More Important Things To Do
I’m picturing Carrie on Sex and the City cross-legged on her bed in sexy boy-cut undies and a cleavage-revealing push-up bra, her hair professionally disheveled, seductively sucking on a melting Popsicle, writing her column as I write my first column. She made column writing look like a must-have accessory, the quirky detail that set her apart from the other women. All the years I watched that show, I thought, I could do that, I should have done that. I lived in New York City. I had sex. I had girlfriends who called me frantic in the middle of the night complaining about their Mr. Bigs not being so big. I could write witty sentences verging on the annoying, I could work a Popsicle with the best of them. But as much as I see Carrie out of the corner of my eye as I type, I’m not Carrie. Not by a long shot. I’m married. I’m the mother of three. I live in Wisconsin. I don’t own boy-cut undies (although I might buy a pair now that I think about it) and instead of writing a column baring my relationship with men and shoes, I’m baring my relationship with breast cancer. Welcome to Bare-breasted Mama.
I’ll start in the middle. Winter 2006:
I’m sitting topless in the oncologist’s office on Valentine’s Day. Cancer is a bitch. It doesn’t give a shit about holidays. Doesn’t give a shit when the oncologist gently presses his thick hairy fingers near the wound above my nipple, tears well, burn the raw edges of my puffy eyes, dribble down my cheeks and roll past blood-caked stitches, landing in a puddle in the space between the oncologist’s cold wedding band and my warm flesh. “Still swollen,” he says and I hate him, hate that I’m swollen, hate that I’m here on Valentine’s Day instead of at Victoria’s Secret buying the cleavage-enhancing Miracle Bra that Redbook recommended for guaranteed flawless shape. I’ve never followed that or any magazine’s insipid “Sizzle for your Sweetie,” advice, but now I think, if I had, I would be slipping into a red dress, on my way to a romantic dinner, wouldn’t hear the oncologist saying, “even though the surgeon got clean margins, your risk of invasive cancer is four to five times greater than the average woman.” Wouldn’t be afraid to look at my flawed breast under the harsh fluorescent light.
It all began the morning of my annual mammogram a few weeks earlier. Over breakfast my nine-year-old son and I discussed the puppy he’d been begging for ever since the death of our dog that past Thanksgiving. Now that I’d finished my novel (about a woman who finds a lump in her breast and wonders if she’s lived a meaningful life), I was ready to consider a new pet at the close of what had been a stressful, busy year. The dog dying, my husband’s slow-healing knee surgery, our oldest daughter’s college application process. A nearly straight A student with SAT scores comparable to my Ivy League radiologist husband’s, a singer and a dancer and a cross country runner, and she’d been rejected early decision by his alma matter. Our middle daughter — also in high school and panicked by her sister’s panic — had signed up for more clubs, SAT prep, and dance team, and our son was playing soccer and basketball, both on the opposite side of town. And if that wasn’t enough, all year I’d felt pressure from my agent to send her my second novel since the first hadn’t sold yet. But that morning, I dropped my son off at school, brought the newspaper with me to my mammogram, and as I waited in the cubicle for the technician to tell me to get dressed and go home, I circled healthy, lovable, mixed breed pups free to good home, and thought about how much more time I would have now that the college applications were in the mail and the novel was complete. I’d start back at yoga and cook more elaborate dinners and do something about the war in Iraq and global warming and match all the unmatched socks instead of stuffing them into that old bureau at the top of the stairs. . .when the technician peeked in and said, “We need to get a few more films.”
“Not to worry,” she said, as she whisked me down the hall smiling, blabbing on about her grandson or granddaughter or grandsomething. “Doctors’ wives make everybody nervous,” she said and rolled her eyes and gestured for me to slip my arm out of my gown.
After seven films and more cubicle waiting, I folded up the want ads, picked up a magazine featuring a young woman with lung cancer, put down the magazine, stood and counted to a hundred forwards and backwards. I’d had a couple of breast scares before, a core biopsy and a wide excision, both benign. I worried about my breasts, but still, I felt impatient with all this wasted time when I had more important things to do.
“Dr. Evans wants to talk to you,” the technician said. No smile as she led me into the viewing room.
I stood next to Henry, one of my husband’s partners (a friend of ours for years, I knew his wife, I knew his children, we’d shared numerous dinners), as he pointed to an illuminated x-ray of my breast, all swirly white clouds and dissipating smoke plumes, a thin red arrow marking a teeny tiny cluster of white specks. “See, that’s what I’m concerned about,” he said. “Those calcifications are new and just to be safe I think we should biopsy . . . ”
He choked and winced, looking so pained to have to tell me this news that I said, “This must be awkward for you.”
He nodded and said, “Okay?”
And I wondered, was he asking me my opinion? Was there a choice? Was this a trick question? Was there an answer that would make this go away?
He swallowed so loudly, I felt it in my throat.
“Okay,” I said, wanting to make him feel better.
Murmuring, okay okay okay okay, all the way down the hall, in the elevator, into the parking lot, where I stood, lost, unable to find my car, the ink from the crumpled newspaper bleeding into my hand.
~
I’m sprawled on the floor trying not to weep into my tangled hair as I write this first column. No Popsicle, no fancy shoes, no Mr. Big. Just me and my breast and my biopsy.
19 replies on “More Important Things To Do”
Hugs, Gail.
Wonderful writing on a horrible topic. Thanks for your story.
Rebecca
Oh, wow, Gail, this is incredibly moving, made more so by the beautiful writing! Thank you for sharing this, looking forward to reading more, and yeah, (((hugs))) from me too.
Thanks for being so straight about all this, Gail. It’s important.
Gail, I might have actually watched Sex & the City if you’d been writing for it–or in it. No matter, your life is infinitely more interesting and the stakes so much higher. Thank you for letting us in on it.
Very brave, indeed.
You are an inspiration to women everywhere. It takes a lot of strength to endure and fight cancer, but courage to share your experience with others. Bravo!
Your writing is so vivid that I can feel it.
I love your writing style! It’s so real. I would love to read your books.
very powerful and brave to write about this experience, Gail. I look forward to future entries…
Gail, WOW! You are truly a Woman of Wonder(WOW!) You have an incredible capacity to wonder, to reflect, and to examine, not just from your head, but truly from your heart. Your writing allows us to join you “in the moment” (actually in the millisecond) in a way that brings us right into the waiting room, into the doctor’s office, onto the examination table and out into the parking lot with you. Your observations and the vitality and imagry in your writing provide women everywhere both with the permission to “wonder” themselves about their own internal experience as well the wish for more of your exquisite writing. Thank you!
Wow. That’s intense. I’m sorry you had to go through all that, but congratulations on your column. I’m one of your biggest fans!
WOW that was very moving!!!!!!
Whoa, Mama! I love your writing. I just read the intro and I’m hooked. Thank you for writing about something so personal, so painful, and doing it with humor and tenderness toward yourself. I’ll be following your work. And I’ll be keeping you in my thoughts and in my prayers.
I’m sorry you had to go through this, Gail. This is brave writing. And moving.
Gail,
Just as I suspected, your unblinking column blends raw honesty with irony, compassion, and more than a few knowing smiles. My mother underwent a successful mastectomy twenty four years ago, when she was 54…and she’s with us today, productive and “with it.” So shall you be!
Now we’re ready for the NEXT column!
Jim
Phenomenal piece. Real and honest and courageous.
Your writing is poignant, witty and wonderful. Humor, angst, trauma coincide on the page. Bravo and kudos to you. Your willingness to face the truth brings solace and encouragement to many.
A very honest and moving piece! You can see the pain of the experience as well as feel it, and the moments of humor only make this even more real. Keep writing and be well. My prayers are with you.