Drawn to Life (5 page)

Chapter 6 ½

Mia—Nobody Wants to Hear That

Graz, April 2011

I don’t think I’d ever experienced a day like this before.

For a week now, I had been in the hospital. My condition stressed me out, made me restless and irritated. I knew the drugs, treatments, exams, diet, and rest were all supposed to be for my benefit, but I was confined to bed and only allowed to get up when I really had to. My body was extremely weak. At least the high fever was dropping—raising my hopes for an early release, despite less-than-encouraging results from my blood work. For the time being, I was just glad I had a room all to myself.

The days dragged. My only comfort came on afternoons when Christoph visited. He always tried to cheer me up.

“Just wait and see, Mimi. You’ll be out of here in no time. The results from the CT should be here any day now. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

I sat up and looked at him warily. He took my hand in one of his, and with his other, he caressed my cheek. Then he kissed my lips.

“Don’t worry. You were just overworked. These tests are routine. A mere formality.”

I nodded and bit my lower lip. A CT didn’t seem routine. My stomachaches had become so bad they were unbearable without painkillers, which was why they were doing further testing. The initial ultrasound hadn’t revealed anything wrong.

With his thumb, he touched my mouth. “Don’t. You will ruin your pretty lips,” he said with a smile. Immediately, I stopped biting and smiled at him. “There’s my beautiful Mia.”

After awhile, we heard a knock on the door, and Dr. Ludwig and Dr. Oberbichler entered. Instantly my heart began to race. This was the moment I would hear the results.

Full of hope, I looked into the doctors’ faces to see whether I could find an answer there, but they didn’t reveal anything.

“Good afternoon, Frau Lang. We’d like to discuss some things with you.” Dr. Oberbichler looked at Christoph. “We need to ask you to wait outside, please.”

Christoph nodded and was about to get up, but I grabbed his hand. “Please, can’t he stay?” I pleaded.

Both doctors looked at me with sympathy. Dr. Oberbichler inhaled deeply. “All right. Why not? You will probably need his support anyway.”

Support? Why would I need support?

That didn’t sound good. That did not sound good at all.

My heart pounded faster, and my hands trembled. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and of course I chewed on my lower lip again.

The doctors pulled chairs next to my bed, sat down, clipboards in hand, and exchanged glances heavy with meaning.

I stared at them. Neither spoke. How much longer would they delay this?

In sheer desperation, I gripped Christoph’s hand tighter. He squeezed back, then reached with his other to stroke my hair before leaning forward to lightly kiss my forehead.

Finally, the doctors looked directly at me. The younger one, Dr. Ludwig, rose and moved closer.

“Would you please remove your gown for another brief examination?”

I nodded and hastily pulled the hospital gown over my head.

Dr. Ludwig pressed his fingers against my right armpit and side. With an instrument that resembled a magnifying glass, he inspected an area. When he finished, I donned the gown again. He sat down and nodded to his colleague.

Both of them looked me straight in the eyes. Dr. Ludwig said, “We won’t beat around the bush, Frau Lang. I wish we had better news, but the test results indicate a serious situation.”

I glanced at Christoph, whose former smile had turned into a grimace. Slowly, I turned back to Dr. Ludwig.

He continued, “The CT clearly shows a lump on your liver and another under your armpit.”

Chris’s clasp on my hand was almost painful. From the corner of my eye, I could see him now staring at me, terrified. But I couldn’t face him. I kept my gaze on the two doctors. My pulse raced. My hands were wet with sweat. What did this all mean?

“Frau Lang, we need to biopsy and likely excise those areas. As soon as your fever drops, we highly recommend surgery.”

I nodded slowly. I couldn’t speak. My brain tried to interpret the information it had just received. So much for not beating around the bush! Everything sounded confusing.

For a brief moment, silence reigned. Then Christoph broke it with frantic questions.

“What does that mean?
Lump?
”

“It means tumor,” Dr. Ludwig answered.

With a trembling voice, I asked, “Tumors? I have . . . I have cancer?”

Now it was Dr. Oberbichler’s turn. He sat on my bedside. “Frau Lang, we have discovered a melanoma under your armpit.”

I stared at him without moving. My heart rate normalized. My brain didn’t understand what was going on.

“We suspect you have stage three skin cancer.”

Christoph jumped up so violently his chair almost fell over.

“So what happens?” he asked, raking a hand through already-disheveled hair.

“We’ll know more after the biopsy and surgery,” the doctor said to Christoph. Then he turned to me again. “I don’t want to scare you. The diagnosis is not easy. Unfortunately, we have to assume the liver tumor is a metastasis—that the cancer has already spread.” He looked at me. Was he waiting for a response? A reaction?

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just couldn’t seem to process this information. It was all so unreal. Why should this happen to me? I didn’t feel all
that
sick. I only had a fever and sometimes stomachaches. I was healthy!

Christoph was beside himself; he paced the small room.

And me? I felt calm, relaxed. Or maybe just empty . . .

I simply didn’t understand what I’d just heard.

Chapter 7

Mia—No More Long-term Goals

En route to Budapest, June 2012

An hour had passed since I’d boarded the train. An hour in which I’d tried to tune out the world around me. I’d kicked off my brown cowboy boots, put up my feet on the seat in front of me, and watched the world fly by outside the window. Green fields, mountains, highways. Loud music through the earbuds I wore guaranteed not a single other sound could penetrate.

But loud music couldn’t drown out the voices in my head. I tried to concentrate on breathing evenly and closed my eyes. I felt the rhythm of my heart. I tried to focus on nothing except myself. Myself.

Without success.

My thoughts kept wandering back to the days I so wanted to banish from my memory.

Once I had finally processed the diagnosis—malignant melanoma—my entire world had shattered. I was deprived of everything that had been dear to me. I was tied to the bed and could no longer go to work.

During the first several days, I had no idea what “having cancer” meant. I wavered between courage over my diagnosis and ignorance of the scope of my disease. My body didn’t feel much different. But an uneasy sensation became my steady companion. I knew something existed inside that was not meant to.

After surgery, everything was different. It was
real
. I had cancer. Recovery and continuing treatment made me dizzy and exhausted; I slept for days at a time. It dawned on me I’d be spending the foreseeable future in this bleak hospital room with naked walls. My mother offered to stay overnight with me, but I refused. I wanted her to lead her own life, the one she was used to.

Of course she couldn’t do it. Nobody could. My family, my friends—everybody was suffering in their own way, but nobody wanted to admit it. I noticed, though. Everybody acted strangely, trying to cling to what was now gone. There was a lot of false cheer and overly bright jabbering, and always that one question: “How are you feeling?”

My family wanted to be constantly with me. I didn’t want them there. I wanted them to lead their lives outside the hospital. Only I and my life needed to be confined.

Yet despite my appeals, they found it difficult to leave me by myself. The uncertainty of what was happening was hard on them. It was as if they thought their presence could create a favorable outcome.

Once I regained some strength, I was released and allowed to go home. Home, to my parents’ house. It was my mother’s idea that I move in with them. She thought she’d worry less with me there. I was so disheartened and weak, I agreed without giving it much thought. I abandoned my first apartment just like that. Even though my apartment was small, I’d made it cozy, thoughtfully decorating it with inexpensive furniture from IKEA, drawings I’d created, and photographs of my friends on the walls. Most of all, though, it had been mine. But just like that, I abandoned it.

As it turned out, my mother’s idea had been wise. I was very grateful for her support, especially her emotional support. Christoph was very detached in those first weeks of my illness, when I’d needed him the most. The next steps of my recovery, though, sounded equally daunting.

The doctors explained the chemo and interferon-alpha therapies, which would begin once my body had recovered from surgery and my circulatory system was sufficiently stabilized.

The dermatologist, Dr. Oberbichler, also informed me about the side effects, both negative and positive. I had no clue what he could possibly mean by
positive
side effects. Everything I heard was negative: nausea, vomiting, fatigue, brittle nails, weakened sense of taste, loss of hair.

His words scared me.

As time grew near for my discharge, he added, “From now on, every new day is a day you need to win. Day after day. This is not about long-term goals anymore.”

I was stunned.
No more long-term goals.

Things didn’t look hopeful: not for me, not for my body. All those negative side effects Dr. Oberbichler had warned me about happened, and then those words:
Why me?
They’d been a severe blow. I believed I had been well prepared for what to expect, but I’d been wrong.

Lounging on the train, I told myself it was the time to wind up the past, to look ahead, but I kept replaying events from the past year, kept hearing his words. Everything was etched on my mind. I had to find a way erase it all and start over. Wasn’t this trip supposed to lead me to my new life?

Chapter 7 ½

Mia—Yet Another Thursday

Graz, April 2012

It was yet another Thursday. I hated Thursdays. I had to visit Dr. Weiß on Thursdays. Sometimes I talked. Most times I didn’t, and we would sit in silence for an hour and a half. The only sounds were the ticking of a pendulum clock or the rustling pages in Dr. Weiß’s notebook. Or the creaking of his leather chair whenever he shifted his position. Or the scribbling of his pen. Occasionally, he would take off his shoes and walk back and forth on the light gray shag carpet, hands clasped behind his back.

He tried to respect my space. He knew what made me tick and when it was OK to speak. I admit I wasn’t an easy patient. The first three times he’d tried to engage me had been disastrous. The first time, I simply refused to speak. The second time, I threw a tantrum and smashed the red ceramic vase sitting on his coffee table. The third time, I grabbed my bag and ran out the door. Since then, he left me in peace unless I signaled my willingness to talk.

During those ninety minutes, I didn’t move. When I did decide to talk, I rambled, speaking off the top of my head. With my mind on constant alert, as if danger lay around every corner, I was not sure I made any sense. My mind never rested. Neither did I.

Dr. Weiß was not my first therapist, but he was the only one who hadn’t given up on me. Initially, after my suicide attempt, I’d refused to speak to any professional. I still didn’t like therapy, but I’d eventually found some sort of comfort in my regular visits with Dr. Weiß. He was tactful; he simply let me be myself. And if that meant remaining quiet, we were quiet. He challenged me only when he felt I was strong enough for confrontation.

“How are you feeling today, Mia?” He always started us off with the same question. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

I inhaled deeply, glanced at the stucco ceiling, and exhaled slowly. I shifted, making myself comfortable on the red leather Bordeaux sofa.

As always, Dr. Weiß waited patiently for my answer. My
usual answer. I think I always said the same thing in the belief that if I just repeated it often enough, it’d be true. Without any inflection in my voice I said, “I’m feeling fine, Dr. Weiß. Just terrific.”

He sighed loudly, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “Sometimes you act like a stubborn toddler, Mia,” he said in his calm, sonorous voice. “You’re twenty-four years old.”

I jumped in before he could launch into a lecture. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want to be. A toddler. Maybe I’m, like, tired of being twenty-four years old.”

That might actually be the truth.

“I hear you. So let’s skip the preliminaries.”

I nodded.

“I would like to discuss something with you today. We’ve been making slow progress, and while I do see improvements, it will still be a long and difficult journey before you’re able to feel joy again. I hope you’ll get there sooner rather than later, but I’m confident you
will
get there, eventually.”

I looked away, avoiding his glance. He was really good. Without ever having talked about it, he knew exactly what I longed for so desperately.

“I just think we got stuck here a little bit . . .”

I jerked my head up and stared at him, terrified. He wanted to get rid of me, just like the others. Despair swept over me. Dr. Weiß was the first therapist who’d tried to understand me.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “Listen to me. I am not ending our collaboration. That wouldn’t be productive.”

I felt a big lump in my throat and swallowed hard. I wanted to continue our sessions. Even if I didn’t act like it.

“This place, this city is significantly hindering your emotional recovery. There are too many memories. Memories you want to escape.”

I listened to him intently.

“You should consider going on a trip. You are well, overall. You are no longer suicidal. You just need to learn to let go. I know you’ll hate me for bringing this up again, but I strongly advise you to start journaling. You need to let the past be the past. You are still alive.”

Alive. Well.
Still . . .

Dr. Weiß stood, walked around his desk, and sat next to me on the sofa. “Mia, you’ve already won the major battle. Your body has fought back as best as it could. Now you need to learn how to experience joy in what you have, even if it doesn’t look the way you’d like it to.” He continued, “I’ll respect your decision, whatever it will be. I am not trying to persuade you. I am trying only to make things easier for you.”

I turned to face Dr. Weiß. My nervous habit returned—I began to chew on my lower lip. I was grateful to Dr. Weiß for his understanding and for always pushing me in the right direction. If I really wanted joy again, I would have to learn to loosen up and, as he put it, let go.

“You need to leave for a while,” he said quietly. “Go on a trip. Away from this town. Stay wherever you go as long as you need, until you feel joy again. Put your pain on paper, and when there is nothing left to say, burn the journal. Relearn how to live; let the past stay in the past. Begin a new life.”