Cancer Schmancer (18 page)

“You need to rest,” my dad said.

“But everyone’s having fun and I want to have fun, too,” I insisted. My poor parents.

“You just had major surgery, how can you go to a party?” my mom reasoned, but I began to cry. I stood in my pajamas on a hot Fourth of July afternoon acting like the kid I never allowed myself to be.

“Well, we should have invited a few friends here to make it seem festive instead of depressing and sad,” I whined. I’m sure I never would have entered such a funk had John stayed with me that afternoon. But when he left, it crystallized who was the ill one and who was well. It was a bitter pill to swallow. My mom desperately tried to make amends by suggesting we invite people over, but it really wasn’t about that. The loss I was feeling couldn’t be filled by calling a few friends. I wanted my life back.

John was gone only a few short hours. It was good for him to get out, see his friends, be around people. Upon his return he 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 147

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shared a vivid account of his afternoon: who was at the party, what food was served, and what was said. He’s a good storyteller and I hung on every word.

That night a few friends stopped by on their way home from wherever. We all stood on the edge of my deck overlooking the ocean and the coastline, watching fireworks bursting everywhere in the sky. We’d ordered in Chinese food for dinner, but my parents left shortly before it began. I called them, so excited, to tell them how special it all was. My mom was so relieved to hear me sounding so much better than before, she wept. But that’s how it went at that time. Sometimes it was like I’d smacked into a brick wall; other times I was cheerfully distracted.

The next morning, though, I hit a new all-time low. There was no turning back. I was a woman who’d never be able to have a baby. I looked over at John and began to feel anger. If only he hadn’t dragged his heels about freezing an embryo, I wouldn’t be in this mess. In my need to point blame, he became my next victim. “If only I’d frozen an embryo when I wanted to. If only I’d followed my instincts, if only you . . .” I never finished my thought because he angrily retaliated.

“Shut up!” he screamed with a venomous look in his eye. He began to cry as he said, “How dare you, how dare you blame me for anything? Do you know what it’s been like for me, what I’ve gone through?”

I felt terrible. I’d indulged my self-pity and in the process hurt John deeply. He got out of bed. He couldn’t look at me anymore.

I’d gone too far. It pained me to see how much I’d hurt him. Well, what could I do but apologize, beg his forgiveness, and hope he could somehow understand that I carried a lot of anger about what had happened to me?

The truth was, I wasn’t even thinking straight. It wouldn’t have mattered when he agreed to make an embryo because the 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 148

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cold, hard reality of the situation was that I’d already had the cancer. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. I had to learn to manage my anger and never again turn on my loved ones. This was my fate and that was that.

The next afternoon my cousin Susan from Las Vegas flew down to visit for the day. Having company was always a nice distraction, so I looked forward to her arrival. I knew I wasn’t acting like myself, but hoped a visitor could help pull me out of the rut I was in. Who was I? Not the Fran who’d triumphed over hard times and countless obstacles her whole life.

“Should we do chicken and spaghetti?” Mom asked, while standing in the doorway of my room with a dish towel tucked in her waist. I slowly began swinging my legs off the bed to come and help her in the kitchen. “Don’t get up, I’ll make it,” she insisted.

“No, I wanna help,” I said, pushing my body into a standing position.

“All right. Well, if you sit by the counter and tell me what to make, I’ll make it. Ya need help walking?”

What was I, an invalid? “No, I’m okay. Let’s make a big salad with the chicken,” I said, pulling myself up the step from my sunken bedroom.

In two minutes my mom was all over the kitchen, opening cabinets and pulling stuff out of the fridge. In comparison to me, she seemed so bouncy and spry. I was like an old lady and she was like a young girl. Dad helped by setting the table.

“Do we want big forks and little forks?” he asked, holding up two fistfuls of utensils.

“Yes,” I answered, “and also knives for the chicken and spoons for twirling the pasta,” I added.

“Why waste?” Dad said. “All I need is one fork. I don’t need a knife, I don’t need a spoon.” There’s that Depression-baby mentality kicking in again.

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“Why don’t we eat with our feet and not use anything?” I said sarcastically.

My mom threw me a glance. “What are you answering him for?

It’s a sickness with you, Morty. Now go set the table!” she scolded, while emptying a box of Ronzoni into a pot of hot water.

My dad walked past me, holding all the flatware. “Now you got me in trouble,” he muttered under his breath, then threw me a knowing wink.

“When did he become such a pain in the ass?” Mom asked rhetorically, popping the chicken into the oven. But this wasn’t anything new; Dad had always been nuts about waste.

When Cousin Susan arrived, we all agreed she looked great dolled up in a straw hat and summer clothes. John poured us some white wine and everyone sat down at the dining-room table. Food was being passed from one hand to another, but Mom made up my plate because she thought the serving bowls were too heavy for me to lift.

As Cousin Susan was telling us about the Las Vegas real estate boom and her pending divorce, John suddenly made a deep, guttural throat-clearing sound. I looked over to him to see if he was choking. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m okay. I thought I was about to choke on a piece of chicken there for a minute, but I’m not,” he said. He’d no sooner finished saying he wasn’t choking than Cousin Susan began to choke.

“What’s with the chicken?” John said, putting down his fork loaded with poultry.

Just then, Susan shot up from her chair, still holding her glass of Pinot Grigio, and began wheezing. She really seemed to be choking! I immediately jumped out of my seat and rushed to her aid. “Oh my God, she’s choking!” Mom screamed.

“What’s goin’ on here?” my dad shouted, still chewing a mouthful of food.

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Now, I’d witnessed a choking in a restaurant once, and it was the exact same thing. The man stood up, started pacing and gasping for breath. Another patron grabbed him and started doing the Heimlich maneuver while the rest of us sat dumbfounded.

So I knew exactly what to do. I immediately grabbed Cousin Susan from behind and for the first time in my life attempted the Heimlich maneuver.

“Don’t rip your stitches,” my mom hysterically shouted as I kept thrusting Susan against my stomach. Susan’s little straw hat flipped off her head with the first jolt and lay upside down on the floor. Each time I pushed my fist under her rib cage with the palm of my other hand, the wine in her glass splashed across the room.

Over and over I repeated the maneuver until finally, miraculously, the lodged meat projectiled out of her mouth and onto the floor.

We all went over to inspect the tiny piece of regurgitated chicken.

“It’s not even that big,” Mom commented.

“Would ya look at that,” Dad said in wonderment.

“Sweetie, you responded so quickly,” John said in awe.

“I told you, I’m good in an emergency,” I reminded.

“Fran, you saved my life,” Cousin Susan said, still gasping. I really did save her life. Wow. How crazy was that?

Mom grabbed her napkin and picked up the culprit as we all resumed our positions around the table. Cousin Susan once again began chatting about her life, while shoveling food in her mouth.

Mom and Dad sat at the edge of their seats watching her every last bite. John, who lost his appetite, pushed his plate away, while I began twirling my pasta, feeling a bit more like my old self.

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Sex

J u l y 6 , 2 0 0 0

within the first two weeks after my operation, the surgeon called me at home with the pathology reports. “You’re completely clean, there was no spread of cancer,” she announced.

I cried with relief. “Oh, that’s great news,” I squealed.

“Three pathologists agree, your cancer was at stage one and grade two,” she said. That meant that even though there were cells that varied from grades one through four, the majority of the tumor was dominated by grade two cells. “We recommend no post-operative treatment outside your follow-up exams every three months for the next two years and every six months for three years after that,” she added.

“When can I start having sex again?” I asked eagerly. I wanted to feel like a woman again, and be able to satisfy John. I knew my libido was intact because there were days when I found myself watching him get dressed and let me tell you, he was lookin’ fine! But honestly, I also think I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t damaged goods. I kept thinking John was young and healthy, he could get a woman who had a uterus.

And I wanted to know if sex would be the same as before. Con-trary to the plethora of Jewish-princess sex jokes, I happen to 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 152

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love sex, orgasms, and passionate, sensuous encounters. So what exactly was the deal now that they’d hollowed me out like a Barbie doll?

“Your vaginal canal is completely intact,” she said.

“Yeah, and—” I said, expecting more.

“That’s it,” she stated the facts plainly.

“That’s what?” I questioned, unable to picture it.

“We removed the cervix, and sewed you up at the top.” All I could picture were those vinyl blowup sex dolls.

“So will John hit a back wall when he’s inside me?” I asked.

“Honestly, Fran, there isn’t a dick long enough to reach the top,” she answered in her usual forthright manner. But then again she’d never met my sweetie . . .

“Will I get wet? Can I still orgasm?” I said, cutting to the chase. I mean, who’s kidding whom? I’m a woman with needs.

“Yes, definitely. You’ll have full sexual function,” she said.

Full sexual function—I liked the sound of that. “But when?”

I asked.

“You can try anytime. It’s been long enough.”

Well, that was music to my ears, as I began eyeballing my man from across the room.

Poor John; he was so nervous about hurting me or ripping something, frankly I don’t know how he even got it up, but he managed. We shut off the TV, turned down the lights, and put on some sexy music. I nearly wept when he began to fondle me and I felt the first flurry of tingles. I wished my pubic hair had grown back faster, but tried to push away insecure thoughts as we kissed and slowly began to make love. Actually, to be precise, we slowly began to get me off, slow being the operative word here. I couldn’t quite find it and I was beginning to get nervous.

“It’s not gonna happen, let’s just forget it,” I said. But John urged me to stay with it.

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“Don’t worry about a result or me or anything, just relax and enjoy the ride,” he coaxed. Well, if he was willing to do the driving, taking the ride was the least I could do, so I took his advice and, wouldn’t you know it, all of a sudden my breathing deepened, I began to get wet, and then, wonder of wonders, it happened. I went over the top and hit the big O. Ahhh. How amazing is the body?

Not two weeks after having all my reproductive organs removed, I was able to have a truly great orgasm! We kissed, we hugged, and I caressed his body the way I knew he liked.

Oh baby, now I was ready to put the machinery to the ultimate test. And for the first time we would do it without a condom.

Wasn’t much point to it anymore. We were both totally monoga-mous, HIV negative, and there wasn’t a chance in hell of getting pregnant, so why not just go for it? I think we felt a little naughty, not using any protection, and that just simmered things up a bit. I opted for the missionary position. It seemed easiest, and the least taxing on my incision. Plus, being on my back made my still-swollen abdomen look flatter. Entering me was a little difficult, though. We needed oil, saliva, you name it! But there was penetra-tion and mission accomplished!

The best part of all, I had absolutely no cramping afterward.

Literally for the first time in years, I was able to make love and not feel like I needed an Advil to dull the pain. I did have some very light staining, but decided not to tell John. Why spoil it? I knew I was going to see the surgeon for a post-op checkup over the next week, so for the moment I chose to ignore it. Being able to make love was a real milestone for us. We’d found ourselves as a man and a woman again. It felt good. Very good, and I felt relieved and above all, satisfied.

After that, I felt like the Bionic Woman: “We can rebuild her, we can make her better. . . .”

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Radiation Treatment?

J u l y 9 , 2 0 0 0

the day I went back to Cedars, my outlook left something to be desired. My abdomen hurt a great deal, making me regret I’d rushed into having sex and angry I had to contend with any of this.

So there we all were, back in the car, heading into town for my first postsurgery checkup. My parents were in the backseat and John drove. The car ride was so painful. It took two pillows to keep me comfortable: I sat on one, and I placed the other between my seat belt and my abdomen.

“Slow down,” I yelped, after every bump.

“I’m going twenty miles an hour, Fran,” John answered. “If I go any slower, we’ll get in an accident.” Then it became a group discussion.