Most of Me (14 page)

“Hors d'oeuvre? Champagne? Bilateral mastectomy?”

In the operating room, we chat, and I'm struck by her radiant smile and the excitement in her eyes. It's obvious that she is raring to go. I watch her flip through some paperwork, nod to her nurse, then announce, “We're ready to begin.”

The operating room is bright and cold. Bergen's hand is strong and warm.

“Do you enjoy performing surgery?” I ask Dr. Chung's hovering head.

“It's my favorite part,” she says from behind her mask, while painting antiseptic on my exposed skin.

“I'm going to give you some local freezing now, so I need you to lie perfectly still.”

“I have Parkinson's. That won't be a problem.”

I am awake the entire time, squeezing Bergen's hand. I purposely don't watch her making the incision or scraping away my flesh. I'm afraid if I did, my reaction might be impolite or foolish—I tend to fart or faint under extreme pressure. So to prevent any one of us from needing resuscitation, I keep my eyes on Bergen, sitting quietly in his facemask by my side, and together we calmly breathe the antiseptic air in and out.

Meanwhile, Dr. Chung keeps on digging, prodding, swabbing, dabbing. When she finally extracts Little Lump from my anesthetized breast, she holds it out for me to see. And there it is, glistening between the tweezers, no larger than a pea, looking more boogerlike than bogeyman.

“This doesn't look like cancer,” she says. “But we have to know for sure.” That's why Little Lump is sent off to Biopsy Land in the bottom of a sterilized jar. And I am sent off to Worryville to wait for test results that will determine the fate of my right breast.

THERE'S NO REST
for the weary, or the teary. My Cry Lady and I were swamped. We had ten days to get this pre-surgery to-do list done. It was daunting but doable, provided we took one Parkinson's shuffle at a time.

The items on the list fell into three familiar categories: calamity, sanity, and vanity.

My calamity checklist looked like this:

· Go to the cancer agency to get an
MRI
of both breasts.

· Go to the local health clinic to get a preoperative blood test.

· Attend an urgent meeting with my neurologist, Dr. Stoessl, to discuss specific medications and anesthetics that should not be administered to Parkinson's patients during surgery and recovery.

· Attend a follow-up meeting with my surgeon, Dr. Chung, to hear results of Little Lump's biopsy report and
MRI
, as well as her recommendation for either a lumpectomy or mastectomy.

· Go to the hospital for a preoperative meeting with the anesthesiologist.

· The day before surgery, go to the hospital for a nuclear medicine injection for sentinel node biopsy.

The good news is I managed to get all these things done, and I didn't panic in the
MRI
(I just focused on John Lennon's soothing voice in my headphones), I didn't faint during the blood test, I didn't need to worry about the drugs (Dr. Stoessl knew exactly what to avoid), I didn't joke with Dr. Chung, I didn't sleep with the anesthesiologist, and I didn't glow in the dark after the nuclear medicine injection—though in my mind, these were all distinct possibilities.

The bad news is that Little Lump is also cancerous: invasive ductal carcinoma Grade 3. Although she may be smaller than Big Blob, she's more deadly. Now the writing is on the chest wall: hello, mastectomy; good-bye, boob gone bad.

My sanity checklist was smaller:

· Book a massage with Jessica.

· Schedule a session with Theresa.

· Hire a part-time housekeeper.

Jessica is a registered massage therapist. Week after week, I venture downtown to lie prostrate in her presence. Blessed with strong peasant fingers and athletic prowess, she coaxes my rigid muscles to relax. This is no easy task for either one of us. It's demanding physical work: pressing, being pressed; pulling, being pulled; kneading, being kneaded. And I need her now more than ever—she's a necessity in my life.

“Oh, dear,” she uttered, when I told her my breast was doomed. She offered to make postsurgery house calls if required. And then she silently deployed her healing fingers into my mournful flesh, expanding time and extracting tears.

I finally found someone to help clean the house. Her name is Lourdes, and she comes highly recommended. She'll schedule us in every other Monday, but she'll pray for me every day.

How can my tit be so sick when it doesn't even hurt? How is it something so small can be so catastrophic? Fear and grief and disbelief—these are the dominant themes of my bon-voyage-breast session with Theresa.

And finally, my vanity list:

· Get legs waxed.

· Get mustache zapped.

· Get a haircut and color touch-up.

So that if I die in surgery, I'll die smooth and coiffed.

6

Kissing My Cleavage Good-bye

I
T'S THE EVE OF
my mastectomy. The forecast calls for heavy gusts of trepidation amid a downpour of telephone calls from family and friends. Expect seasonal escape for daughter at overnight summer camp, treat-filled vacation for family dog at neighbor's house, and laid-back night with husband, father, and sexy
TV
host. There is a 5 percent chance of my cracking a smile.

In the hullabaloo of rushing to appointments and making necessary arrangements, I had forgotten one key thing that I had intended to do—find a meaningful way to honor my right breast while she was still attached.

The last time I honored one of my body parts was fourteen years ago. I was pregnant with Naomi, due to give birth any day, and I had opted out of having a traditional baby shower. Instead, I threw myself a Bless My Vagina party. This was far more practical. Who needs gifts like receiving blankets and baby booties when your vagina is in imminent danger? What I needed was a posse of pussies praying for my private parts. And so, my local girlfriends gathered at my home for a magical night of drumming and incantation. It worked. My baby arrived; my vagina survived.

It is far too late to organize a Bless My Breast party—with gourmet victuals and rituals and wine. Even if it had been planned, I would have canceled—my mood is more funereal than celebratory. So after a simple home-cooked meal with Bergen and my dad, several more ideas surface:

· Gold-plated trophy of a solitary tit with “In Appreciation of Thirty-Four Years of Loyalty”

· Bronzing my first training bra

· Ceremonially burning my 36 C bras

Nothing is feasible or appropriate. And as the evening wears on, I am overtaken by the past three weeks' worth of worrying and fatigue. There will be no tributes or ceremonial gifts. Just a silent surrendering to fate, with Bergen's arms wrapped around my bosom and our tears a prelude to sleep.

I wake up in the middle of the night to pee and to ponder. If it's possible to die of a broken heart, then it's plausible to die of an amputated tit. In the event that I join the Lucky Ones, as a courtesy to my grieving family, I have composed the following obituary:

ROBYN MICHELE LEVY
In the early morning of August 6, 2008,
TV
host Craig Ferguson (
CBS
) lost his biggest fan. Surrounded by her surgeon, anesthesiologist, and nurses, Robyn took her final breath as her right breast took her final bow. She leaves behind the remote control and the corner seat of the couch. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Craig Ferguson's snake-mug replacement fund, should his current snake mug ever break.

IN THE MORNING
, Bergen and my dad take me to the hospital. When I check in at the reception desk, I see my name printed in capital letters on the surgery whiteboard:

ROBYN LEVY
7:45
AM

But I know that nothing is permanent around here. Just like my right breast, my name will be taken off later this morning.

I follow a nurse down the hall to the preoperative area.

“We'll get you ready in here,” she says, drawing the curtains around a hospital bed and the two of us. She helps me get changed into a flimsy hospital gown while filling an oversized plastic bag with the clothes I struggled to dress myself in this morning. When I'm tucked under the sheets, Bergen and my Dad squeeze into this makeshift room. Having them here with me is as bittersweet as getting a mastectomy—their presence is both life saving and heart wrenching.

The nurse opens the curtains and explains, “Someone will be by in a few minutes with your chart.”

And with that, she heads off toward a group mingling by a door.

Soon another nurse arrives with supplies. And questions. I tell her that everything is empty: my stomach, my bladder, my bowels. This news delights her and is noted on my chart. So are my vitals—temperature, blood pressure, heart rate; existing medical condition: Parkinson's. Her face betrays a hint of surprise, then quickly returns to her neutral nurse expression. Thankfully, I can't see my own facial expression. It would be too jarring, like looking into the eyes of a death-row prisoner about to be executed.

“The doctor's on her way,” the nurse says, drawing the curtains.

My dad steps out and waits in the hall. Bergen stays by my side. Still, I feel lost and alone.

Dr. Chung glides toward me, looking elegant in green scrubs. A smile swoops across her face and lands gently on her cheeks. Her dark eyes say, “Trust me,” with the unflinching gaze of a warrior. And I do. I must.

“It's almost time,” she tells me, peeling back the sheet, opening up my gown, and exposing my chest. Then she uncaps a red marker and starts scribbling curvy lines and decorative dots and dashes. When she is done, my right breast resembles a preschooler's drawing, the kind proud parents display on their fridge. It's that good.

Dr. Chung covers us up—me and the masterpiece—then looks at the clock and says, “Any final questions?”

My mind is swirling. Final questions? I'm flooded with final questions. Especially those morbid ones that drown out hope and are best not asked when you're lying on a gurney, staring at your surgeon, bracing yourself for a mastectomy.

And so I pose this question instead: “I'm sure I don't want reconstructive surgery, but what if I change my mind years from now—would an implant still be an option?”

Dr. Chung looks surprised. “Didn't you read chapter 34 in
The Intelligent Patient's Guide to Breast Cancer?
I gave you a copy of the book.”

I sheepishly admit that I'd skipped over this chapter—after all, I'm not planning to get a replacement. She gives me the look that teachers give students whose dog ate their homework. Then she glances at the time again and quickly explains that to keep this option open, she'd have to leave a flap of loose, dangly skin next to the scar. That's instead of a smooth, flat chest.

It's time to wheel me to the
OR
—I've got seconds to decide. I think, even if I never get reconstruction, that flap could come in handy. For what, I don't know. But it's always good to keep your options open, right? Then I look at Bergen for guidance, and instantly I know: I don't want any more surgery after this ordeal, not even to install a brand-new breast. So what's the use of saving something I don't intend to use? If I want loose and dangly, I know where to get it. Decision made: forgo the flap and stick with the smooth. Dr. Chung nods to the nurses, and then I'm rolling slowly down a hallway, toward a set of swinging doors, my husband's and father's faces dissolving in my tears. On this early summer morning, my mourning has begun—before the anesthetic, before the first incision, before the great collector takes my masterpiece away.

I WAKE UP
horrified and hazy amid a commotion of concern. Everything hurts. Something is missing. Bergen will help me find it later. First I have to pee. A dark-haired woman leans too close into my face and starts talking, “Easy does it, now. There's no rush.” She's obviously speaking to me. Wherever I am.

Now Bergen is leaning into my face. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Then my dad, who just smiles. They're both blurry. I hope they're
OK
. I hope I'm
OK
. I feel terrible. Nausea. Headache. Unbelievable pressure on my chest. I don't know why. I struggle to sit up, and the dark-haired woman rushes to my side. She's dressed as a nurse.

“Are we going to try walking to the bathroom?”

There's something about the tone of her voice that tips me off—this is not just a question, this is also a warning that somehow involves her.

“Nice and slowly. Let's scoot your bottom toward the edge of the bed.”

Bed? Another clue. That's where I am, in a bed with beeping noises and long tubes attached to my arm.

The trip to the bathroom is harrowing, even with the nurse by my side. The combination of shock, anesthetic, and painkillers has exacerbated my Parkinson's symptoms. I am so stiff and so slow that I feel like the Tin Man from
The Wizard
of Oz,
all rusted and immobile, bladder about to burst, being coaxed along by doting Dorothy to follow the yellow brick road. “You can do it. We're almost there.”

Miraculously, I make it just in time to pee and to pass out. When I come to, flashes of lucidity break through my delirium. I now know that I am breastless in hospital. And I know the reason the yellow brick road was yellow.

I AM TOO
afraid to look. The nurses who change the dressing on my vacant lot assure me this is normal. I'll look when I'm ready, they say. Dr. Chung drops by at the end of her shift to check up on me. She proudly reports that my surgery went well and everything has been sent to the lab for analysis.

“You mean my breast is on some stranger's desk?”

Dr. Chung smiles. “Theoretically, yes. But removing a breast is complicated. It doesn't pop off all in one piece, you know.”