Most of Me (29 page)

“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.

PHOTO CREDIT:
Savanna Beatch

ROBYN MICHELE LEVY
is a visual artist, radio broadcaster, and writer. Her paintings can be found in private and public collections around the world. Her radio work includes documentaries, commentaries, poetry, and sketch comedy for
CBC
Radio. Her writing has been published in the
Vancouver Sun
and the
Georgia
Straight,
among other publications, and she has also dabbled in stand-up comedy and slam poetry. She lives with her family and her remaining body parts in Vancouver, British Columbia.
www.robynlevygallery.wordpress.com