Most of Me (11 page)

MY LEFT HAND
is on hiatus; its fingers have turned to stone. They look like frozen french fries, ready to be cooked. The very sight of them makes my Cry Lady weep. “Farewell, manual dexterity,” she moans. I sympathize with her sorrow, but she's overreacting—my right hand is still nimble fingered. I remind her of that and of how lucky I am—so far only the left side of my body is affected. It could be years before Parkinson's migrates. Plus, I'm not taking any medication yet. This consoles my Cry Lady, for now, but I can tell that she's still shaken up.

Compared with her, I'm adjusting remarkably well to the new and worsening me. It turns out, most activities I do can be done with one hand: emptying the dishwasher, working on the computer, doing the laundry, shampooing my hair. Even walking the dog. And when I need a helping hand with chores—chopping vegetables or folding towels—I just wave my tragic wand and poof!—Bergen turns into my sous chef, and Naomi my girl Friday. They are so loving and so loyal—they'd be crushed to find out that I am even thinking of asking our neighbor for help. But in the bathroom, I have heard the sound of one hand flossing, and it's not pretty. Neither is the spell it has cast on my sexual fantasies.

It's late at night. I'm lying in bed, sliding my tongue back and
forth—slowly, smoothly—across my teeth. Bergen is next to me,
sound asleep. My tongue stumbles on something stuck between
my molars. A kernel of corn? A smidgen of chicken? I can't be
sure, but whatever it is, it must be removed. So I slither silently
out of bed, creep down the stairs, and slip out the front door. My
Victoria's Secret nightgown flutters in the wind. Bursting with
desire, I limp lasciviously across the street. A tiny gasp escapes my
lips. There he is—my neighbor, Will, the dentist. I can feel my
heart throbbing, and my knees go weak. We stand beneath the full
moon and glittering stars, staring deeply into each other's teeth,
until finally I whisper, “Floss me, Will, floss me.” And he does.

5

Lost and Found

A
MONTH HAS PASSED SINCE
that first moonlit flossing. For a while, I couldn't stop thinking about it. But now I have other things on my mind.

Today Nellie found a ten-dollar bill. It was folded in half, lounging on a patch of grass near the park. I'm not sure if it was the sweet smell of money or the stench of well-anointed grass, but when she caught a whiff she woofed, then launched into a sniffing frenzy. Sensing the inevitable, I limped into action and rescued the cash before Nellie had a chance to squat and squirt all over it.

This was the first time she found money. I wish she'd find more of it, instead of all those pointy sticks, food scraps, icky insects, and used tissues I dig out of her mouth. But who am I to talk? I can't even remember the last time I came across a nickel, let alone a ten-dollar bill. But I did find something of significance the other day.

I wish it were something joyful, like my elusive G-spot, or something musical, like Naomi's lost iPod. Instead, I'm afraid it's rather dismal: two lumps in my right breast. The small one feels like a pebble—hard and round. The larger one feels formless and spongy. And even though they are practically neighbors, just inches apart, they have never been formally introduced. Being the hostess and all, I got the ball rolling by asking their names.

“I'm Little Lump,” chirped the small one, curled up by my sternum.

“And I'm Big Blob,” bellowed the other.

He had set up camp behind my nipple, in the shade of my areola. Compared with Little Lump, he was huge.

At first, I was worried that they wouldn't get along. After all, one is timid; the other is aggressive. The last thing I needed was a bra-room brawl. So I read the riot act to each of them, in private, and they both assured me they won't pick a fight. But Little Lump was still scared.

“Why should I trust him?” she asked.

“Because Blob's your uncle,” I said.

Ever since my auntie Glenda died of breast cancer, I've kept close tabs on my tits. I'm always on the lookout for lumps or bumps and other ominous signs. By now, I know them inside out. So does Dr. Mintz. When you have breast tissue as lumpy as mine, medical exams and mammograms are essential for peace of mind. And that's exactly why I'm here, again, in Dr. Mintz's office. For peace of mind. While Dr. Mintz examines my breast lumps, I study the expression on his face. I'm looking for clues and cues: should I or shouldn't I panic?

“It's probably nothing,” he says, “but I'd like to get you in for a mammogram. Just to be sure.”

The tone of his voice pushes my panic button.

“Do you think it's cancer?” I ask.

“I don't think so,” he says. But what I hear is, “Maybe.”

When I get home, I tell Bergen about Little Lump and Big Blob. He stays calm and reassures me. “You know, there's no point worrying, until we know what it is.”

“I know. That's why I don't want to tell Naomi.”

But I do call Lisa.

She says, “It's good that you're getting it checked out, Robbie, but it's probably nothing to worry about.”

Sweet Lisa, the eternal optimist.

ONE DAY
I save an earthworm. Not in any evangelical way—I only proselytize to praying mantises. I simply save this worm from imminent death. While taking Nellie for a walk, I spot the wiggling creature, smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. Baking in the hot sun.

“Look, Nellie,” I say.

She gives it a sniff, then watches me slip my hand into an empty poop bag and gingerly pick it up. I carry it away from the concrete, to a nearby garden, and place it in a shady patch of grass.

“Take care, little worm,” I whisper.

Then Nellie barks at it three times—sage advice that I translate for the benefit of that critter: “Location. Location. Location.”

This is the first time I have ever saved a worm. This must be what happens to people who spend too much time looking down at the ground. People like me who don't have a job, who are clinically depressed, who do the Parkinson's shuffle while walking a dog that loves to swallow sticks. People who know that one day they could be the wiggling creature—lying smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk, baking in the hot sun—in need of saving.

OVER THE YEARS
, I've bartered my art for many things: photo sessions, dental work, toy boats, handmade dolls, clothing, hats, jewelry. But this is the first time I've bartered for therapy. When I arrive for my session with Theresa, I present her with a large rectangle wrapped in brown paper. Theresa smiles and says, “Is this my painting?”

“If you like it,” I say.

“I'm sure I will. May I see it?”

Together we unwrap the package, revealing a colorful collage of three childlike figures holding hands, next to a cat, on a tree-lined street. The sky is filled with swirling dots. The trees are overflowing with hundreds of tiny cutout painted leaves. The houses are simplified boxes with lace windows. I lean the framed artwork against the wall and say, “The title is
Down the
Street, Hand in Hand.
”

“It's beautiful. There is so much joy—I love it.”

“One reason I chose this one is because it has a lot of purple in it, and you wear a lot of purple. It's also one of my ‘Dancers' series. When you looked through my portfolio, you liked that style.”

“Thank you, Robyn. I can't wait to find a place for it in my home.”

I curl up on the couch while Theresa sits down on her chair. We allow our breathing to synchronize, letting our shoulders relax and our heads roll slowly from side to side. And then Theresa gently asks, “How are you?”

“I'm not sure,” I answer, pressing my right hand against my tightening chest. “I found two lumps in my breast. I've started picking up worms off the sidewalk. And I'm fantasizing about getting flossed by my neighbor.”

Theresa's face turns serious. “Have you gone to your doctor about the lumps?”

“Yep. I'm booked for a mammogram and ultrasound soon. But I'm worried.”

We talk about the challenges of waiting—for the examinations and for the results. We explore the best- and worst-case scenarios, as I imagine how they might unfold. We review techniques to help me cope with my tendency to catastrophize. And when I'm all lumped out, we talk about my newfound affinity for worms and Will the dentist and my deteriorating manual dexterity—all within sight of my painting, leaning against the wall, reminding me that I haven't painted in a very long time.

Soon after my session with Theresa, Bergen and Naomi abandon me to go on a road trip, up to Williams Lake, in northern British Columbia, to visit Bergen's cousin and go to the Williams Lake Stampede and Rodeo. They left this morning, the first day of Naomi's summer vacation. I was invited to join them. But we all knew I'd say no. Considering my low energy, and my daily nap and exercise routine, I decided to stay in my comfort zone—at home with Nellie. They'll be gone for two weeks—long enough to soak up some traveling adventures and to get a much-needed break from me. I get the house to myself for a couple of days, and then the visitors arrive. First Ruthie. Then my dad.

When Ruthie arrives, she is in demand. She has friends all over the world, many of them right here in Vancouver. We all want a piece of her, so she is parceling out her time judiciously. Today is my day.

She arrives bearing gifts, and I welcome her with tears. Nellie starts licking her pedicured toes.

“You call this a dog?” Ruthie laughs, leaning down to rub her belly.

“I know—she's a crouton compared with your pooch.”

Maya. The massive Great Dane.

“How is Maya doing?” I ask.

“Getting old. She has arthritis. She's staying with friends, the ones who always look after her while I'm away.”

Good friends, no doubt. Because Ruthie is away a lot. She loves to travel. And she looks the part: exotic, voluptuous, comfortable in her sun-kissed skin. I feel like a gargoyle in the presence of a goddess.

I've known her since high school, where we became instant friends. Together we pursued typical teenage obsessions: sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, and moving out of our parents' homes. But I quickly learned there was nothing typical about Ruthie—she was an overachiever. At sixteen, while I was still planning my escape, she had her own apartment and a full-time job and had boldly upgraded from boys to men. At eighteen, while I was still living at home, she was traveling overseas. When Ruthie returned home, seven years later, the world had penetrated her heart. She was fulfilled and ready to settle down, for a while. She started a small business—a mobile juice bar—that grew into a chain of vegetarian restaurants called Fresh. While she had been traveling, I had finally made several escapes—from my parents' house, from university, from Toronto. I was by then living in Vancouver, establishing my art career. In so many ways, our lives had changed, are still changing. But our sisterly love has remained constant.

“What's up with you?” she asks. “Lisa mentioned you're getting some tests.”

“I'm scheduled for a mammogram next week. I found two lumps. What if it's cancer? What'll I do?” Tears stream down my face.

“You'll fight. That's what you'll do. Right? You'll fight.”

But I'm not so sure. Part of me thinks breast cancer would be a blessing, a morbid means of escape from Parkinson's.

“What would you do?” I ask her.

And without hesitation, Ruthie says, “Whatever it takes to beat it.”

She stares at me with those green eyes, then she issues her command: “You'll fight. And we'll be there to help you.”

My tears come and go for the rest of the day. While we walk Nellie. While we go out for lunch. While we drink tea and talk about her travels, her man, her miscarriage. And before you know it, our visit is over—time flies when you're having phlegm. I wipe my nose; we hug good-bye; I escort her to the door. Then the gargoyle blows the goddess a kiss, and she drives off in her rental car.

MY DAD TRAVELS
light but always packs dozens of jokes and one-liners. Never newish, mostly Jewish, borrowed from the best: Henny Youngman, Groucho Marx, Jackie Mason, Rodney Dangerfield, Woody Allen. I've heard them all a million times, but I don't mind hearing them again. I know that the more jokes he cracks, the happier he is. When we get home from the airport, I can tell he is no longer depressed.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“I was born tired,” he replies.

When he's settled in the guest room, I ask, “Are you comfortable?”

“I make a living,” he quips.

When he winces while getting up from the couch, I ask, “Are you all right?”

“I told my doctor my back hurts whenever I stand up, so the doctor told me, ‘Then don't stand up,'” he laughs. He's seventy years old and still remembers them all.

This is the first time in years that my dad has visited me on his own, without my mom. She stayed in Toronto, to help look after my brother's and sister's kids. She likes to be where the action is—and it sure isn't here. Left to our own devices, my dad and I devolve: we are two peas in a Parkinson's pod. Moving in slow motion. Lounging on the couch. Reading the newspaper. Taking midday naps. We're both perfectly content to hang out at home. And when we do venture out, it's to walk the dog or buy groceries or go out for dinner.

“I feel like I'm on holiday,” my dad confesses after waking up from a snooze. He is so easy to please.

I have arranged a special surprise for him. It's opalescent blue and seats two. It pulls up to the curb—curvaceous, flirtatious—be still my beeping horn.

“Hop in!” says Will the dentist. “I'll take you for a spin.”