Most of Me (22 page)

There are eight of us gathered around the table: me, Lisa, Bonnie, Ruthie, Fern, Diane, Kimmie, and Donna. We're all over forty, well into the season of aches and pains. Words like “bursitis” and “arthritis” pop up in conversations. And so do the phrases “in vitro fertilization” and “dilation and curettage.” But I am the first one to throw “cancer” and “neurodegenerative disease” into the mix. In other words, I'm the life of the party.

It's rare that we all get together like this—it only happens when I come to town. “You are a social magnet,” Lisa always says. But now I am more than that. My revised business card reads:

ROBYN MICHELE LEVY
Social Magnet & Mortality Mentor
Helping Middle-Aged Dames Wake Up
and Face the Music

It's a grim job, but somebody's got to ruin it for everybody. We're all going to die sooner or later, faster or slower, intact or in pieces.

TEN DAYS
is a long time to be away from home. Too long, according to Bergen. Although we spoke on the phone everyday, he still missed me. So did Naomi. They both give me warm hugs and kisses—a homecoming that's hard to beat. And then along comes Nellie, putting them to shame.

She is ecstatic to see me (she must think I've risen from the dead). I crouch down to give her a belly rub. And then suddenly it's show time! and Nellie is channeling Liza Minnelli—tap dancing down the staircase, pirouetting in the hall, barking her heart out. I feel loved and adored and happy to be home. Today, life
is
a cabaret.

The rest of the week is filled with appointments. There's a follow-up meeting with Dr. Kennecke, who is pleased to report that my bone scan results look good—there is no indication that the cancer has spread to my bones. I go for a massage with Jessica and electrolysis with Diane. I have a pre-admission meeting over the phone about my upcoming surgery to remove my ovaries. And I attend another session with my cancer support group.

The ladies are happy to see me, and I'm happy to see them—even Cantankerous Woman, who seems to be mellowing out as weeks go by (perhaps this is because Little Old Lady has dropped out of the group). Chantal is as radiant and patient as always, and this time she brings her guitar. She leads us in a musical meditation, her voice so sweet and healing. And then we form our circle and one by one take turns talking.

We are all on the same journey but at different stages. Our concerns range from coping with chemo to preparing loved ones for our demise. Somehow we always end up talking about food—recipes, nutrition, cooking, gardening. I think it's our way to nurture hope.

9

The Comeback Mama

D
ECEMBER IS OVER
. The forecast calls for flurries of sawdust and trips to the hardware store. Expect low-pressure visits with friends followed by unsettling postponements of surgery. There is a 50 percent chance of going to the Overbites' debut performance. Flossing advisory in effect.

Holiday celebrations fell through the cracks this year. There was no Christmas tree or Hanukkah menorah, no roasted turkey or potato latkes. And instead of buying each other gifts, we agreed to splurge on one family present: a big-screen
TV
. This sounds deceptively simple, but it wasn't. And it's all because of Hildi.

When she was here in the summer, Bergen asked for her professional opinion about our unfinished family room. In a matter of seconds, Hildi told him what to do: “First, rotate the couches 180 degrees, so they face the fireplace, not the back wall. Then renovate the hideous fireplace. Make it simple and classy. And install a flat-screen
TV
above it.”

Bergen's face lit up with joy—Hildi's advice was more than music to his handyman ears; it was the authoritative voice of an angel commanding him, “Go forth and renovate.”

He started the very next day and has been at it for months. Tearing out the ugly old bricks. Building a custom cedar mantel with shelves. Installing sleek black tiles. Insulating the wall. Doing the electrical wiring. Shopping for a
TV
. Installing it above the fireplace. It's not even finished, and it looks fabulous. So does Craig Ferguson on a fifty-inch screen.

The day before my surgery, the hospital calls. Apparently, I've been bumped. They reschedule me for the following week, and I get bumped again. Now I have to wait another three weeks. I feel as fragile as the eggs in my ovaries. I wish the surgery was over easy.

The next three weeks I try to keep busy. There's shopping with Gloria; dinner with Linda one night and Brian and Gillian another; lunch with Joey; visits with Diana and Betina. There's also massages with Jessica, electrolysis treatments with Diane, a checkup with Dr. Mintz, a follow-up with Dr. Chung, and an appointment with Dr. Young, my psychiatrist. I see him every two months or so—not for therapy—just to monitor my mood and prescribe my antidepressants.

When I arrive at his building, I experience elevator amnesia. I go up and down so many elevators I can't remember which floor he's on. The office directory is in the lobby, mounted on a wall. It's a large silver metal board, and all the names and organizations are stenciled in black. At the top I spot the first three letters of his name: Dr. You. Fourth floor.

“How's Robyn today?” he asks.

“I'm doing
OK
,” I answer. “How are You?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“I see you've changed your name.”

“How so?”

“You've lost your
N
and
G
on the building directory. It says Dr. You.”

“Oh, that,” he sighs. “Someone picked off the letters.”

“Are you going to replace them?” I ask.

“Nah, why bother?” He sighs once more. “Someone will only pick them off again.”

I'm about to say, “That's the saddest thing I've heard all day,” but he changes the subject. “How have things been going since I saw you last?” So I brief him about the delayed surgery, my trip to Toronto, and Dolores. And we talk about my moods and my meds. When it's time to go, he hands me a refill prescription, and I take the elevator down. Poor Dr. You, I say to myself, walking past the directory. Maybe next time I'll bring him the letters
N
and
G.

EVEN THOUGH BERGEN
and I live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, listen to the same radio programs, and read the same newspaper, sometimes it feels as if we're living in different worlds—physically, mentally, and emotionally. While this isn't surprising (I have Parkinson's disease, after all), it is still shocking to discover new barriers that restrict my access to his world—the world we once shared.

The latest barrier appeared the other day. Bergen had gone shopping and came home with a brand-new set of matching plastic food containers. It was the industrial design of the lids that sold him: hinged flaps on all four sides, guaranteed to lock in freshness and prevent leaks. We used them for the first time after dinner. While he filled one of the containers with leftover pasta, I filled another one with leftover broccoli. He closed his lid, and I attempted to close mine. But my fingers couldn't exert enough pressure, let alone find the right position, to force down the flaps.

Trying to be helpful, Bergen offered me advice on how to use my mechanical advantage. Trying to be hopeful, I followed his advice, clumsily grasped the lid, and fumbled some more. Then I did what any self-respecting forty-five-year-old woman would do—I burst into tears.

“There, there,” Bergen consoled me, hugging me tight.

“You forgot about my fingers,” I sobbed.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” I said, glaring down at the open drawer of perfectly stacked matching containers. “I hate this fucking disease! And I hate these fucking containers!” I kicked the drawer shut with my good leg, then stepped into the bathroom and blew my nose. To my horror, high-pitched
honks
wailed out of my nostrils, as loud and obnoxious as those noisemakers people toot on New Year's Eve.

“What was that sound?” Bergen called out.

“Me,” I answered, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, tears streaming down my face. “It's my Tupperware party and I'll cry if I want to.”

VALENTINE'S DAY
is fast approaching, and if everything goes according to plan, I know exactly what I'm getting. Nothing predictable like decadent chocolates or slinky lingerie. And nothing pampering like a day at a swanky spa. Nope. This Valentine's day I get “bed rest and morphine.” That's because on February 12 a surgeon will remove my ovaries and fallopian tubes. A procedure I'm told is quick and easy and safe, highly unlikely to result in any accidental damage to my adjacent vital organs (listed in the hospital waiver I signed in triplicate).

The clinical term for this operation is “oopherectomy,” but it sounds really sexy when you pronounce it with a heavy French accent, as in “OOff-urr-eck-tum-mee.” Of course this leads to instant menopause, but that's sexy too, right?

I have three friends who have survived this life-altering operation. The first is Zoë. When I asked her how this surgery affected her, she said life in the instant menopause lane was hell for about three years. Sue is the second friend, and she, like me, was diagnosed with estrogen positive breast cancer last year. She had her oopherectomy one month ago. Sue told me the operation went well—that is, until the surgeon inadvertently nicked her bladder. Fortunately, she recovered not only from this surgery (and fluke accident) but also from a double mastectomy a couple of weeks later.

At this point, it would only be natural to be filled with trepidation. But thanks to my third friend, who happens to be my spayed dog, Nellie, I'm feeling optimistic. Not only did she survive an oopherectomy and a hysterectomy, but she also survived an entire week of public humiliation wearing one of those obnoxious plastic lampshade cones around her head. Something I hope to avoid. After all, unlike my dog, I will promise my doctor not to lick my stitches.

But life doesn't always go according to plan. My surgery date might get bumped for the third time, thereby leaving my reproductive organs intact a little longer. Or Dr. Gregory House might reach out from our fifty-inch plasma
TV
screen, pull me into his cantankerous diagnostic world, and perform my oopherectomy strung out on Vicodin, after which we go limping off together into the high-definition Hollywood sunset. Either way, one thing's for sure: compared with coping with Parkinson's disease and breast cancer, instant menopause is sure to be a breeze.

THE HOSPITAL
didn't bump me. It's all systems go. I know the preoperative drill: put on the gown; get poked, prodded, and primed; remind Bergen of my final wish.

“If I die, promise me you'll burn my old diaries—if you find them.”

“I promise,” he says, squeezing my hand. “And you're not going to die.”

My Cry Lady is on standby; she's waiting for her cue, holding a white tissue in her hand. She waves it in surrender when a dark-haired doctor walks in.

“Hello, I'm Dr. Mazgani. I'll be performing your surgery.”

“Hi,” I say. “You've done this before, I hope.”

“Many times,” she assures me with a quick smile.

Her face is round and friendly. Her hospital scrubs fit like pajamas.

She touches my shoulder, looks me in the eyes, and says, “We're almost ready to begin.”

A hospital orderly appears by my bed and unlocks the wheels one by one, and then I'm rolling slowly away with Bergen's kiss, down a corridor, into an operating room. Au revoir, ovaries . . . Farewell, fallopian tubes . . . Parting—with more parts—is such sweet sorrow.

I WAKE UP
groggy and sore and stiff as a board, with nurses on one side and Dr. Mazgani on the other. She leans over me and says, “Hi, Robyn. Everything went really well.”

“Great,” I groan, feeling slightly nauseated.

“Where's Bergen?”

“He's on his way,” she assures me.

I drift in and out of consciousness, catching snippets of conversation. Something about someone with low blood pressure. At some point I open my eyes and see Bergen smiling. “I told you that you wouldn't die.”

What a relief—I'm not only alive, I'm still recognizable.

“How do I look, now that I'm down to one tit and a uterus?”

“Beautiful,” Bergen says.

Compared with a mastectomy, an oopherectomy is minimally invasive. I imagine it's like being probed by aliens. A tiny wandlike camera—called a laparoscope—is inserted into the abdomen through tiny incisions, and then the ovaries and fallopian tubes are fished out. This procedure is considered day surgery, and patients are generally sent home a couple of hours after recovery. But not me. My blood pressure is quite low, so they keep me in hospital until it rises enough that I don't faint when standing up. It's the end of the day when I'm finally discharged.

WE'VE ARRANGED
for Naomi to sleep at a friend's house tonight to spare her from seeing me in this decrepit state: Tin Man stiff, depressed as hell, watching
TV
while waiting for the painkillers to kick in. Bergen is cooking dinner for just the two of us. When it's ready, he helps me walk upstairs—I'm still dizzy and shaky on my feet.

“Oh, the table looks beautiful,” I say.

He's lit candles and plated the food. He's even set out napkins with the cutlery. All that's missing is a violinist. Without a doubt, this is the most romantic postsurgery dinner I've ever had.

I take a bite of broccoli and a forkful of rice. Bergen does the same. And then suddenly I am hit by a tsunami of emotion and burst into uncontrollable tears. Heaving sobs ripple through me. I can barely catch my breath.

“I don't know why I'm crying,” I sputter, hoping Bergen will say something soothing to calm me down.