Dog Lived (and So Will I) (26 page)

• • •

We were looking forward to a weekend of debauchery.

My fourth and final chemo infusion went smoothly with only one exception. I forgot my antinausea medication in the morning.

Chris turned the car around. “We’re like parents of a fourth child. With the first one, we did everything perfectly and by the book. Now we’re down to the fourth, and the only rule is ‘no heroin on the good couch.’”

My forgetfulness made us an hour late and hence, in keeping with our tradition, we were once again the last to leave the oncology office. No diploma or “graduation” ceremony for me. And naturally, no sad good-byes with my doctor.

I didn’t care. It was over.

Bring on the partying.

I had three more weeks of possible side effects, and of course there were thirty-three radiation sessions ahead of me, but I would never again be infused with poison. And Chris and I were looking at a long Memorial Day weekend when I’d finally be off restrictions from the hot tub, strawberries, sushi, crowds, and other dangerous things. I was hopeful my taste buds would return to normal by then as well.

Over the next two weeks, in addition to my usual side effects, my feet swelled to where I only had two pairs of shoes I could wear, the bone pain increased and infiltrated my skull, my throat was sore, and the night sweats were ferocious. But I focused on the cookie, which in this case would be a weekend spent in La Jolla, courtesy of a friend who’d offered up her beach house.

One morning, I woke up craving coffee. When I stepped out of bed, gingerly as usual, I put my foot down. There was no searing pain shooting through! I did not stumble! I could go down the stairs without needing to put both feet on each step. And, the most wonderful sign that the side effects were receding, my Starbucks French Roast tasted like…coffee! Heaven!

Immediately, of course, I scanned my head to see if there were signs of hair sprouting, as though it made perfect sense that all the negative effects would clear up simultaneously. I made Chris look, too.

“It’s fuzz, right? There is visible fuzz!”

“More like touchable fuzz, but yes, fuzz. Congratulations, baby. Your bald days are over.”

• • •

• • •

I tied a pink scarf around my fuzzy head. A wig seemed ridiculous at the beach.

The weather was warm, with clear, sunny skies, which I figured was why so many people smiled at us as Chris and I walked the La Jolla beach, holding hands.

Then I noticed the head tilt and the slight squint of their eyes as they looked at me.

“Ah. The sympathy smile. Everyone is thinking I have cancer.”

Chris slid his arm around my waist. “I don’t know about everyone, but yes, it’s fairly obvious you’ve been battling breast cancer. If not the T-shirt or sweatshirt, the scarf would be a clear indicator.”

I looked down at my attire. He had a point; I was wearing a “Cancer Vixen” T-shirt and the sweatshirt emblazoned with “Beagles for Boobies.” And then, yes, there was the scarf—the waving chemo symbol. “It’s ironic. This is the best I’ve felt since surgery, and now I look sick to everyone.”

“Not to me you don’t.”

In the weeks ahead I chose mostly to wear only scarves, and I’d be frequently surprised by doors being held open, chairs offered up in waiting areas, a free drink, and once, a free banana cream pie, which I shared at my radiation appointment. I began to think of my scarf as having superpowers, and it all began there on Windansea Beach in La Jolla as I celebrated getting my life back.

• • •

• • •

My secretary Michelle returned from maternity leave. She brought her infant son, Jayden, with her. We’d agreed she could bring him to work with her for as long as we could make it work. She was efficient and hardworking enough that I knew she’d be able to get as much done in a day with a baby as most people take two days to accomplish. Plus, Jayden was an adorable and content baby. He was very popular with our clients and a nice, happy offset from my “cancer patient” look. He didn’t fuss or cry and judiciously chose to nap for most of the day. He brought another benefit as well.

“He makes me feel better about my hair,” I said.

“I know. He’s just got fuzz. I’m wondering when he’ll start growing real hair,” Michelle said.

“I’m wondering the same thing about me. Is it mean if I challenge him to a hair-growing duel?”

“Not if you let me take pictures.”

She handed Jayden to me and I removed my scarf. Holding babies terrifies me (I mentioned my lack of maternal instinct, didn’t I?). I was thus distracted from the fact that I was now bald in public. A small public of two (one of whom was only an infant), but a public nonetheless. I was too worried about dropping the baby to worry about what a freak I may have looked like.

Michelle took pictures of Jayden and me from the front and the back, with our bald, slightly fuzzy heads together.

“Hey, you both have that red rash thing at the base of your skulls in the back,” she said.

“We do?”

“It’s called a stork bite on babies.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a chemo bite on me. Does it go away? Or does everybody have it and eventually the hair covers it?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

(For the record, I won the hair-growing competition, but Jayden ran away with the “cuteness” category. And the stork bite does go away—on babies and chemo patients.)

• • •

• • •

One more leg of my cancer odyssey remained. Radiation was to start four weeks after chemotherapy ended. Since these treatments were more frequent than even chemo had been—I’d go every weekday for thirty-three visits—returning to UCLA was not an option. But I was very concerned, given how chemo away from UCLA had gone.

Dr. Karam remained Dr. Good Karma by personally researching and finding an oncology radiation center close to my office. He also researched and interviewed the radiation oncologist herself over the phone. “I think you will like her. She seems very good. Very good credentials,” he said.

“I’m glad you found someone so close. Her office is about two miles from mine.”

“Really? That is perfect then.”

“Yes, it is. Especially since there is a Starbucks nearby.”

“Oh, I know that. I searched for a clinic near a Starbucks.”

“You did?”

“Ha! No, T. I searched for a good physician to continue the excellent care you deserve.”

“Awww. Well, I deserve Starbucks, too.”

“And wine! When are you and Chris coming back to LA? When you finish your treatment, we will celebrate with wine.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“And how is Seamus?”

“He’s doing well. He had his own issues with a little hip dysplasia and inflammation, but he’d healing fine now. Running crazy as always.”

“He was jealous you were getting all the medical attention.”

Dr. Good Karma hadn’t met Seamus yet, but he had him figured out. “Sounds about right.” It was Seamus’s ego that was inflamed.

With Dr. Karam’s help, my radiation treatment plan fell into place quickly and easily. Chris went with me to the initial consultation. When Dr. Hocko entered the exam room smiling and cheerful, she made eye contact with us both and had clearly read the information sent to her by UCLA (who now also had my chemotherapy files). She also commented that she liked Dr. Karam and enjoyed talking with him. I took that as a very good sign of her character.

In the days before I began the radiation, I again prepared myself. I bought sports bras with no wires, the natural deodorant that was the one kind allowed, and plenty of aloe vera. I also spent a little time reading outdoors, soaking up some sun while I could. I was instructed to stay out of direct sunlight during radiation.

I also decided that radiation was like the California bar exam had been. The bar exam itself, I thought, was not that difficult. After all, I’d spent the prior three years of my life studying for that very exam. What was difficult was the physical and mental aspect of being tested for eight hours a day, three straight days in a row. If you allowed yourself to think about that too much, you’d have a much harder time in the exam. Back then, I hadn’t figured out the “Seamus-ness” of concentrating on the cookie, but I wasn’t far off. Then I had focused on the test in increments—one essay at a time or one three-hour test segment at a time, never more than that. Now I’d be counting down thirty-three radiation zaps, one at a time, with a latte after each.

Radiation patients have the same appointment time every day. I chose the 9:15 appointment slot. Even though I had no hair to wash or blow-dry, no eyelashes to lengthen with mascara, and my legs and underarms did not need shaving, I still didn’t move quickly in the morning, and I knew I’d be grumpy the rest of the day if I had to be anywhere before nine in the morning.

On the morning of my first appointment though, I again woke early. Moments later, Chris followed me downstairs. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

“Thanks, but no. It seems like a waste of your time. Besides, there’s Seamus.”

Hearing his name, Seamus wagged his tail and picked his head up.

“Well, the doctor said it’s only like fifteen minutes. I’m sure we can leave him for that long,” Chris said.

“I’m not at all sure of that. But it’s okay. I’ll be fine. If there’s a problem, it won’t be until much later on.”

I managed to maintain that bravery right up until I was on the radiation table, breasts exposed, arms up over my head and lasers pointed at my chest.

“Okay, stay still. We’re going to leave the room now, but we can see you and there’s an intercom so we can hear you and you’ll be able to hear us. This won’t take long.” The radiation techs were cheerful and efficient, but that only made me feel more alone when they left the room. The metal door they closed behind them was huge, over eight feet tall and at least a foot thick. The room fell silent.

Alone on the table, I thought of Seamus. Each time he was taken from me and led back to the hospital quarters for his chemo infusions, I worried that he’d be frightened and feel alone or abandoned—like I felt then. But each time he’d come trotting out, happy and full of energy, just searching for his new cookie.

I hoped the same for me.

The machine started up with its space age noises, humming and dinging as the arm moved over me and the laser beams flashed across my chest. I could hear each time a radiation shot was fired. Ping, zip. The machine rotated clockwise. Ping, zip. The machine moved again. Ping, zip. More rotation. Ping, zip.

“You did great. Now just stay where you are and we’ll come in to release you,” came the voice over the intercom.

“That’s it?”

“Yep. That’s it. You did fine.”

I would have wagged my tail if I had one. Good patient! Good, good patient!

Within the week, I devised a routine. A routine I began to look forward to…well, at least as much as anyone could look forward to a routine that involved radiation of one’s breast. I woke, had my coffee while reading, showered, dressed, and drove to the radiation center. I greeted and chatted with my fellow radiation patients—Ms. 9:00 a.m. was an ovarian cancer patient, Ms. 9:30 was also a breast cancer patient, and Mr. 9:45 was, in addition to early to most of his appointments, a throat cancer patient who on some days could talk and on others could not. Usually I was in and out in under twenty minutes, longer if the machine was moody or if any one of my fellow patients or I were particularly chatty. Then I drove through Starbucks and picked up coffee and oatmeal on my way to my office. I was at my desk finishing breakfast by ten. For a cancer patient, I told myself, this was not bad at all. One day down, twenty-five, -four, -three more to go.

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