Most of Me (19 page)

I obviously need help. So I pick up the phone and call an expert.

“Hello, Zoë? It's Robyn,” I say, my voice tinged with shyness and urgency.

“Hi, Robyn. What a surprise. How are you?” she asks.

It's been years since we last connected, our busy lives having pulled us in different directions. But now I'm heading into her terrain.

“Actually, I'm not doing great. Do you have time to talk?”

She assures me she does, so I bring her up to speed and she is shocked and genuinely sorry.

I've known Zoë for fourteen years. When our kids were little, she invited Bergen, Naomi, and me into her community of young families that gathered for potluck dinners and moral support. She was one of those rare mothers, blessed with not only natural parenting instincts but also the guts to follow them. She was also blessed with a voracious appetite and talent for acquiring and sharing knowledge about raising kids. And then a few years into our friendship, Zoë was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer and used her phenomenal research skills to determine her strategy to quash the cancer. She chose to have a mastectomy and radiation, as well as alternative healing treatments, and thankfully her cancer went into remission.

When I tell her about my chemo conundrum, she is sympathetic. And when I ask her to disclose her secret research tips, she says, “Would you allow me to do this research for you? It sounds like you could use some help.”

“Really?” I ask, tears streaming down my face.

“Really,” Zoë says with conviction.

I take a deep breath and feel my panic beginning to subside, like a slowly deflating balloon. “That would be incredibly helpful,” I say. And then I realize that we haven't talked about her yet.

“How are you doing?” I ask. “How are your kids?”

She tells me about her teenage son and preteen daughter. Then she is silent for a moment and reluctantly says, “My cancer is back. And I'm back in treatment.”

This news cuts me to the core. “I don't think it's a good idea for you to do my research,” I say. “You need to look after yourself.”

“But I'm so tired of being so focused on me all the time. This is exactly what I need right now—something to distract me and help me feel useful. I really want to do this for you and for me.”

There is no point arguing; Zoë has made up her mind. And so I graciously accept her offer.

“I'll e-mail you my report in a few days.”

“Thank you, Zoë. Let's go for a walk with our dogs sometime soon,” I say.

“I'd like that,” Zoë says. So would our dogs.

A few days later, Zoë's e-mail arrives:

Hi Robyn,

I sure wish we had reconnected under wildly different circumstances, but I'm really glad that you called me. I went online after we spoke and quickly found out that that wasn't going to be a useful route. I then e-mailed some of my contacts, including my naturopath.

One contact, who just started work at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, tried to find out how chemo might affect Parkinson's symptoms. Unfortunately, she couldn't find any research on this subject. But she suggested you could go to the library at the
BC
Cancer Agency and ask them to do a search for you.

My naturopath said hard data will be hard to find. He suggests asking your oncologist about complementary therapies that might be neuroprotective and consider glutathione
IV
, an excellent antioxidant.

I'm sorry to not have anything solid to offer you at this point. I'm thinking of you and am sending you kick-ass clarity to help make the incredibly hard decisions you are being asked to make.

Your friend,
Zoë

Hi Zoë.

Thank you thank you thank you.

I too wish we had reconnected under wildly different circumstances, and I am so sorry about your health situation.

I really appreciate your time and energy spent researching on my behalf.

Let's walk our dogs one day soon,

Love, Robyn

ALL LEADS
have proven fruitless—it seems no research exists about chemotherapy's detrimental effect on Parkinson's disease. So without damning proof, I am still on the hook for making a decision. With less than two weeks to go before my first round of chemo, I am desperate for some kick-ass clarity.

Then Bergen and I attend Chemo 101 at the cancer agency—a private crash course taught by a nurse. At least, that's who she says she is. But she doesn't fool me with her little nurse disguise. Right away, I smell a rat. And as she walks us through the nasty nuances of this toxic concoction, I catch a glimpse of her true identity—Grim Reaper Sales Representative. I hope she isn't working on commission, because she does a lousy job selling me on any of the sinister side effects she rattles off. And much to her dismay, I don't fall for her promise of silky smooth legs, a clear-cut crotch, and bald pits. This road to no hair terrifies me.

At the end of the class, I am convinced that chemo is not for me. But I hold off making my final decision—I am still waiting to hear back from Dr. Lohrisch and to hear what the other oncologists at the case conference recommend.

I HAVEN'T SEEN
Theresa in months, though I did leave her a phone message after my mastectomy to let her know that I'd survived. I haven't been avoiding therapy; I just haven't felt the need. Until now. When she sees me, Theresa says, “Thank you for calling after your surgery. I was so relieved to hear your voice and to know that you were
OK
.”

“You're welcome.” I'm sitting cross-legged in the chair, watching her watching me.

I say, “I don't know why, but you look different. I must look different too.”

“A little,” she says with a smile.

“It's gone.” I point at my vacant lot. “The dingo ate my baby.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” I watch her smile drift away as she takes a long, deep breath.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Sad. And still in shock,” I answer, as my Cry Lady reaches for a tissue.

We wind our way through my grief at the loss of my right breast, the fear that I might pass breast cancer to Naomi as well as Parkinson's, my chemo conundrum, my continuing Parkinson's degeneration. I point out the scenic highlights along the way: harmony at home, my father's visit, my friendship pilgrimage. By the end of our session, I am still sitting on that chemotherapy fence. But now I accept that there is no right choice—there is just a decision that works best for me.

“Is there anything else you want to say or need from me before you leave?” Theresa asks.

“I don't think so.”

“Then I have something to tell you—I'm pregnant. I'm due in five months.”

“That's why you look different,” I laugh. “I thought you had gained a little weight. How are you feeling?”

“Much better these days. I was quite sick in the first trimester.”

We sit quietly for a while, and then Theresa adds, “I'll be going on mat leave in a few months. I've just started telling my clients. I want you to know that even though I won't be coming to the clinic, you can call me on the phone at home if you want to talk. I'd also be happy to recommend another therapist who does similar work.”

I feel a rush of excitement for her and sadness for myself. Theresa has played such a pivotal role in my life this past year, helping me cope with so many challenges. I can't imagine finding a replacement, but I'm not sure that I need to. I feel our work is almost complete. Knowing now that she's having a baby, I am happy that the painting I gave her in exchange for all these sessions would be perfect for a child's room.

Several days later, on a Friday afternoon, I get a call from Dr. Lohrisch. “I have some news regarding your case conference.”

“
OK
,” I say nervously, feeling my anxiety level rising. What advice will her colleagues give me, and will I heed this advice?

“At this morning's meeting, we discussed your treatment options, and it turns out that the majority of oncologists are not recommending chemotherapy for you.”

“The majority?” I feel stunned and relieved, like a death-row prisoner who has just been granted clemency.

“That's right,” she says.

“Do you still recommend chemo?”

“I do. But it's your choice. You've still got some time to decide.”

“I need to talk it over with my husband. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

“Actually, I'm going on vacation for a couple weeks. So once you've made up your mind, call my assistant and let her know.
OK
?”

“
OK
,” I say. “Thanks for calling. And enjoy your vacation.”

Once I hang up the phone, I rush downstairs to Bergen's office and tell him the news. He is delighted and curious. “So, what did Dr. Lohrisch say were the reasons for not doing chemo?”

“She didn't say,” I reply sheepishly.

“You mean you didn't ask?” Bergen laughs.

“I forgot. But I wish I'd asked. It would help us make the final decision.”

“Well, I'm sure you can call her back.”

“Nope. She's gone on vacation.”

“Then here's what I suggest. On Monday, we'll call the cancer agency and see if we can speak with one of the oncologists who was at the case conference.”

“That's a good idea. Let's think of any other questions we might have,
OK
?”

Over dinner, we jot down the following: What are the reasons for not recommending chemo? Did my having Parkinson's influence the recommendations? What's the latest research on breast cancer survivors who don't get chemo?

When Monday morning rolls around, I call Dr. Lohrisch's office. The assistant squeezes me in for an appointment that same afternoon with the oncologist who chaired my case conference.

After lunch, Bergen and I drive to the cancer agency. A nurse leads us into an examining room. Eventually, there's a knock on the semiclosed door, followed by a handsome head with sparkling blue eyes peering into the room.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I'm Dr. Kennecke.”

Then the rest of him—dressed impeccably in a tailored suit and dashing tie—steps inside and shakes our hands. For a moment, I imagine we are at a fashion photo shoot, not a cancer consultation.

“I understand you have some questions about your case conference,” he says, sitting down across from us. I catch a glimpse of his colorful patterned socks and beautiful leather shoes.

“I really didn't want chemotherapy, and I'm very happy that you and the other oncologists don't recommend it. Is this because I have Parkinson's?”

“Actually, no. This decision was based on the fact that your cancer was caught early, you've had a mastectomy, there were no traces of cancer in your lymph nodes, and your cancer is estrogen positive. Based on the most recent research, we felt that ovarian suppression and Tamoxifen hormone therapy alone would suffice. In other words, there would be no advantage in your case to adding chemotherapy.”

We talk further about ovarian suppression, and I say I would prefer surgery to remove my ovaries instead of shutting them down over several years with monthly chemical injections. I agree to start Tamoxifen right away.

Next, Dr. Kennecke examines my chest, armpits, and lymph nodes. Palpating the skin surrounding my scar, he asks, “Have you thought about taking the other one off?”

Flattered by his compliment, I reply, “No, actually you're the first one to mention it. Should I be thinking of this?”

“It's something to consider down the road.”

As I get dressed, Bergen asks Dr. Kennecke, “Any significant breakthroughs in the latest breast cancer research?”

Dr. Kennecke smiles and describes some promising studies in Europe that he's following and tells us that he also does research here at the agency. I am impressed and ask, “Would you be my oncologist?”

He smiles politely and assures me that would be fine.

“I was supposed to start chemo next week.”

“I'll cancel your chemo appointments for you.”

Over the next few days, I tell family and friends the good news that the majority of oncologists don't recommend chemo and I am following their advice. The only person who questions my decision is my dad. I can hear him thinking over the phone line, and then he says, “Are you sure? Everybody's doing it.” And for him, this is true—many older relatives and his friends in Toronto are undergoing chemo treatment. So I explain the reasons behind this decision, and in the end he understands. And if he still has doubts that I'm making the best choice, he keeps them to himself.

8

Travels with Dolores

B
ACK WHEN I HAD TWO
, it never occurred to me to give my breasts special names. I simply referred to them as “right one” and “left one.” But now that I only have “left one” left, I regret this omission. It's not that I'm feeling sentimental. Or morbid. I just think that well-chosen names would better convey my deep love and appreciation for my bosom buddies. After all, as a team they were precocious (early bloomers), ambitious (outgrowing cup size after cup size), flirtatious (ooh-la-la), vivacious (putting
wow!
into my womanhood), industrious (nursing my baby), suspicious (nipple radar, detecting danger a mile away), and, of course, courageous (battling cancer). Now that the two are separated, I am compelled to honor them properly by renaming them. But so far the perfect words elude me.

In the meantime, my first falsie, the one I bought right after my mastectomy, has worn out its welcome. I'm ready to upgrade from an egg-shaped escape artist to a breast-shaped impersonator.

The saleswoman at the lingerie shop assures me that fitting survivors with natural-looking prostheses is her specialty. “Would you mind if I take a look at your breast?” she asks.