Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (27 page)

“Jerry.” I say as I approach him. He turns and gives me one of his big, warm Jerry smiles and before I have the chance to wimp out I make my big move and shock us both with the energy I throw into my hug. “Thanks for caring,” I say slamming my eyes shut and squeezing my arms tighter around this foreign man. My wits come back to me after only a moment and I awkwardly release him and step back into the safety of my own bubble. “Sorry.  I’m not usually a hugger, it’s part of the new me plan and my proficiency at it is still all wrong. But I wanted you to know I’ll remember what you said and that it mattered to me… A lot.”

“Just trying to help.” Have you ever met anyone that has a smile that shines with wisdom? It’s pretty righteous.  Jerry is a solid dude.

“I know, and you did. I’m going to think about what you said and try to trust my own instincts, promise.” As I’m walking out the door I shout over my shoulder, “See ya next week, Jer Bear. And side-note, I plan on having more donuts next time, so if it’s possible I’d like to put in an order for more of those lemon frosted ones. Thanks Jer!” As the door clicks shut behind me I hear Jerry’s deep belly laugh and smile to myself as I think of all the new friends I’ve made today.

***

The next couple weeks seem to go by in a blur. I’m now a regular at Thursday night support group, where I happily, neigh… joyfully eat two to three donuts at a sitting. SO GOOD! The other big news I’m proud to report is that I am now part of the… DA-DA-DUMMM (jazz hands)… touch-others-conservatively-without-reservations crowd. Each week, I challenge myself to shake another hand, pat a new shoulder in conversation and, on occasion, I’ve been known to branch out with a hug or two when I see someone in need. Little by little I have begun to let my guard down and in the process I’ve let this unlikely group of strangers into my heart and guess what? My life has improved! I know! I know! Duh.

It was at the end of week three that I got the call from Chris that I’d been pretending not to care about ever since the day Ms. Britain did my genetic testing. He and I have discussed each of my reactions to all of the possible outcomes both over dinner with Angela and more intensely in our own private one-on-one therapy sessions.  I am well aware of all possible scenarios and have a plan in place no matter what the outcome proves to be. But, until he called and said he had the results, I’d been doing a fabulous job of pretending this day away. Now it’s here and the breast sweat collecting in my small B cups is the least of my worries. 

“Do you want to come in or shall we do this over the phone? It’s your call.” No way can I drive a car right now. And because of that stupid question I’m now wondering if he’s listened to a damn word I’ve said over the past month.

“You’re kidding right?”

“Got it. Right. Opening letter now,” under his breath he finishes with, “smartass.”

“Do you talk to all your patients that way, doc?”

“Only the one’s I share my bang-bang with.” Now we’re making jokes. Oh my gosh! I know what that means!  He’s trying to lighten the mood before he throws the results grenade at my boobs. OHMYGOD! JUST THROW IT! The breast sweat is now seeping through my bra’s light padding and I’m positively sure that it’s flooded through onto my blouse.

“Hold on!” I shout, “I need Master.”

Putting the phone to my soaked shirt I scream for my furry guy only to find that he’s already beside me, giving me his very best encouraging smile. He puts his big paw up on my lap and I’m ready. I love him. 

“Okay, just do it. I have the gene, don’t I? You can say it. Oh My Goodness My Boobs!”

I’m currently holding the girls for dear life, prepared and willing to let them go because of this desperate need I have to keep on living, but they’ve been so good to me and it’s hard to imagine my life without their small, perky presence. Man, they never even got to experience sexy times. I know how inappropriate that thought seems at a time like this but it’s my life so I’m allowed to be sad for my poorly neglected girls. For heaven’s sakes, they’ve never even received a proper massage. No tongue, no fingers… NO NOTHING! They’ve only ever known what it felt like to be held day in and day out by sweaty bra cups. Oh good god…

“Hold on would you? I’m reading the results now and it’s not as simple to understand as you’d think. There’s a lot of information here. Be patient.” IS HE FOR REAL?  MY BOOBS ARE IN PERIL!

“Oh sure, I’ll just, ya know, WAIT!” I shout unnecessarily loud at my dear friend who up til’ now has done nothing but try and save me and my dear boobs.  Master adds his other paw to my now quaking lap and starts to lick my cheek as well. Wonderful, now my dog’s hysterical and he’s supposed to be my support!

“Okay.” He’s reading aloud about percentages of this and that before he finally gets to the part I’m most concerned with. “This patient does not carry either the BRCA 1 or the BRCA 2 gene mutation and is considered a true negative result according to the data collected by our lab.” He finishes and I can actually hear his smile.

The phone is silent. I am silent. Master is silent. The grenade didn’t explode. My boobies still get to look forward to massages, hopefully a long life of them. I was prepared to let them go and hearing I don’t have to now is a surprise and a really awesome one that I can’t quite contain. My voice comes back with a vengeance and I shout at Chris, “Tonight you and Angela better be prepared to party and just be warned I’ll be wearing a ridiculously inappropriate top. My girls are getting all the attention they deserve. I’ll call you later to make plans!  Tata! Get it? TATA! WOO HOO! CHOW!” Then, with my fingers and mind working on autopilot I text the one person I’m most excited to tell… Ashton.

I GET TO KEEP MY BOOBIES!!!

C

I can’t believe this is happening! My worst fears have simply vanished with this news. After talking with Chris and Angela, who I now consider a dear friend, I know this doesn’t mean I’m immune from getting cancer, not even the breast cancer. But, it does mean that the fear I’ve been carrying around with me about my predisposition to the type my father had is gone. And for that one small miracle, I will celebrate.

Liddy is at my front door with a bottle of champagne in her tiny hands only ten short minutes after sending her the text that contained the best news of my life. She looks like she may have been “busy” when she got the message because her shirt’s on backwards and her hair could best be described as sex-head, yet she’s here.

“Where’s Connor?” I say looking behind her, and she gives me a knowing grin and says, “I had to leave him so he could finish “taking care” of a couple things. I couldn’t stay away! I knew I needed to be here! LET’S PARTY!” Poor Connor. NOT! I have good genes, screw him (or not)!

My day is almost perfect. The only thing that’s bothering me is that I still haven’t heard back from Ashton.  I know he wants me to move on and I’ve accepted that he has, even though it’s breaking my heart, but for the love of all things holy I thought he’d at least want to tell me he was happy for me and the girls!

Maybe all these years I really have been making the wrong assumption about our friendship.  At least I can say that from my side, I was always sincere with my feelings.  Maybe I was slow in realizing how deep those feelings actually were, but never would I have given up on him the way he has so blatantly given up on me and I have to say, it stings like I imagine a bee-butt to the eye might.

***

Several hours later we’re out and about celebrating me getting to keep the girls. It’s been a great night so far but Liddy notices after my last drink that my mood has taken a turn for the worse. She approaches me slowly at the bar, fearful of scaring me off while the rest of the gang are all out on the dance floor having a grand time. It appears that the drinks have done their job in depressing my system because now in spite of all the good news and celebration going on in my honor, I’m depressed. My mind is directing all of its attention to the base fact that I completely and thoroughly miss Ashton and now I have to come to terms with the facts, which are these: he’s over me and he’s gone.  Period.

“Com sance wif uz,” she too is drunk, but her point is clear. She’s gripping my arm as tightly as her numb fingers will allow and is trying, without success, to get me to follow her.

“No. I’s good,” hiccup. “I drunk though.” Hiccup, “Oopsie-daisy’s. I calz a tazi. Bar guyz gon tellin’ me wen ta go.” Did that make sense? Doesn’t look like it because despite my fancy speech, she’s still pulling on my arm, trying in vain to get me to go and dance with her. 

“Ma’am, your cab’s here. Let me walk you out.” Bar guy comes around and easily unhooks Liddy from me and tells her he’ll walk me out. We both listen because, let’s be honest, we’re too drunk to argue with him. He’s incredibly beefy and through my beer/champagne/shot (Oh God) goggle’s he looks to be incredibly edible.

“Ya wanna go wiz me?” I say hanging off of Beefy’s extra-large, value-meal-sized bicep.

“That’s a real nice offer, but I have to close tonight.  Maybe next time when I know you can see me.” He says smiling down at me from way up high where his head rests on top of his mountain-sized body.

“Yeah. Okay,” hiccup. “Whoops.” Hiccup. Giggle. “See yu nez time.” My mountain-sized chaperone lovingly tucks me into the back of the cab and hands the guy a wad of cash. Did I give him that money? “Take care of her.  Here’s her address,” he says giving a piece of paper to the driver. “Make sure she gets home safe and then come back here after. I’ve got a couple more needing rides. Thanks Max.”

“No problem Tiny. See ya soon,” did he say Tiny?  Maybe I’m drunker than I realize and he’s a little person and I was crawling on my knees to the cab.  I need to get home because unless I’m Dorothy in the tornado this cab is screwed because everything seems to be spinning and that’s not a story that’s going to end well for poor ol’ Max’s floorboards.

A moment passes and I feel a nudge on my shoulder.  “Ma’am. Ma’am? Are you okay?”

Huh? Wha? I look up and there’s a small Hispanic man I’ve never seen before staring down at me and I have no clue where I am. It’s like I’m in the Hangover movie and I’ve lost a night of my life. Maybe he’s not Hispanic. Maybe he’s Mike Tyson. Oh shit. That mean’s somewhere around here there’s a tiger. Oh hell no!

I back away from the unknown Hispanic/Tyson and crawl/fall out the other side of the car. I’m home.  How did this guy know where I live? Where are all my people? I stagger (the only appropriate word other than lurch, sway, totter, pitch, reel) towards the door before I realize I didn’t pay my fare. “Sir!”
Not so loud, Cecilia!
My brain must be on the outside now and it hurts, a lot. “Wha I o’z yo?” It’s not a good sign that my tongue appears to be unavailable for conversational purposes.

“You’re all paid up ma’am. Hope you do okay in there.  Good night.” The driver walks around his car, gets in and drives off before I even have the opportunity to thank him for getting me home safely.

When I get to the door it’s like I’ve come to an impassible cross roads. It may as well be saying “None Shall Pass” because the lock’s not budging. Master is going mad on the other side and now I’m worried about the paint on the back of my door. “No Mazzer! Is me,” I say with my face plastered up against the edge of the door frame trying my best to calm the lunatic on the other side. 

I take a minute and rest my heavy, swirling head against the door while I gather the strength I’ll need in order to try this impossible task again. Master must think I’m in danger or he really has to pee because he’s throwing his full body weight against the door at this point, desperate to save me (or pee) on the other side. I look down at my keys and see the reason I couldn’t turn the lock before. I was using my car key, the one with the giant, pink, rubbery cover on it that I am currently unable to feel due to my numb fingers. 

Finally producing the proper key I stick it in (heehee, forgive me, I’m drunk) and it turns like a well-oiled machine (heehee, seriously. I apologize). As soon as I throw the door open Master goes storming past me into the night. The next moment things go from frustrating, to bad, to hell.

“Mazzer! No! Mazzer!” Right about the time he makes it to the street I see a car coming toward us. Master is busy answering his pee-mail and is paying no attention to anything but his business when I spot the neighbor’s pesky, striped cat drop from the giant palm tree across the street. Oh God! Please, no…

Master spots the cat at the same time I do and his instincts kick in before he hears my desperate plea’s for him to stay and stop! The car never has a chance to slow down before Master throws himself into the road in front of it. Time stops. Stands still. Stalls. Becomes static. Clams up. Halts. Then, it Ends.

The vehicle skids to a stop but not before the damage has already been done to my poor, perfect boy.  Adrenaline shoots through my body at lightning speed, sobering me and giving me the strength I need to get to him, my Master. I can hear the driver of the car running from where he parked up the road saying over and over, “He came out of nowhere. I swear to God! He came out of nowhere. Oh my god. Oh my god!” 

I watch him dial 911 to report the crash while he runs toward us and I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life.  My mind is trying to disconnect me from the brutal reality that is playing out in front of my very eyes. All that is left for me to do is sit in the road, hold my best friend’s heavy head on my lap and comfort him as he stares up into my loving, sorry eyes while he slowly begins to slip away.