Cancer Schmancer (11 page)

“Okay,” I answered.

“I’d also feel a lot better if the surgeon did her own biopsy.”

My sister was now in full medical mode. I’d never seen her in action before, and I regretted that I hadn’t turned to her sooner.

“So I should tell her I want her to do another D&C?”

“Yes, definitely. The gynecologist took it in her office. Now 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 86

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you’re working with a surgeon in a hospital. It’s a more controlled environment, and I always like it when the surgeon starts fresh with her own tests. I think it’s better.” She was pretty insistent.

“All right, I’ll tell her. I’m going to call her tomorrow and I’ll tell her.” I was glad my sister was now in the loop. She cared about me. She loved me, I could trust her to do right by me.

“Do you want Mom and Dad to cancel their trip to see me and the kids so they can be with you?” she asked. Did she know how hard a question that was for me to answer? I hemmed and hawed, then said, “Um, I don’t know what I want.” All I knew was, I didn’t want to be the sick one, the weak one, the needy one. That was never my role, not in my entire life. Was I supposed to totally shift gears because of one call from my doctor?

“If you want them to come to you, they’ll cancel their trip.”

Her voice began to escalate. “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t want them to cancel their vacation. Let’s see what happens,” I answered, clearly in denial of the gravity of my situation.

“Fran, just say it. It’s okay. If you want them to come, they’ll come! Just say it!”

But I simply couldn’t fit the words in my mouth. I’ve never asked anyone to sacrifice anything for me. I could take care of myself. “I want to wait until Friday, when I see the doctor,” I answered, weakly. I just couldn’t say what she wanted to hear, so she began to cry now, as well as scream.

“Why can’t you just say it? You never just say what you want!”

But I couldn’t and I didn’t. Calmly and quietly I said, “Nadine, I just found out I had cancer today. I want to decide this on Friday, after I see the surgeon.”

What she was expressing in all her rage was a lifetime of feelings that she hadn’t ever voiced before. And she was right. I never said what I wanted, never asked for help, never let anyone in. I never 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 87

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opened up and shared my pain with anyone. And for everyone, but especially for my older sister, Nadine, that must have been an isolating hardship. Her voice instantly lowered and calmed. Though still filled with emotion, she became gentle and sympathetic.

“Okay, will you please call me if you need me?”

“I will.”

“Any time of the day or night, I’m here for you.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

In that conversation, through my sister’s fear and frustration, I saw myself as other people experience me, and I felt bad and inadequate as a friend, wife, daughter, and sister. John couldn’t understand why she was yelling at me on the day I was diagnosed with cancer, but for the first time in my life I understood.

I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I was lucky I had both a mate and a dog. Neither one was ever really able to change anything for me, but there was a grounding factor to their presence.

They were warm and loving and kept me from falling deep into my despair.

But when they were both sleeping and I was staring at the ceiling in solitude, my mind played tricks on me. And like the ceme-tery nightmare in Fiddler on the Roof, everything seemed to be leading me back to one conclusion: My days were numbered. The dog was aged. The marriage was over. My career had crescendoed with The Nanny, and in the silence of the night they all seemed to be nails in my coffin.

Why had I felt a recent urge to make out my will? Why had my favorite fish died? Why had I left Peter? Why had I told John he completed my life? Why? Why? Why? Because I must be about to die!

It all made so much sense. It was all over, now it was just a 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 88

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matter of time. I began to weep on my pillow, and as I sobbed John woke up. Bless his heart, he’d always wake out of a sound sleep to hold and comfort me. My thoughts were so loud in my head, but when I spoke, the words came out as whispers in the night, in the darkness, in my bed.

Panicked, I rattled off my hardly audible thoughts: “I think this must be it, maybe this is it. I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared.

Was I bad, am I bad, is it because I hurt Peter, is that why this is happening?” But John whispered back that I was good, that he was there, and that we’d get through this.

In the morning he left for work and I called the surgeon, Doctor #9. Fuck it, I had to do something to gain some sense of control. “Why do I have to wait until Friday?” was my first question.

Now that I knew I had cancer, every minute of every hour seemed like an eternity. I mean, what do you do with yourself? How do you pass the time when you know there’s a cancer within you?

One good thing she said was that we didn’t have to wait until we met on Friday to schedule an operating room. She said if I wanted her to, she could book me in for the following Wednesday.

There was a room open and she was available. It was like scheduling a hair appointment instead of a hysterectomy. We all knew what I had, and that probably wasn’t going to change, so the sooner we could get this tumor out of me the better. I told her to book the O.R. I was glad I’d called. If I hadn’t, if I’d waited until my first appointment with her that Friday, my surgery might have been pushed even farther back. No sir, let them reserve the room for me, here and now. I figured I could always cancel if anything changed, but I can’t get a room if it’s already taken!

I told her my sister, the nurse, had said, “Get your surgeon to do her own biopsy.”

“Fran, I’m happy to do whatever it takes to make you feel confident about the situation, but I just want you to know that the 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 89

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first thing I asked your gynecologist was, ‘Are you sure this biopsy belongs to her, do the dates match, does the name match?’ The tissue that was biopsied was you, Fran, definitely you. Plus, I also showed the tissue to my own pathologists to make doubly certain the report was correct. Again, I’m happy to satisfy your sister—as I said, whatever it takes, I understand you’ve been put through the wringer. But there’s no doubt this is you, and you do have uterine cancer.”

“Well, my sister said to do it, and I really think we should.”

So even though I hadn’t yet met my surgeon, the surgery was scheduled for Wednesday, June 21. I ultimately asked my parents to make the trip and they booked their flight for Tuesday. I alerted Ramon and Angelica to get the guest house ready. I wanted to be strong for what lay ahead, so I hiked; I wanted to feel confident, so I colored my hair; I needed to remain positive, so I saw my shrink. Oh, and I prayed. Man, did I pray. . . .

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The Triple C Ranch

J u n e 1 6 , 2 0 0 0

on Friday, Elaine picked up Rachel and met John and me at the special parking lot for cancer patients at Cedars. John brought a pad and pen for notes. I wore some cool pants and a tie-dyed top I’d bought in London. As we walked down the hospital hallways, I looked so healthy I felt like I didn’t belong there.

Paintings and sculptures lined the walls, a much-appreciated distraction.

A strained cheerfulness sifted through our chitchat as we rode the elevator to the lower level where I’d meet the surgeon, Doctor

#9, for the first time. We were instructed to go straight to the nurses’ station, past a magnificent saltwater aquarium that sat in a prominent position in the waiting area, another well-chosen touch of beauty and grace in an otherwise abysmal destination. The room was filled with somber people and their somber families, each experiencing their own kind of misery. The most heartbreaking were the children.

All the nurses recognized me right away as I was ushered into an examining room that included a wall of chairs and a curtain that, when drawn, would divide the room in two. Rachel talked 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 92

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about the twins, her toddlers, as Elaine held up her compact and applied her lipstick.

Three different women, each with a task, entered the room.

One took my blood pressure, one took my temperature, and one took my pulse. I knew they all wanted to gawk at me because I was the Nanny. Surely other people don’t have a separate nurse just to take their temperature. It was inappropriate and made me feel self-conscious. Didn’t they realize I had cancer? But I guess they were all just too excited to meet the Nanny and couldn’t help themselves.

One by one the nurses voiced their love for the show and expressed how much they missed it. Each shared an anecdote about a child or a parent who was particularly devoted. They all commented on how much younger I looked in person than on TV, which I could have taken as ass-kissing, but opted not to. It’s a strange paradox being treated like a star when on another level you’re actually a cancer patient. I didn’t know how to respond.

And even though I didn’t like it, I didn’t blame them, either.

A short time later, after removing my shoes, jewelry, and belt, I still weighed in at close to 140. “Why do hospitals always have

‘fat’ scales?” I joked halfheartedly as the nurse pushed the metal balance farther and farther to the right. I wondered how much a woman’s reproductive organs weigh and how much thinner I’d be after the surgery.

Then two other nurses, Lucy and Wanda, who seemed to work directly with my surgeon, arrived. They were extremely pleasant both in appearance and personality. If I were a surgeon, the first thing I’d look for in a nurse after her qualifications would be a good bedside manner. It makes such a difference in your experience.

On the other hand, personality shouldn’t be the deciding factor in which doctor becomes your surgeon. The way I see it, most surgeons are in a personality class all their own. Doing precision 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 93

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work with a knife doesn’t call for the same tact or charm a non-surgeon must display in meeting, greeting, and comforting patients on a daily basis. When it comes to surgery, get the best in the field and forget about the rest. You’re not looking for a date or a potential spouse. You’re never going to go to the movies together or out to dinner. What you need—the only thing you need—is someone who’s good with a knife. Period.

When Doctor #9 entered, we were all surprised at how young and attractive she was, considering the level she’d reached in her field. She pulled herself together really well: Armani suit, Chanel shoes, makeup, hair, and nails all done to a T. This is my surgeon?

I thought. She looked more like a studio executive. Elaine, who was the oldest and I guess the one Doctor #9 appeared youngest to, exclaimed out loud that she “couldn’t believe how young and gorgeous” she was.

It was true: Out of the many doctors I’d seen, she made by far the best presentation. A feather in her cap, I’d say. John took out his pad and pen to take notes, titling the page “Sweetie’s Visit to the Triple C Ranch” (short for “Cedars Cancer Center”). The first and most shocking statement Doctor #9 made was how terrible it was that it had taken this long to diagnose me. She couldn’t understand why none of the previous doctors thought to do a D&C.

“What I teach all my students, and what everybody learns in med school, is: bleeding between periods, biopsy. Period. What happens between medical school and practice I’ll never know!”

That’s exactly what she said; I’ll never forget her directness. She added that, based on my menstrual history, I was probably suffer-ing from something called luteal phase defect. Luteal WHAT? I had a defect that no one knew about?

Probably from as early as my very first period, she theorized, I’d always run low on progesterone, and if there’s one thing the uterus hates more than anything, it’s what’s called unopposed estrogen.

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That’s when you have too much, or even normal amounts of, estrogen, but it’s not balanced or countered by the appropriate amounts of progesterone. I’d always had extremely short cycles (nineteen to twenty-four days, tops), and the one and only time I accidentally got pregnant, I began to miscarry immediately. I was in my late teens, already with Peter. I’d just had my period and thought it would be okay not to use a condom. Whoops. At the time I didn’t dwell on the implications of my inability to carry the pregnancy forward. I was simply relieved not to be confronted with a difficult decision. Had I seriously tried to have a baby in my twenties or even my thirties, I might have been diagnosed with the hormone imbalance years before, because I probably wouldn’t have been able to go full term. Instead, the condition caused the glands in my uterine wall to rebel and grow a malignant ball the size of a walnut.

I felt anger toward the medical community and the doctors I’d seen prior to Doctor #9, including Doctor #8. Even though she ultimately was the one who diagnosed me, she should have given me the D&C right away. Why didn’t she test me for uterine cancer before treating me for a perimenopausal condition I didn’t have?

Why assume it’s one thing when you haven’t ruled out another?

The surgeon, while snapping on her rubber gloves, bluntly added, “Politicians and celebrities get the worst medical treatment. Who wants to stick their thumb up the ass of the president and tell him he’s got cancer?”

Well, no one really knew how to respond to that one, so there was a general wave of nodding until I blurted out the incongruous remark, “That’s how Elvis died!” Which got no reaction at all.