Cancer Schmancer (23 page)

and long will I miss

his bright smile, his kiss.

I pray he is free now to roam.

after nineteen years, it still came too soon.

north star, orange sky, crescent moon.

the night could not have been clearer, and I thought to myself, it’s the end of an era. . . .

the angels cashed in on their loan.

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New Year’s, 2001

it had not been a good year to say the least. In fact it stunk, who’s kidding whom? First it was the cancer, and then poor ol’ Chester. What’s next, a tsunami? Oh, the guilt I felt over putting that dog down. I got so depressed over the emptiness of my life that I felt like a tragic figure in an old movie. Did you see Anna Karenina? Picture her with my voice.

I was determined to make 2001 a better year, filled with happier, healthier times. So John and I decided that for New Year’s we’d go to a spa for some R&R. I’ve gone to spas on a few occasions, and I must say, it can be quite the lovely getaway. Of course, I don’t go nuts trying to lose weight or anything. I never even set foot on a scale. That would only ruin my vacation. No, no, I go for the pampering and the rest.

It’s great, you never have to get out of your sweats, never have to wear makeup, don’t even have to speak if you don’t want to—

sounded right up my alley. So we headed to the Rancho La Puerta, just across the Mexican border. There they’d do it all for me. Feed me, walk me, meditate and massage me. That’s all I asked.

We drove from L.A. down to Mexico, listening to sports on the radio the whole time. Upon arrival, we followed the signs to the main registration building, where the valet took our car. After check-in, we were led to the clubhouse for orientation and scheduling of classes and treatments for the week. This was more complicated and stressful than I’d anticipated.

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“You can’t do a hot stone massage until Thursday,” a heavyset woman named Yolanda said as she sat behind her computer monitor.

“What? You mean to tell me I’m not getting the hot stone massage today? I just drove three and a half hours listening to sports the entire way and I need those hot rocks,” I whined, slightly losing it.

“A dried herb wreath-making class is all I can work out for today,” she said. “But it’s very relaxing,” she added, while typing into her keyboard as she read the spa treatment schedule.

“I’ll take it, but I’m very disappointed,” I answered, collecting my itinerary and map of the grounds. We studied those maps in earnest but still couldn’t navigate our way through the maze of walkways and paths that wound around the premises.

“We have to go this way to get to the Casa Del Sol casitas,”

John insisted as we stood at a fork in the road.

“That way? That’s the El Encanto Calle casitas.” We never agree on directions, and this place was like our worst nightmare.

“Where the hell is Casa Del Sol?” I said, getting nervous and desperately in need of a hot bath. Around and around we walked, passing the clubhouse at least three times, until finally, after having exhausted every possible option, we ended up at our casita.

The porch light was off and it was hard to find the keyhole. I was hating this place and wondering if we’d made the right choice.

Then we opened the door, and like Dorothy arriving in Oz, everything turned Technicolor.

It was a rustic little house, and it was beautiful. “This is nice,” I said, as I dropped my suitcase and pounced on the bed. The cozy living room was decorated with Mexican-style furnishings, lots of wrought iron, glazed tiles, and colorful fabrics. There was a wood-burning fireplace, a huge king-size bed, a big bathroom, and a lush private patio. I loved it and immediately shifted gears.

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While filling up the bathtub I unpacked my stuff. My electric toothbrush, some sundries, my hiking boots, a few sweats, a few sweaters. Oh yeah, and Chester’s cremation urn. What? He always liked to travel. I hoped the TV had at least one English-language channel. “Where’s the TV?” I asked John.

“No TV,” he answered, as he sat at the edge of the bed listening to the crackling reception of his football game from a small clock radio on his nightstand.

“No TV? How could that be? I’m going to call someone at the reception desk,” I said, flustered.

“No phones,” he answered, never once breaking his stare at the radio.

“No phones, too?” I responded, flabbergasted. “Well, what am I supposed to do without a phone or a TV?” I added, feeling panicked by the prospect of a whole week without either of my little friends.

“Read,” he answered. John always becomes monosyllabic when a game is on.

“Read? For a whole week?” Was he crazy? By now I was incensed. I mean, I was talking to a back in front of a radio. “I can’t deal with this now, I’m late for my wreath-making class,” I said in a huff, grabbing my map and heading for the crafts hacienda. Wherever the hell that was.

Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, and after three completely contradictory sets of directions from guests more relaxed than myself, I accidentally happened upon the crafts hacienda, which turned out to be above the dining room. Well, why didn’t they say so? The dining room was the one building whose location I’d made sure to know!

As I entered the classroom, I saw about a dozen women gathered around a long worktable piled high with dried herbs, leaves, and flowers. Outside of those women-in-prison documentaries, 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 198

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I’d never seen so many frumpy-looking ladies all in one place before. Now, there’s no makeup, and then there’s no makeup. Not even a little under-eye concealer! And the hair, all a mess! Their clothes looked like stuff you’d wear to do laundry. Oh, come on, wasn’t there anything cuter than that in their closets? There’s no way these gals could’ve possibly been here with their husbands or boyfriends.

The teacher, an older woman who looked like she was part Native American, came running up to me. “Hello and welcome, grab yourself a Styrofoam doughnut and start choosing your herbs,”

she said cheerfully. Just as I reached for the piece of Styrofoam, she was back in my face. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars,” she said extending the open palm of her hand.

“What do you mean, twenty-five dollars? I thought everything was included?” I asked, slightly taken aback.

“Not this. Wreath making is extra,” she said, as she clamped her turquoise-and-silver-ringed fingers around the doughnut.

“But I didn’t bring my purse, I only brought my room key and map,” I explained.

“I’ll lend you the money,” said some perky blonde with a Chicago accent.

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you,” I said, as the teacher relin-quished her hold on the doughnut. “Where’s your casita? I’ll bring you the cash right after class,” I offered, always hating to owe people money.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in the dining room sometime over the week,” she answered, and resumed tending to her creation.

She certainly seemed relaxed; everyone did. Was I the only new kid on the block still wearing my badge of big-city hypertension?

I noticed I displayed more aggression than my Zen’d-out sisters as I grabbed for this branch of eucalyptus and that bunch of sage before any of the other gals could get their grubby little paws 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 199

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on them. I had to calm down, I was being too result-oriented.

This was about the art of putting it together for the sheer pleas-ure of it. This experience was about focusing on the smell, the feel, the creative and meditative aspects of making what is essentially an ugly, cheap-looking wreath you’re never gonna wanna put in your home anyway.

Wreath in hand, I managed to retrace my way back to our casita. Proudly displaying my creation above the fireplace mantel, I noticed I was feeling a bit more relaxed.

At mealtime, John and I marched ourselves over to the dining room. Vegetables and more vegetables were the plat du jour. Bottles of Beano lining the buffet tables served as a warning we were in for one gassy vacation. Let me just say, the sounds that flew out of people in yoga class the next morning I’d never heard in my life!

The daily regimen being what it was, I began to develop a taste for stir-fried vegetables with tofu. “Where’s the rice?” I asked at one point, feeling deprived.

“No rice,” the server replied. Well, it doesn’t get much plainer than that. I would have enjoyed rice, but I asked, and that was my answer, “no rice,” and I learned to live without it. Meanwhile, my constitution was better than ever. Normally, I’m lucky if I go to the bathroom once a day, but there, I was going at least two or three times!

Each morning a bunch of seventy-year-olds and I strolled through the gardens. I chose the less challenging hikes. No point in pushing myself, only to end up bedridden the next day with abdominal cramps. One afternoon I signed up for a forty-five-minute sunset hike. My hair was freshly washed, my face scrubbed clean.

No makeup for me anymore, not even lipstick. There I was with about six other women and the guide as we walked through the grounds of the ranch, through the herbs, the labyrinth, and the meditation center. It was a beautiful late afternoon. The sun was 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 200

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warm and golden and the mountains looked majestic on the horizon. How lovely it all was; how relaxed I’d become.

One woman realized she’d forgotten to change out of her tennis shoes and into her hiking boots. She was so distressed she finally decided to run back to her casita to get them and then catch up with us. Personally, I didn’t see what she was so concerned about.

We really weren’t doing anything that required hiking boots anyway.

Famous last words. As we reached the foothills of the mountain, it struck me that it wasn’t so much majestic as mammoth.

“Are we going up this mountain?” I asked in panic. “I’m recovering from surgery, are we going all the way up? Does anybody want to bail and go back with me?” I wished it had been a bit easier to find my way around that place, or I would have simply split on my own. But I pictured myself wandering for miles in the Mexican foothills before getting arrested by the border patrol.

With that, the woman who’d gone back to retrieve her hiking boots caught up with us. She was huffing and puffing from her run to and fro, all enthusiastic about this mountain we were about to tackle. No wonder she wanted her hiking boots; that mountain was huge. Everyone was encouraging me to forge ahead. The instructor said it really wasn’t all that difficult and that we’d take it very slow. If I wasn’t the loser in the group, I don’t know who was.

Since my surgery I’d grown afraid of the pain I’d feel if I pushed myself, but the other gals seemed so supportive, I decided it was do or die. I’d take the challenge and scale that mountain.

I remember it being extremely windy in certain spots. I mean, like if you weren’t careful you might blow off the mountain alto-gether. Fortunately, there were points of interest along the way that allowed me to stop and rest as the leader went on and on about this Indian carving and that edible berry.

One woman had a camera and was snapping shots of everything. Oh, come on—haven’t you seen a berry before? At a particu-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 201

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larly glorious spot, which offered a view of the land far below us, she asked if I’d be so kind as to take a picture. I, of course, said yes, being the accessible star I am.

“Who’s going to take it?” I asked.

“You,” she replied, shoving the camera in my hands. Nu? So I snapped a lovely shot of her in front of the view and handed back the camera. I hope it came out okay.

This was not a “45-minute hike,” as I’d misread, but a “4.5-mile” one that took about two hours to complete. By the time I got back I was so beat I can’t even tell you. My feet were sore and I needed a massage pronto. John couldn’t believe I’d actually climbed that mountain, but I had!

That evening when we headed for the dining room, I ran into that nice lady from Chicago and returned the twenty-five dollars she’d lent me for my herb wreath, which, incidentally, had not only grown on me, but was coming home with me, too. Anyway, the mess hall smelled particularly delicious and I just couldn’t wait to dig in. Oh man, I could’ve eaten a horse, but instead devoured a double helping of broccoli rabe, tofu, and, at long last, rice. Mmmm.

Now, here’s the incredible thing about it all. The next morning I felt no pain from the hike. I mean, none. It was like awakening from a sleep. I’d turned a corner and could now start pushing myself more. The woman by my mother’s pool was right!

One afternoon toward the end of the week, just as I was sprinting over to my posture class, I ran into a gal wearing a full face of makeup, jewelry, and wedgies, holding her map and seeming quite frazzled. “Excuse me, I’m lost, can you show me how to get to the clubhouse?” she asked, sounding kinda desperate.

In braided pigtails, Chapstick, and baggy sweats, I looped my arm in hers, smiled broadly, and said, “Come on, I’ll take you there. . . .”

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Paris

M i d - J a n u a r y 2 0 0 1

when John and I returned home after our spa experience, I felt really relaxed. That is, until John dropped a bomb.

“I want to start going back to my apartment a couple of nights a week now that you’re better,” he said casually, while folding his laundry.

“Wha—?” I couldn’t hide my surprise, it came so out of left field. “I mean, do whatever’s good for you,” I lied. Shit, fuck, somewhere along the line, between my cancer and the dog’s dying, I’d allowed myself to become codependent again. John was the caregiver and I was the patient. I felt safe around him and now suddenly he wanted his old life back? I mean, it had only been six months of hell, couldn’t he hang in a little longer?