Authors: Katherine Owen
Not To Us (17 page)
“As soon as we see the films, we see the tumor. One point three centimeters. I pull the mammograms from six months ago and it isn’t even there. Fast growing,” Ben says.
“Biopsy indicates malignancy,” Josh says. “We are all in agreement that we need to do a double mastectomy with an immediate breast reconstruction. And, that’s when we call in Tom,” Josh says for all of them.
My Italian doctor has been waiting patiently. He gives Lisa and Stephen Chatham a wide smile. “I met with Ellie this past Friday. I saw the films. I’m in agreement with Josh, Michael, and Ben that a double mastectomy is the way to go. I’ve talked with Ellie at length about the procedure and have assured her that we will try and match that perfection. It’s standard operating procedure,” Tom says to the Doctors Chatham.
“Yes, I guess that would be one way of putting it,” Stephen Chatham answers, before Lisa can respond. He’s touching her shoulder in this affectionate way. I think they have some sort of system worked out on who does the talking and when.
“Ellie,” Stephen turns his grey gaze to me.
Stephen Chatham has this George Clooney thing going on, a taller version; I’m completely disarmed in his presence.
“How do you feel about the double mastectomy surgery and the immediate breast reconstruction by Tom?” Stephen asks.
How do I feel about that?
I haven’t allowed myself to even go there. I realize this as I sit here and feel all of their eyes upon me.
“What else can I do? I don’t have a choice,” I say. “I want to live. I want Michael. I want my kids. I want me, myself and I.”
I try to smile my brightest smile, but it fails. I realize too late that I have spoken my wishes aloud. My smile fades.
“I would like to keep my bodacious tah tahs. I would like to have this baby, but I cannot make a trade of either of those things for the others. I want it all. I guess I’m asking for too much.”
I
am
asking for too much. I can see it in the eyes of my team of doctors, but the eyes of the Doctors Chatham are elsewhere
—
they are looking at each other, now.
“Ellie,” Lisa says with a rewarding smile as if she knows a secret. “Stephen and I like to take things one at time. Our philosophy is a little bit different than other specialists. We don’t like cancer to dictate the terms for how we proceed. You have an aggressive cancer. You have an excellent team of doctors’ intent on eradicating your cancer, but the question remains how do you feel about a double mastectomy and breast reconstruction?”
I don’t answer for a few minutes. I sit up straighter and clasp my hands together and try to smile and then look only at Lisa. “I would prefer to keep my breasts and my baby,” I finally say. I hear Michael shudder beside me. The Doctors Chatham both raise their heads at the same time and look over at him.
“Okay, let’s just slow this down a bit,” Lisa says in this soothing tone. “The lumpectomy was the right choice for the left side. The margins are clear; the lymph nodes, too; and even when you went back in and did the resection
—
everything looked good. So, why not take the same approach on the right side?”
It is Michael who speaks. “Because, if we
miss
it, if we let one cell get by us, I have to live with that and
she won’t
.” The pain is evident in his voice. He’s overwrought and at the breaking point.
“Dr. Shaw,” Lisa says gently, now. “You are
too close
to this case.”
Michael doesn’t answer. He gets up from his chair, goes over, and begins looking at the films of my breasts. I’m not sure if he actually sees them. His shoulders shake every so often. He might be crying and I’m not sure he cares.
“This case is
my wife
,” he says in this broken voice after a few minutes.
My body moves of its own volition over to him. “Babe, it’s going to be okay,” I say to him. I link my arm through his and we stare at the films together. I give him a few minutes with our backs turned away from his colleagues to get it together. I stroke his arm with my right hand. “Everyone in this room is here to help us.” I see him nod imperceptibly and only at me.
“How about this?” Stephen asks in the ensuing silence. “Do the lumpectomy on Monday and see if the lymph nodes are involved, if they’re clear, we move on to chemotherapy. If they’re not clear, we come back and re-visit the option of a double mas with immediate reconstruction.”
“How does chemotherapy work with our baby?” I ask.
“Chemotherapy is a better option than radiation, Ellie, for the baby and probably you,” Lisa says.
I’m stunned. I think it shows on my face. I glance at Michael and he has this grief-stricken look on his. I can see that he has already taken the blame for everything that has transpired, every wrong turn or decision that’s been made. I cannot ask him to help me make this one.
“I need to talk to Michael alone for a few minutes.”
I take his hand and pull him along out of the room. We make our way into the darkened hallway to Josh’s office. I turn on the light and push him into Josh’s office chair. I go back and close the door, then sit on the edge of the desk in front of him.
He holds his head in his hands and will not look at me. I kick off my strappy sandals. He raises his head as if to see why I’m doing this. I settle myself down on top of him in the office chair effectively pushing him back. He stares at me, completely undone and broken, while I wipe away the trace of tears from his face.
“Have I told you, today, how much I love being your wife?”
He gives me a half-smile. “Not today.”
“Well, it’s been twenty-four hours
—
a whole day. I must tell you it’s been a heady experience being your wife. I will
never
give that up,” I say this with such conviction he almost smiles.
“It’s the ring; isn’t it? I knew it was over the top,” he says in this weary voice.
“Not the ring.”
“It’s my charismatic personality, especially last night, when I was drinking champagne and completely ignoring you.”
“Not that either,” I say. “It’s this.” I lean down and touch his lips with mine. “I like the I-can-touch-you-any-time-I-want idea. I’m taking it for my own.”
“It’s pretty good, huh?” Michael asks. His lips against mine.
A few minutes go by and he sighs. “Ellie, I can’t be your husband and your surgeon, too. Lisa is right about that. I’m too close to the patient.”
“Well, you’re not divorcing me, now. I’m never going to let you go,” I say with a laugh. “Michael, I want all nine things. I want you. I want the kids. I want our baby. I want me, myself and I. It’s a big list of wishes, but I want them all.”
There is long silence between us. I watch his face as he wrestles with competing thoughts
—
those of a surgeon and those of a husband. He looks at me and finally smiles. “So do I,” Michael says.
≈ ≈ ≈
Tuesday
I
t’s Tuesday. Monday is over. My bodacious tah tahs are still here, ensconced in a sports bra. A lumpectomy on my right breast was performed yesterday: the margins good, the lymph nodes clear. We know all of this because the lab results were completed in record time. Michael called in favors from just about every department at Swedish from the OR to the lab to the surgical staff to radiology. I’m at home, somewhat lounging on the sofa in the family room, reading a manuscript with my blue pencil poised in mid-air hand ready to correct the text presented in front of me. But my concentration wanes because the whirlwind of my life seems to be catching up to me.
Michael insisted on staying home with me, so he’s in the kitchen making each of us a cup of tea. I glance up and see him watching me. He has been doing this all day, watching me. I have an ultrasound at the Doctors Chatham’s office in a few hours and I start chemotherapy on Thursday.
The Doctors Chatham do not mess around. They already have an aggressive plan all laid out for me. We will be going over that plan after the ultrasound this afternoon, we, as in, my husband and me, with both Lisa and Stephen. I’m wearing one of Michael’s dress shirts and a pair of comfy sweats. I’m sure that it’s all mental, but my pain level is not that bad. Michael remains skeptical about this and asks me again what it is.
“Three,” I say. “It’s not that bad.” He gets this incredulous look on his face. “Josh is pretty awesome. Not you, of course, but…” Michael shakes his head at me. I see his hesitant smile. “You know I love you; right?” I tease him. “There’s no doubt in your mind about that is there?” He sets my cup of tea down on the travertine and kneels in front of me and puts his head in my lap.
“No doubt,” he says now.
I stroke his golden head of hair going gently back and forth. He closes his eyes. I realize how tired he must be. We’ve been going full speed with no letdown for weeks.
“Why don’t you take a little nap? We’ve got an hour before we need to catch the ferry.”
“Okay,” He moves to the sofa next to me and lies down with his head in my lap again. I raise my manuscript above him so I can see his face. “Just remember, I can touch you any time I want,” he says to me with this wicked grin.
“Oh, that’s right,” I say to him, now. I watch him close his eyes and can only smile.
≈≈
The Doctors Chatham’s medical office is like a spa. There’s no other way to describe it. Oncology and gynecology must be lucrative because the place is decorated with the nicest designer furniture and just the right amount of subtle lighting overhead to instantly make a patient feel at ease and almost forget they’re at a medical clinic.
As we’re escorted along through the Chatham’s medical office, Michael and I see that each patient room is decked out as well when we exchange glances. The nurses call them
suites
. The nurses, themselves, are dressed in these sportswear-like outfits, as if they were dressed by a personal shopper at Nordstrom. Michael slows down with each step he takes. His face gets grimmer and more astonished as we walk down the hallway. The opulence and over-the-top design of this medical office is definitely weighing upon him.
The
Nordstrom
nurses have offered him a cup of tea and he has declined. I did, too, but not for the same reason, I think. I just didn’t want it. I think Michael just wanted to be able to say
no
. Disbelief crosses his features. I think that he’s having second thoughts and probably thirds about our decision electing to go with the lumpectomy and forgo the double mastectomy and reconstruction
—
standard operating procedure
—
really
, since we stepped inside this surreal place. He’s a surgeon, first and foremost, and to unnecessarily leave surgical work undone and live on a wing and a prayer, well, he is struggling with that. I can see it. I think he knows that I can see it. The spa-atmosphere of this medical office is not helping.
Both Doctors Chatham enter the room. They’re wearing matching white surgical coats. I can see Lisa’s designer dress beneath and she is wearing black strappy sandals like the ones that my Gene Juarez fans retrieved for me from Nordstrom. Stephen is wearing a white dress shirt and red tie and dark trousers. They look impeccable
—
a beautiful couple in their medical office spa. Michael is looking more and more uncomfortable and lost. I take his hand in mine, as we sit in these comfy chairs across from this dynamic medical duo.
“Ellie, how are you feeling?” Lisa asks.
“I feel good.
Really
. Michael keeps asking what my pain level is and it’s been a steady three at its highest point.” I give my new husband an affectionate smile.
“That’s great.” Lisa grabs a remote from this glass coffee table that is staged between the four of us. “Let’s take a look at what we have.” With a push of the button, the lights in the suite dim and a screen comes down and a film of my chest comes up on the screen. Within thirty minutes, we have visited both the before and after x-rays of my left and right breasts. The films look good and cancer-free, even Michael has verbally agreed to this.
He seems to take a special interest in the film of my right breast and asks Lisa to go back to it. He gets up from the chair and goes closer to take a look.
“It looks great. I’m really pleased,” he murmurs after a few more minutes of study. “Josh did a great job.”
“He did. The films look great,” Stephen says. With some unknown signal, the lights come back up and Michael comes back and sits down next to me. His face appears more relaxed; I breathe a silent sigh of relief. He is obviously pleased with the post-op films.
“So, let’s move on to the ultrasound, take a look at your baby, and then we’ll talk about the next steps based on that,” Lisa says now.
I get this uneasy feeling, like there is something being left out, something that hasn’t been said. Lisa hits another button and a sportswear nurse comes in and takes my hand and gently leads me to another room where I am encouraged to change into this spa-like robe. It is heated up like a warm blanket like the ones I have gotten at the hospital before. The sportswear nurse comes back after a few minutes and brings me back into the room where Lisa, Stephen, and Michael wait for me. The nurse leads me over to a twin-size bed that sits up three times as high as normal and she helps me up on to it.
Another woman enters the room. She is petite in size with cropped golden brown hair spiked everywhere. Her green eyes seem to sparkle when she greets me. She gets this huge smile as she walks over to me.
“Hi, Mrs. Shaw. I’m Melanie. I’ll be working with Doctors Chatham and your husband, Dr. Shaw, to do the ultrasound. Just let me know if you need anything or if you are uncomfortable in any way.” I’m mesmerized by the lilting, relaxing nature of this woman. She is so nice and so gentle that I make this involuntary sigh as she helps me lay back.
“Okay,” I say.
“Your lumpectomy was Monday, right?” I nod at her.
She puts the gel on my abdomen and I am surprised that it is the perfect temperature
—
not too hot and not too cold. I tell her this and she just smiles. I keep waiting for Lisa, Stephen and Michael to make their way over to me. I glance over at Michael and raise my finger motioning him over. He gives me a weird look as he and the doctors remain seated where we all sat before.
The lights dim, again, after Melanie tells the doctors that she is ready. A screen comes up behind Lisa and Stephen and this sixty-inch high definition television displays the image of our baby. It’s incredible. Michael is already up and looking closer at the image. Melanie’s voice is soft as it comes over the ceiling speakers from the small microphone from the headset she is wearing as she takes measurements and points out various aspects of what we are looking at.
“Ellie, according to your recollection
—
the first day of your last menstrual period was September 25
th
which puts your due date at July 2
nd
,” Melanie says in this lyrical voice. I’m slowly nodding trying to do this math. Melanie prints out a pregnancy calculator and hands it to me. I stare at the dates.
“Let’s do some measurements, Mel,” Lisa calls out from the front of the room where the three of them are now gathered. “How many radiation treatments did you go through, Ellie?”
“Three weeks for five days a week; once a day. Ben did larger doses of radiation.” Lisa and Stephen exchange this weird look. Concern races across their features; then it’s gone.
“And when was that?”
“Josh did the lumpectomy on Monday, October 7th and they did radiation that Wednesday, October 9
th
through the first part of November, once per day, five days a week.
“What are the measurements, Mel?” Lisa has an edge to her voice now. My pulse gets faster and more erratic.
“We’re halfway through week twenty. The measurements are right on for that date,” Melanie says quietly.
I’m half sitting up, ignoring the pain that this is causing me. “That can’t be right,” I say in a panic. “I thought I was in week eighteen.” I’m the first to admit that I haven’t been paying attention to my pregnancy. I’ve only seen the gynecologist once. We’ve been so focused on my breast cancer treatments that I haven’t been very good at keeping track of everything with this pregnancy. “I need my purse, the check book. I keep track of it there.”
Within a minute, Melanie hands me one. Michael has turned back from the television screen and stares at me steadily now as he walks over.
My hands shake. I can’t think. The numbers blur before my eyes. Melanie squeezes my hand as she retrieves my purse and hands it to me. I grab the check book and look at the calendar. There is the date for the beginning of my last period circled for September 25
th
with the word ‘light’ written across it. I track it this way for my gynecologist as I have a tendency, like now, to forget the dates.
Melanie prints off some nifty due date calculator and I’m staring at it
,
sex with Michael on Thursday, October 2nd, and sex with Robert Bradford the next seven consecutive days after that and, then, my surgery on the 7
th
and radiation therapy the 9
th
through the first part of November, twice a day.
Our baby has been exposed to it all and I’m farther along than I thought. If we’re going to make any decisions about this baby, they’ll have to be made in the next day or two.
Lisa and Stephen are reviewing all the genetic testing has been sent over from my previous gynecologist, as I leave the suite.
I’m getting changed again and feeling more unsteady and overwhelmed by the minute.
Once dressed, I sink down into the side chair for a moment and try to get my perspective back.
The sportswear nurse comes back for me. I give her a weak smile and ask her if I can have a minute. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
It’s just too much.
I wanted this baby, but if it’s not Michael’s
—
and that is what is weighing heavily on me, now. Can a vasectomy fail? Is Bobby the father? And, if the radiation has harmed this baby, which from what I’ve already read really scares me; we really need to talk about all of this.
There’s a soft knock and the door opens. Lisa enters, closes the door, and sits in the physician chair opposite me.
“What’s going on, Ellie?”
I give her a twisted smile. “Can a vasectomy fail?”
“Yes. That’s why there’s a follow-up. Usually, at three months, even earlier, sometimes later, to ensure the procedure worked. Why?”
“Bobby had a vasectomy in July. I thought it was weird after all this time of cajoling him to get it done; he finally agrees to go in. I stayed on the pill for a few more months and then after that… It’s not like we were having sex every day, but he and Carrie probably were...” I sigh trying to catch my breath. I can feel my face getting hot.
How to explain this musical chairs life shift between the four of us to anyone else. “I don’t know what Carrie has told you. We were best friends since college, then we had a falling out over Bobby, but now I’m with Michael.”
“She told me.”
“Okay, well.” I smile bitterly now. “I may have royally screwed up and I’m going to blame it directly on the cancer. Michael and I were together only once, physically, on the 2
nd
of October,” I say slowly. “Then, I was back together with Bobby because, well, once I told him I knew about Carrie and that I had breast cancer, it seem to make him sympathetic so…” A single tear begins to roll down my face and I brush at it impatiently. “I’m so tired of
crying
.”
Lisa grabs my hand and takes my pulse. I cannot tell, if she is really interested in determining my heart rate or trying to comfort me by holding my hand.
“I think you’re just plain tired,” Lisa says. “Getting married is stressful, having cancer is stressful, being pregnant is stressful; the combination of all three, daunting.”
