Better Than None (3 page)

Now at 37, I was attractive and in good shape. Even in her compliments,
she somehow brought it back around to her. This Saturday was no exception. For
as long as I could remember, really for my entire life I guess, Barb and I
spent every weekend together, whether it was doing errands or clothes shopping
or helping her around the house.

“Those look great on you honey. Get them. I used to be able to wear
pants like that.”

It wasn’t what she said, like so many things, it was how she said it.
Like these pants were a symbol of who she no longer was.

“Mom?”

“I just want to find out what’s wrong. Look at me, I look like I’m five
months pregnant!”

Even though she was typically prone to hyperbole, this time she wasn’t
exaggerating. Her belly was distended.

“It’s disgusting! I can’t stand looking at myself!”

While I understood her vanity, I couldn’t have cared less about what
she looked like. She’d hardly been eating anything and this obviously wasn’t
right.

“We’re gonna figure this out, ma. Together.”

Barb’s eyes teared up and she swallowed. “I don’t know what I’d do
without you honey.”

All I could think was, I don’t know what I’d do without her either.

The next week at work, those who had been at Marty’s were a little
friendlier, stopping by my office to chat and even inviting me out to lunch. I
accepted, realizing that I couldn’t keep putting people off and still want to
be welcomed into their world. I did really want to finally fit in somewhere.
Plus, I had proven to myself that I could be social, a normal person. I could
talk with people. Guys even.

But it was amazing just how measured I’d become. Calculated. Not in a
shrewd negotiator kind of way. I still would probably get taken if I were to
set foot on a new car lot. But calculated insofar as I made sure the image that
people were seeing was who I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be who I was. I
didn’t want to be her when I was living it. I wanted to be someone no one
talked about. I didn’t want to be the slut that just pulled some random guy
from the bar and banged him in the alley almost as much as I didn’t want to be
the prude wallflower who kept to herself and never went out.

The balancing was already becoming a challenge.
This must be what
it’s like to be in witness protection. Dramatic much, Steph?
Okay, so maybe
not WitSec. No one was after me trying to kill me. But I imagine, there were a
lot of similarities. I had created a new identity and had chosen to live this
new life for self-preservation. I kept telling myself it couldn’t be any more
painful, or numbing, than what it was before. Ironic that I could, at the same
time be in pain, and be numb. Actually, those two feelings never really
coexisted. I was numb when I was doing what I did, who I did. The pain only
came after. The guilt. The shame. The embarrassment. The feeling of wanting to
curl up into a ball and roll far, far away. Of course, if the pain was all that
bad, then why did I keep doing it? Ah, the conversation of many therapy
sessions. I still had the card from one therapist, the card that I was supposed
to put on my bathroom mirror so that I saw it every day, that read, “I deserve
a healthy, happy, loving relationship.”

I didn’t believe that then, and it was awfully hard to now. Especially
after all that I’d done, how could I possibly
deserve
that? Does anyone
ever really deserve anything other than what they’ve created for themselves? I
created the life I lived. Regardless of what pushed me there. Whether it was my
mother or the times or the circumstances, or even my DNA, I knew it was on me.
Just as much as I knew it was on me to try to create my new life. My starting
over.

I was smart enough to know that if it didn’t work out, if who I was is
really who I am, then I could always revert back to my old ways. But I wanted
to try something new. I wanted to see if I could feel something, those things I
read about in the romance novels I devoured. Another irony. Someone who was as
unromantic as I was, I somehow became a complete and utter sucker for romance.
Any kind. I loved them. It didn’t matter if the main character was a teenager
or a grown woman, historical or contemporary, rough or sweet. I guess it’s not
that hard to figure out why I loved them so much, or why, no matter what, I
almost always teared up. Even when I knew that the boy would get the girl in
the end, I mean, I could see the storyline a mile away, but even then, I fell
for it hook, line and sinker. I’d get excited and couldn’t wait for them to
consummate their passion, and I’d get choked up when one of them pulled away,
and even more tears flowed when one of them, usually the guy, came back,
declaring his undying love, expressing how he didn’t care what he had to give
up if he could just be with her. Yep, I fell for it. Every God damned time.

And of course I wanted those girls in the books to be me.

****

The next week felt like it couldn’t come soon enough. Both Barb and I
just wanted to get to our appointments with the surgeon and the
gastroenterologist to get some news. Each day that went by she was in more and
more discomfort and pain. When Thursday finally came, it had been almost a week
since I’d seen her even though we’d talked every day. I’d taken the day off
from work as we were scheduled to have an endoscopic CT scan in the morning
with the GI doc and then see the surgeon in the afternoon.

When I picked my mom up, she looked slightly yellow, but I didn’t say
anything. I didn’t want to worry her. Plus, by then, we had gotten her tumor
marker and it came back perfect, so we were sure it wasn’t cancer. When her sister
had been sick, I remember her tumor marker was the big barometer throughout her
illness. As she got worse, so did it. So the fact that my mom’s didn’t show
anything had us both breathing a sigh of relief.

Our first appointment was in the morning with Dr. K, the
Gastroenterologist. His full name was longer than his specialty and he looked
like a linebacker of a man with thick, meaty hands.  Perhaps it was
because he was so big and imposing that my mom seemed even more like a little
girl than usual. I’m not sure when an act stops being an act and just who the
person really is, but I was starting to think that what I had for so long
thought of as a facade was actually the real Barbara. Maybe she wasn’t feigning
deference, innocence and subservience. Perhaps this was her. She delicately
told the doctor of her symptoms, embarrassed to talk about the gas and the
bloating because it wasn’t ladylike. Finally, he had her lie back and pulled up
her gown to palpate her stomach and I gasped.

My mother had always been about appearances. I often wonder if she’d be
as proud showing me off if I were heavy and unattractive. Regardless, this was
a woman who still in her seventies worried about counting calories, exercising
most every day, making sure she never left the house without the right jewelry
and makeup. So when the doctor lifted her gown to reveal her severely bloated
stomach, I knew it wasn’t just gas.

“Owww.” She whimpered as he pressed tenderly from spot to spot. I
watched as his fingers seemed to sink into her flesh like it was soft
play-dough. My mother had never been heavy. Ever.

I was grateful she had her eyes closed and couldn’t see my expression.
I couldn’t let her see my fear or concern. I had to be the strong one. I tried
to read the doctor’s face, but he didn’t give anything away. Finally, after
pressing all around, he lowered her gown and explained the procedure he was
about to perform which would enable him to see the mass from the inside. We
both listened and when a nurse came in to wheel her down to the room where the
procedure would take place, Barb asked, “Can Stephy come with?”

“I’m sorry, Barbara. She’ll need to wait here. But it’s a quick
procedure, no more than an hour and you’ll be in twilight. She’ll be waiting
for you when you wake up.” He smiled and looked from her to me and then back to
her.

“You’ll do great, Ma.” I reassured her and then bent down to kiss her
forehead before they wheeled her out.

As much as I may have hated my mother’s weakness when it came to the
men in her life, I loved her more than anything. I think what I felt for her
was the true definition of a love / hate relationship. I felt both emotions so
strongly. And watching them wheel her away was one of the moments where I
didn’t hate her weakness, I pitied it. She seemed so fragile and small, so
vulnerable. I knew that somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew whatever
was going on with her body wasn’t just gas. She was too afraid to face it, much
less face whatever it was alone. I was genuinely glad to be there with her, to
be her rock. Dysfunctional as it may have been, I was used to her needing me,
and being that person for her obviously validated or filled a need in me. 

We’d already spent most of the day in the hospital, time passing,
lulling both of us into silence, going from waiting room to doctor’s office to
procedure room to recovery room back to another waiting room and now into
another exam room. I felt like a zombie.

Then the surgeon, Dr. O’Malley came in. What a sweet man. He had a soft
smile and tender touch as he put his hand on my mother’s arm. He was the
antithesis of Dr. Rosenberg.

A short, heavy set, ruddy man, he was warm and caring and waited
patiently as my mom talked about this and that, like he had all the time in the
world. He let her talk for a good five minutes about what she’s been feeling
and going through, repeating what he obviously already knew. When she finished,
his expression shifted from warm to concerned.

“Well, Barbara,” he finally said, “we’ve had a chance to look at your
case in conference, and we all agree that the best course is six months of
chemo and then we’ll see if we can operate.”

Barb and I looked at each other, both in shock, and then back at him.

 “What?” I asked like an idiot.

Poor Dr. O’Malley couldn’t grasp what I didn’t understand. He knitted
his eyebrows and cocked his head. “I know how hard this must be to hear, but with
your mother’s type of cancer—”

I didn’t let him finish. “Cancer? But, but, her tumor marker came back
perfect. I mean, if she had cancer, it would show up on a tumor marker, right?”

 “Unfortunately, no. 10-15% of people have the type of DNA where
it just doesn’t register.”

 “Well then what the hell is the point of a God damned tumor
marker?” I shouted. My mom patted my arm, embarrassed by my outburst. Even
then, upon hearing she had cancer, she still wanted to be ladylike.

 “I’m sorry, Stephanie, Barbara.” Dr. O’Malley said
sympathetically.

 “But, I don’t understand, doctor.” My mom said with fear. For the
first time, she wasn’t trying to impress the man before her. She was raw, open,
naked.

Dr. O’Malley took her hands in his and stared deeply into her eyes,
“There is good news here, Barbara. From what we can see, the tumor is isolated,
meaning it hasn’t spread. If we move quickly, and the chemo works—”

Before he could finish, this time Barbara jumped in.

 “I swore I’d never do chemo. Ever. I’ve seen what it does to
people. To women. I don’t want to look like that. Do you have any idea how much
time I spend to get my hair to look like this? And I still wax my eyebrows, at
my age! And dye my eye lashes.”

This was truly a first. My mother, not just standing up to a man, but
sharing her beauty secrets with one. I wish the circumstances were different.
If they were, I’d have been so proud of her. But in that moment, all I could
think was that it took cancer to force her to abandon her Southern Belle act.
Fucking cancer.

 “Barbara, I’m not a woman, so I can’t pretend that I know what it
must feel like to lose those parts of you. But they’re not who you are. Hair
grows back. Wigs can be purchased. But if we don’t do the chemo, I guarantee
you that this cancer will grow and slowly, painfully, kill you.”

Finally, sweet Dr. O’Malley lost the Mr. Nice Guy and got down to brass
tacks.

 “But, but the tumor marker said…” she said weakly and trailed off
as I grabbed her hand and held it. The tears welled up in her eyes and mine as
we stared at each other.

 “Stephy, honey, you know I’ve always said—”

 “Mom,” I jumped in before she could finish, “you don’t have a
choice. If you don’t do the chemo, the cancer will grow and, and… you heard the
doctor. You have to do it. You just have to.” I pleaded.

Her hand went up to her hair. “But my hair…”

 “We’ll buy you a wig, mom. We can buy you a whole assortment!” I
said enthusiastically, through the tears. I sniffled and used the back of my
hand to wipe my nose.

She shook her head. She hated it when I did that. She said I looked
like trash, and that I should have a Kleenex handy and lightly blow like a lady
would.

“But, but…” my mom asked feebly looking to me, then Dr. O’Malley, then
back to me.

There was nothing more to say. Dr. O’Malley couldn’t do anything for
us. He was a surgeon. And if we were lucky enough to make it to him, it
wouldn’t be for another six months. We certainly couldn’t have been the first
patients who he’d delivered bad, life-changing, unfathomable news to. And based
on all the people in all the myriad waiting rooms we’d seen, we most definitely
wouldn’t be the last.

I don’t think either of us said a word on the drive home. I racked my
brain trying to think of something, anything I could say. But there was
nothing. There was no more conjecture, no more wondering what it was. My mother
had pancreatic cancer. The same disease that ravaged and killed her
sister.  Once we got the diagnosis, there really just wasn’t anything more
to say.

After I dropped Barb off, I was a mess. I was numb, yet I felt far too
much. I don’t think either of us were even remotely ready for the news that Dr.
O’Malley gave us. Even after everything. All of her discomfort and symptoms, after
all the appointments, all the tests, hearing those words out loud, perhaps no
one is ever ready to hear them. Up until that point, we’d both chosen the
cafeteria-style of news. We picked out the parts we liked and focused on those
while avoiding the other unappetizing bits and pieces. Obviously, with
something like this, we had no choice, no say at all as to what ended up on our
tray.

I had been doing so well in my recovery if that’s what it could be
called. So God damned well. It wasn’t recovery in the usual sense of the word,
not from alcohol or a substance. It was abstention of destructive behavior. Yet
somehow my car drove not to my house, but to the lovely, swanky, high-end bar
at the Bel Air Hotel. I didn’t know what I’d do, I just knew I couldn’t go home
and be alone. Not even my dogs could comfort me. I needed distractions, I
needed a drink and I needed something else to focus on.

The bar itself was small, only six or so seats and the entire place was
occupied by high-end industry businessmen and women. Thankfully, there was one
seat open in between two men in suits and two women similarly dressed. I eased
myself in and was grateful the bartender took my order within seconds. I felt
the first sip of my martini go all the way down, concentrating on what it felt
like on my lips, my tongue, the back of my throat, and then all the way down my
chest and into my stomach. I closed my eyes as I felt the immediate effects
while visualizing the liquid travelling through my body. When I opened them
again, the businessman next to me smiled and I smiled back, took another
healthy sip and again imagined the route the alcohol went. As much as I didn’t
want to be alone, I also couldn’t bear the thought of trying to make small talk
with a stranger, much less doing what I used to do, so I fished my phone out of
my purse and pretended to focus on it. After a much-concerted effort of not
looking back at the suit, I heard him and his friend start talking again and
knew he’d given up on me.