Better Than None (11 page)

“I thought we already covered that.” His tone softened as he gripped my
arms and turned me around, forcing me to face him. 

“Look, you don’t owe me anything…” I started to say looking at his
chest, but his grip tightened, compelling me to look up at him.

“You’ve got some weird hang up about people owing each other. I know I
don’t
owe
you anything. But I want you to give me a minute to explain.
Is that too much to ask?”

“It’s just not necessary, that’s all.” I said with defeat. I wasn’t
trying to be a martyr, it was just the truth. It didn’t matter what he said.

“Maybe not to you…” he trailed off but didn’t loosen his grip. “Look, I
told you, I haven’t been with anyone since my wife… and I, when I woke up, for
a minute I thought… and then I realized…” He couldn’t finish his sentence but
he did release me.

“So you were so horrified that you had been with me that you couldn’t
even look at me when you came back to bed?” I sounded like a petulant child but
I was so fragile, I couldn’t help it.

“No, Stephanie, I wasn’t horrified.” He shook his head and rolled his
eyes, but his tone was soft. “I’ve been married for a long time, that’s all. It
really isn’t you.”

I nodded, not sure I totally understood. “I’m just not your wife.”

He shrugged and swallowed as he nodded, too. There just wasn’t much I
could do about that.

I took Barb home the next day, after the all too familiar routine of
going to the hospital, reviewing her discharge with the nurse, getting her
home-care instructions, waiting for transport to wheel her down, exchanging
pleasantries with some of the doctors and nurses whose faces I started to
recognize after so many recent visits. Each time they helped her from the
wheelchair into my waiting car she seemed to be weaker and weaker, and less
like the vibrant woman who was my everything.

Once home, I helped undress her. She was still covered in old crusty
blood and the green-blue antiseptic wash from the procedure.

“Ma, let’s wash you before you go to bed.” She was so weak from the
chemo, the procedure and the meds that I didn’t trust her to shower on her own.
I was surprised she didn’t fight me on this, but rather, waited patiently as I
drew her bath. She was starting to look less and less like the mother I knew.
After weeks of inactivity and little food, her skin had started to hang on her,
and for the first time, she looked her age. As much as I used to hate my mom’s
vanity, I found myself wishing it were there. But instead, she didn’t even seem
to care. I wasn’t sure if it was just the meds or sad resignation at everything
that this disease was already taking. Along with her health and vanity, she was
losing her dignity.

Doctor after doctor, nurse after nurse, tech after tech had by now seen
my mother naked, had lifted her pendulous breasts to adhere EKG stickers and
feel all around her abdomen, had helped her to the bathroom, had seen her in
ways that even I never had. My mother, who could never stand to leave the house
without the right earrings was suddenly helpless to being lifted and moved and
led and poked. To them, all the medical professionals, I know they just saw
another patient, but to me, to see my mother so helpless, so devoid of caring
anymore about what she might look like, like everything else, it changed my perspective
on so many things. It was hard to worry about pretty much anything else when I
was now bathing my own mother.

Perhaps it was sick, but as depressing as it was, sitting there with
her, pouring water over her head, massaging her scalp, gently rubbing her soft
and now wrinkled skin, there was a sweetness to it. I’m not sure if she felt
it, but caring for her like this wasn’t just a tender moment, it was pure. She
needed care and I was able to give it. No ego. No pride. Just simple care and
love.

She leaned her head back into my hands as I massaged her scalp and
moaned softly, “oh, that feels nice honey.” For the first time in weeks, she
seemed to enjoy what she was feeling after having only felt pain, nausea and
discomfort.

I smiled and continued, glad I could give her some relief.

“Um, Mom, do you think you can wash yourself between your legs?” I
asked hesitantly. For the first time, she was embarrassed.

“Of course I can do that! I don’t want you doing that for me!” I was
glad to hear a little fight in her. Of course, if I had to do it, I would have.
I knew it was just skin. It shouldn’t have been any different than washing her
arm or her hair, but it was, and I wondered if we’d get to the point where she
wouldn’t be able to do that for herself. One of the many things I was learning
was that it didn’t matter whether I worried about what might or might not be.
With this disease, and perhaps life in general, I was realizing that to a
certain extent, whatever will be will be, however I very much doubt that’s what
they were singing about in
“Que sera, sera.”

I continued to wash her hair as she slowly washed herself. All of her
movements were so much slower than they’d ever been. It was almost like
watching someone do tai chi, the execution of each movement was so measured,
almost as though there were resistance pushing against her. I stayed behind
her, out of her line of sight to give her the illusion of privacy. As I rubbed
her head, clumps of hair balled in my shampoo-soaked hands. It was coming out
faster than I could ball it up and set it on the side of the tub. In vain, I
hoped she wouldn’t notice, though of course, once she looked in the mirror it
would be impossible not to see. She must have seen the hairs falling out
already, but still, I didn’t know if this much had ever come out all at once.

Just one more thing this disease was taking from her. Along with her
dignity, it took one’s strength, one’s healthy cells, and as if taking the big
things weren’t enough, it had to chip away at the little things like someone’s
hair. For so much of my life, I think I gave my dignity away. I was never
robbed of it like this. Now, seeing my mother lose hers, I couldn’t help but be
outraged with myself for squandering it, for having so little respect for
myself as to have no dignity at all.

I wondered if Brad bathed his wife while they were still together. I
had no idea how far along her cancer was, or when they split up. I hoped that
if he were still with her that he’d be a good enough man to do that for her, though
honestly I didn’t know if he would. If Marty were in Brad’s position, there was
no question that he would. Marty would be wonderful to his sick wife.

If I were sick, I’d want Marty taking care of me, not Brad. Brad didn’t
have the patience. I’d seen glimpses of care, of tenderness, but it was like he
held himself back or that he had somehow forgotten what it was like to be
human. All he could see was the disease. As it had been with so many of the
doctors we’d encountered, they couldn’t seem to see the whole person. Of
course, I hadn’t slept with Barb’s other doctors, and I had with Brad. So I
chose to believe that Brad built up his own walls to protect himself from
becoming emotionally attached to his patients, and that deep down, he cared.
Because if it weren’t that, if it were just that he was a cold heartless prick,
especially when faced with what he saw every day, then by having been with him
in the ways I had, I might have sunk lower than ever before.

I helped Barb out of the tub, thankful the mirror was fogged up. Once
she was steady, I said what had to be said. “Mom, I think we might need to
think of a new hairstyle.” I couldn’t bear to say the words ‘shave your head’
just yet.

“I know it’s thinning. You think we need to cut it short? Men hate short
hair.”

A smile crept over my face for a brief moment. Barb was still Barb, and
that which I used to hate I now found endearing. But that respite was brief. I
took the coward’s way out and wiped off the mirror with my hand so that she
could see what I saw. She gasped and her knees buckled. I held her steady as we
both studied her reflection. Frail, hanging skin, patches and clumps of hair
now dotting her head.

“Oh my God! Stephanie, look at me! Stephanie!” She covered her mouth in
horror and at that moment I would have given anything to shield her from this. Sadly,
there wasn’t much I could do other than comfort and support her.

“I know, Mom, I know. You tell me when you’re ready and we’ll shave it
and then go wig shopping.”

“That’s easy for you to say! You’re not the one who looks like this!”
she stuck her finger at the mirror. “How dare you be so cavalier about this!
Get out! Out!” Barb’s voice shook with emotion.

My mom rarely yelled, and I knew she wasn’t yelling at me, not really.
I knew she wanted to blame someone, anyone for what was happening to her. I
just happened to be there. As much as I wanted to give her the privacy she
deserved, I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t fall and crack her head open on the tile
floor. So I wrapped the towel tightly around her and held her as her frail body
started shaking and the crying finally started. Over the last couple months
since her diagnosis, she had teared up, but so far, she hadn’t really cried.
Between the two of us, I was the cry-baby. I choked up at sad love songs,
commercials, emotional stories I heard on NPR. She would always marvel how
tough I was on the outside, but how easily I could get misty over the sappiest
things. She, on the other hand, was so soft on the outside, so weak, yet she
never cried the way I did.

We stood for a long time like that, me hugging her towel-wrapped body
as she shook and sobbed while I cooed and whispered that I loved her. When she
finally stopped shaking and crying, she put a tentative hand to her head,
running her fingers through the hair that was there. She stared in horror as
she looked at the sheer amount of hair that came off in her hand. With teary
eyes she looked at me and nodded.

I smiled softly. “You’re going to look great, mom. You have a perfectly
shaped head and big eyes, you’ll be more beautiful than ever.”

“I have pancreatic cancer, Stephanie, not a brain tumor!” She
deadpanned.

“I’m serious. You’ll see!”

“Well, I don’t have much choice, do I?”

I shook my head. “Are you ready now?”

“No, but I don’t think I’ll ever be.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stood behind her with the clippers,
making long smooth swipes across my mother’s scalp. That my mother,
my
mother
, would let me do this to her was so much sadder than the actual loss
of hair.

When we finished, instead of shock at her reflection she ran her hands
over her newly bald head and then shook it in disgust. She stared for a moment
longer before letting out a long sigh, then shrugged her shoulders, turned
around and walked slowly to her bed.

“I’m going to rest honey.”

“Ok, Ma. I’m going to unload the dishwasher and clean up some things
and then I’ll check in on you before I go. Maybe we’ll go wig shopping this
weekend?”

“What difference does it make?” She said with such resignation, such
utter indifference, that in and of itself broke my heart.

I wasn’t going to push. There would be time for wigs, I hoped.

I lied to Barbara and changed her next chemo appointment to Wednesday,
which I knew from experience was Brad’s day at the hospital. I told her that I
had a meeting I couldn’t move. I hated lying, but the thought of running into
him was worse. I didn’t trust myself around him. I wasn’t sure what it was, but
I’d already gone back to him more than I should have, not to mention the amount
of time my mind drifted remembering things we’d done and what he’d made me
feel. Every time I thought back, my body tingled and pulsed. But the man was a
mess. I was a mess. There was no way that two wrongs could make a right. So I
chose avoidance. I was running on fumes and couldn’t come up with a better plan
of attack.

We chose the chairs next to the woman we’d chatted with before. Once
again, she was alone. I guess the good news was that she was strong enough to
drive herself, I just couldn’t help but feel bad for her.

“We’re back for more punishment.” I said trying to be cute, but there
was something about her this time that seemed she was at the end of her rope.

“It’s funny you say that. Sometimes, I feel like I’m being punished.
Like I must have brought this on myself.” The way she said it made me think
that there had to be more to this statement. I didn’t know this woman at all,
but there was no way that anyone deserved this much torture, especially someone
as sweet as she seemed to be.

“Bad choice of words on my part. It isn’t punishment. Just a shitty
side effect of life.”

“Well, you’re not the one with the poison coursing through you. Or the
one puking your brains out. Or the one you don’t recognize when you look in the
mirror.” She said, and I think we were both a little shocked at her blunt talk.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I have no idea what you’re going through.” I
didn’t really. I knew tangentially, but I wasn’t the one whose body was being
ravaged. I wasn’t the one who wondered if even after all of this, if this
disease would still kill me. I felt like a jerk as I looked down at the floor,
embarrassed that I would have the audacity to offer advice to someone who’s
clearly been going through this for a while.

Just then, she reached out and put her frail hand on my arm. The
contrast between her thin, bony, pale hand and my healthy, tanned forearm was
startling, along with her touch. I raised my eyes to meet hers and she smiled
sadly, “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.” She paused, “I’m Sharon, Sherri.”

I shook my head, “Steph. And this is my mother Barbara. And please
don’t apologize, Sherri. You’ve got every right to be pissed off. It’s not my
place to tell you what you should or shouldn’t be feeling. I’m the one who
should apologize.”

This time, it was her turn to shake her head, “No more apologies. If
there’s one thing I’m so sick of is people telling me how sorry they are. I
know it’s not their fault and I know they probably do feel sorry, but, you get
to a point where there’s just no use apologizing anymore.”

I nodded in understanding, but again felt like there was a lot more
that she wasn’t saying.

“Your mom’s lucky to have you here with her. You’re a good daughter.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I’m lucky to have her too. Do you have any kids?”

She shook her head and just then her monitor started beeping indicating
she was finished and I turned my attention back to my mom. Sherri was one of
many people we’d met through this journey who told me I was a good daughter.
Nurses, caregivers, Barb’s friends. I’d never been very good at taking
compliments, but thanking someone when I heard this always made me feel bad.
Maybe it was akin to survivor’s guilt. I didn’t deserve their praise.

There was something about her chemo treatments that almost instantly
put my mom to sleep. Whenever depression had hit her in the past, sleep had
always been an escape, so perhaps that’s what this was. Or, the simple fact
that she was so bone tired and weak. Whichever, she was already dozing off.
Looking at her reclined in her chair, she looked oddly peaceful, getting chemo
of all things.

As I made my way down the hall to the bathrooms, I wished I hadn’t
drank so much water. I hated using these bathrooms. They were clean and
perfectly fine, but it was the plaque above the toilet that read “If you’re
receiving chemo, please flush twice.” That made me shudder every time I was
there. I wondered what happened if chemo patients only flushed once. Was the
building trying to protect the next person or the plumbing? If the chemo was
that bad for the pipes, what the hell was it doing to my mother’s insides? Of
course, I knew what it was doing. It was poisoning her, but in a good way. That
had become one of our inside jokes, “It’s the good kind of poison.”

It was late in the afternoon and so much of the regular staff was
already gone, it was eerily quiet. I was so lost in my thoughts about the
plaque that I debated whether or not I should use a paper towel to open the
door. After telling myself that I’d had more strangers’ dicks inside me that
could do a lot more harm than a door handle, I was still shaking my head and
chuckling to myself as I swung the door open to leave.

“Someone in there with you?” Brad asked, leaning in all his pompous,
jack-ass-i-ness glory against the wall opposite the bathroom.
Was he
actually waiting for me?

 “Huh?” I was confused and surprised. He wasn’t supposed to be
there.

 “Looked like you were laughing and talking as you came out, so I
wasn’t sure if maybe you had company.”

 “You’re kidding me, right?” God, he was such a prick.

 “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I stared at him. I wondered how he could be so God-damned cruel as I
shook my head and rolled my eyes before starting back to the chemo room.

 “Wait, Steph, I’m sorry.” He said as he grabbed my arm. I
reflexively pulled it away but he didn’t let go. I should’ve known better than
to think that the arrogant doctor would let go before he was ready.

 “Sorry? Sorry about what? Insinuating that I use your cancer
office to pick up guys and fuck them in the bathroom? Um, yeah, sorry’s not
really going to cut it.” I tried to get free from his grip again but he pulled
me and turned me towards him. I tried not to see the genuine look of regret, or
sadness or whatever exactly his look was. I didn’t know, because even after all
we’d done, I didn’t really know him.

 “Yes, I’m sorry for insinuating that. I’m sorry for being a
jackass. It wasn’t fair to you. I, I’m just…” as he trialed off, he finally let
go of my arm. A smart woman would have taken this opportunity to leave. I was a
smart woman. Just not when it came to men.

 “Well, you are a jackass. And you should be sorry.” Was all I
could come up with, not nearly enough indignation in my voice.

 “Let me make it up to you,” He said sincerely.

 “What, you want to be the guy in the bathroom?” I spat back.

He exhaled and crossed his arms over his chest. I don’t know what it
was, he seemed so defeated, so exhausted. “Let me take you out to dinner.”

 “Dinner?”

 “Yeah, you know, like two normal people. Dinner. A date.” He said
somehow a combination of sheepishness and arrogance, like duh, of course we
would go out to dinner. Even though we’d never had a real conversation or spent
any time with each other where both of our underwear stayed on.

 “We’re not normal people, Brad. We can’t date. We can’t do
dinner.” I said with resignation, because even though I wanted to hear these
words, now that he was actually saying them, I knew how ridiculous it
was. 

 “But we can fuck?” He spat back at me.

 “We shouldn’t be doing that either.”

 “But we do.” As he said it, a small smirk appeared on his face.
How on earth could I find him sexy? What was wrong with me? I’d been with bad
boys, I knew the allure. Not just the thrill but the notion that I’d be the one
to tame them, or at least, have them want me. But that wasn’t it for me. I
didn’t have any illusions of changing him when I still had so much work to do
on myself. Work that simultaneously progressed and regressed with him. Intellectually,
even though that sounded like treading water, I felt like I was doing anything
but. If anything, I was exhausting myself, swimming laps back and forth.

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, we do.” I admitted and leaned
against the bathroom door.

Facing each other, it was like we were in a weak standoff of sorts.
Though with both of us leaning, it was as if neither had the energy to hold up
our own bodies… yet somehow we found the energy to do that which we shouldn’t.

 “Come on, Steph. Have dinner with me. Take your mom home and then
have dinner with me. I need more than just a fuck.”

I actually laughed. “That’s your line? Seriously? Jesus…” I shook my
head and again started towards the chemo room.

 “Please, Stephanie. I didn’t mean it like that. Honestly. I don’t
want to hurt you, I just want to be with you. But for whatever reason,
everything I’m saying is coming out all wrong.” He said to my back, which
stopped me in my tracks. He’d never asked anything of me before. He hadn’t
needed to. I knew I was an idiot for falling for it, and yet I turned around.

 “Why?” I asked, way too softly.

His smirk reappeared, like he knew he got me. “I’ll tell you at
dinner.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t hold back the small
smile that turned the corners of my mouth up. I exhaled dramatically. “Text me
the address.”

****

Once I got Barb home, I took time to make sure she was comfortable,
feed the cats and dog, empty the litter boxes… in a nutshell, my routine at her
house.

“Ma, let me make you something to eat before I go.”

 “No, no honey, I’m not hungry. I’m just going to rest.” She said
weakly. It seemed to be all she said lately. I used to hate her weakness, but
she was never weak like this. I didn’t hate his weakness. This weakness broke
my heart.

 “Are you sure? I can make something and have it ready for when
you do get hungry.” I said in vain, knowing she just wasn’t going to be hungry.
Chances were, she’d probably get sick in the next few hours, and I was the heel
who was stalling for time before my date.

I was nervous as I’d ever been, maybe even more than in that damn
elevator with him, which was crazy. Completely and totally irrational. I was
going out to dinner, on a date with Brad, Dr. Rosenberg, a man who’d I’d
already been intimate with. In fact, the only man I’d truly been intimate with.
Yet he was also a man who I routinely referred to as a prick and a jackass. And
for some fucked up reasoning, I was petrified. Most women got nervous wondering
how the date would end. All of the ‘is he going to kiss me’ or ‘are we going to
end up at his place and finally do it.’ At least I think that’s what they
wondered since I’d never actually gotten to that point. The doing it point,
yeah, I got there first, eliminating any of those typical questions.

But my nerves weren’t about the ‘will we or won’t we’ because of
course, we already had. No, the nerves were part of the old Steph. Nervous that
I wouldn’t know how to talk with him. Nervous that once we actually talked in a
real conversation rather than just one-liners and quips at a bar, that he
wouldn’t like me. Nervous that once he truly got to know me, he wouldn’t want
to anymore.

Once again, curiosity won out over nerves. That, and the idea that Brad
was part of my growth, my experiment with the new me. It was less than ideal, but
it was still progress. For all his faults, he made me feel so much more than I
ever had before. After having been numb for so long, I finally felt like I was
beginning to thaw out.

****

“When I first started out, I cared. And it nearly ended my career,
almost as soon as it started. After my first patient died, I was a mess. I
thought I’d failed him. I knew there wasn’t anything more I could have done,
but still, I poured over his charts day and night to see if there was
something, anything that I missed.” He paused and shook his head, clearly
reliving the memory.

 “The idiot was a chain smoker. And as if that weren’t bad enough,
he worked in an industrial cleaners. The chemicals they used to use were so
toxic, and back when this guy had started, there weren’t any safeguards, there
was no OSHA, so these guys breathed in all kinds of shit. But I still blamed
myself. Like I could somehow undo years, decades of what he had done to
himself.” Brad took a big sip of his scotch.

 “After that first case, I stopped accepting new patients for a
month. And the ones I still had I treated like an over-zealous crazy man. I
visited them at their homes. I enrolled them in every clinical trial that
existed. I phoned them more than I called my own family.” He shook his head and
rolled his eyes, but when they came back and settled, the pain that was there
was only deeper. “And you know what? Some of them still died.” He chuckled
tightly. “They still fucking died!”

 “I had already started pushing my wife away. Or maybe just
ignoring her at first. But my caseload was dwindling and I had a choice to
make. Either figure out a new career, or toughen the fuck up.”

 “So I stopped caring. I couldn’t. I mean, how could I possibly
care more about my patients than they had cared about themselves their entire
life?”

 “Brad, my mom didn’t
do
anything to get pancreatic cancer.
She didn’t get this because she didn’t care about herself.” I felt like I had
to defend my mom. How could he possibly think that some people got cancer
because they didn’t care? What about kids?

He looked up at me and something softened, even though his words were
still harsh. “I know that, Steph.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. It was like he couldn’t help but be
a dick, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell I was doing there with
him. But he kept talking. I didn’t know why he felt like he needed to explain
himself, but he obviously did.