family doctor can do that for you, if you prefer. I don’t know how far you have to travel to get to my office.”
“Not far at all. And if it’s OK with you, I’d like to continue coming to see you. I really trust your expertise.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” Dr. Chung smiles.
I CALMLY LIMP through the remaining weeks of summer. There are dinners with friends, walks with Susan, massages with Jessica, and family time at our cabin. As September approaches, breast cancer steps out of the spotlight and Parkinson’s takes center stage. It’s been six months since I started taking Dopamine Agonist. It has certainly improved my bodily function and quality of life. But Dr. Stoessl warned me that this drug’s superpowers would eventually fade and I’d need to augment my drug therapy regime with Sinemet. He was right; all summer long I’ve been experiencing a slow and steady decline of my mobility and dexterity. My body is slowing down again. My fingers are beginning to malfunction, making it difficult to chop vegetables, type at the computer, and floss my teeth. It’s all rather depressing, though I’m not depressed. Yet. However, I am anxious and worried that my symptoms will get worse and I will become a zombie again—just like I was before taking medication. I feel determined not to let that happen ever again. So now that I’m clear of cancer and have had all the surgeries I need, I decide it’s time to start taking Sinemet.
If Dopamine Agonist is a superhero, then Sinemet is a supergod. Within days of starting this medication, I feel reborn. My rigid left arm is beginning to swing. My left leg is losing its limp. But best of all, the fog is lifting in my brain. After just one week on this drug, I say to Bergen, “I haven’t felt this clarity of mind in years.”
“That’s fantastic!” Bergen says.
“It’s unbelievable. It’s like a switch has been turned on in my brain.”
Which in a way, it has. I remember Dr. Stoessl explaining to me how Sinemet works—but back then I didn’t grasp the concept. I do now: People with Parkinson’s need dopamine. However, you can’t actually give them straight dopamine, since it can’t cross the blood-brain barrier to reach the brain. So Sinemet is the next best thing. It contains levodopa, which is the precursor of dopamine. And the levodopa crosses the blood-brain barrier and is transformed into dopamine in the brain.
“Is this the medication that Dr. Stoessl didn’t want you take in the beginning?”
“Yep. He wanted me to wait until I really needed it. It can cause dyskenesia. But that may be three, four, five years down the road. I’m not going to worry about it now.”
“Good idea,” Bergen smiles, giving me a hug.
As the weeks go by and my dosage of Sinemet increases, so does my vitality. Friends who haven’t seen me in a while are stunned, “You look fantastic! Totally different.” The more I hear this, the more I realize I must have looked like hell. Which makes perfect sense, considering all I’ve been through these past few years. More than my share of misery. Misery I regret sharing—particularly with Naomi and Bergen. How they endured my moods and melancholy during the Bad Old Days is beyond me. I know it wasn’t easy for them. It took enormous courage and compassion, and in Naomi’s case it also required her to grow up in a hurry.
Sometimes we talk about those days and the impact it’s had on her. Today, when I ask her what she remembers thinking when I first told her about my Parkinson’s diagnosis, she says, “I think I thought: Oh. It’s a brain disease; it just affects the movement. So maybe there’s something really wrong with me that makes you angry. That was my biggest thing. For me, you getting sick was just another reason why I had to be perfect and I couldn’t do anything wrong to upset you. Because then you’d break down. And then it was like I was the mother and you were the kid.”
“That’s when I checked out of being a parent,” I say, watching her eyes tear up.
“Did you think I was going to die?” I ask.
Naomi looks down and starts to cry. “When you told me the diagnosis, I thought, so it’s not going to kill you?” She hangs her head in shame, having just spoken the unspeakable.
“It’s OK to have wished that I was dead. It was a hard time for you. I’m sorry.”
“It was really hard. And then you were diagnosed with breast cancer. In the summer! It was the worst possible timing ever.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
We sit quietly together for a while, then I give her a hug. “I love you, Naomi. Thanks for being so honest.”
“I love you too,” she says.
OUR HOUSE has become a haven for teenagers. A place for Naomi’s friends to drop by. They bake cookies, watch movies, play Scrabble, join us for dinner, and sleep over. This is a good thing. It means that Naomi is happy to be at home, and her friends are comfortable being here. It also means that I don’t get as much privacy as I’d like. Around Bergen and Naomi, I am comfortable wearing clothes that reveal my vacant lot. But around all these kids, I feel conflicted. Not only am I self-conscious about my appearance, but also I’m worried about traumatizing her friends.
One day, while putting on Dolores, Naomi says, “You don’t have to wear her. Nobody but you notices that you only have one breast.”
“Oh, come on. Your friends must notice.”
“Not really. And even if they do, so what?”
“I don’t want to scare them away.”
“You won’t. You’re a breast cancer survivor with one breast. That’s an accomplishment! It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“How’d you get so smart?” I ask.
Naomi shrugs her shoulders. The doorbell rings and she heads downstairs to let her friends in. I’ve only been wearing Dolores a few minutes, and already I’m feeling uncomfortable and itchy. The truth is, I’d rather not wear her around the house. And so, guided by Naomi’s words of wisdom, I remove my bra, tuck Dolores back in her drawer, and put on a T-shirt. It feels good to make my one-breasted self at home.
The following night, Naomi and her friends go to a party down the street. Bergen and I enjoy a quiet dinner together and then take Nellie for a long walk. When we get back, he asks, “What would you like to do tonight?”
“How about we go to bed early?”
He smiles. “Sure. Give me a few minutes to finish up in my office—I have an e-mail I promised to send someone.”
I go upstairs to our bedroom, dim the lights, and freshen up in the washroom. Gazing at my asymmetric body in the mirror, I can’t help noticing how sad and lonely my left breast looks next to my vacant lot. If only there was something I could say or do to make her feel better. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Naomi’s makeup bag lying on the counter, and inspiration strikes. I reach for a black pencil eyeliner, excited to do something I haven’t done in a very long time: draw a picture. Why didn’t I think of this before, considering the flat side of my chest is like a blank canvas?
Leaning toward the mirror, I uncap the pencil and scrawl a happy face over my mastectomy scar. It’s a rush job, and the face turns out lopsided, the eyes a little too squinty. But the mouth is magnificent—a full throttle smile that is outrageous and contagious. Standing back from the counter, I stare at my masterpiece. Instantly, I know that this is the perfect companion for my solitary breast. I am giddy with delight.
I return to the bedroom and lie down across the sheets. There’s no time to lose; I can hear Bergen climbing the stairs. When he arrives, my arms are tucked behind my head, my back is arched, my knees are bent. I feel like Marilyn Monroe posing for Playboy.
“What do you think?” I ask him playfully.
“About what?”
“This!” I exclaim, pointing to my creation.
He looks down at my chest. Then he bursts out laughing.
“I love it!” he says, bending over me and giving it a kiss.
“Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”
“Really?” he asks.
“You never know.”
All night long, I feel radiant and happy—as if equilibrium has been restored. Wrapped in Bergen’s arms, I wonder if there really is a tattoo in my future. And if there is, what other things might there be waiting for me to do, to see, to discover? Running my fingers along the contours of my happy face, I can’t help thinking of Zoë and her mysterious tattoo, fading away together. Forever.
I feel a sudden sense of urgency deep within me. I close my eyes and imagine a lined sheet of paper. At the top, I write “To Do.” And then I begin compiling my list: take piano lessons, learn computer animation, design postmastectomy clothes, take Naomi to San Francisco and New York, go on a honeymoon with Bergen, write books, travel to Toronto more often, get tickets to Craig Ferguson’s Late Late Show, begin painting again, continue my friendship pilgrimage. I open my eyes and feel my horizons expanding. Who knows? There might be more of me, after all.