Most of Me (15 page)

I imagine my subdivided breast, sprawled out on a countertop in some cancer laboratory—just one of the many condemned properties Dr. Chung knocks down. Some vacant lots will be rebuilt. Others, like mine, will remain empty. Either way, the view from this prime real estate will be different. One of these days, I'm going to muster up the courage to have a look.

Dr. Chung is reading my chart. “Your blood pressure is quite low. How are you feeling?”

“Wiped out. Dizzy when I stand up.”

“I'd like to keep you in hospital an extra day, just to make sure your blood pressure returns to normal, before sending you home.”

“That would be great,” I say. The prospect of going home the day after surgery seems reckless.

“I'll be back tomorrow morning to check up on you again, before my first operation.”

My remaining time in hospital is spent under the spell of morphine. Or as I like to call it, “More Please.” It takes the edge off the pain, making it easier for me to sleep. Whenever I wake up, either Bergen or my dad is by my side. Sometimes both. When my dad isn't around, he's either napping in the waiting room or out shopping for my comfort foods: freshly squeezed veggie juice, ginger rice muffins, and an assortment of fruits and vegetables. Bergen is busy stickhandling the details of my follow-up homecare, which will include daily visits from a community nurse and occasional visits from homecare assistants. Something tells me I'm going to need all the help I can get. Both of my arms are disabled—the left one from Parkinson's, the right one from having eleven lymph nodes surgically removed.

Just two days after the mastectomy, my morphine supply is cut off, and I am released from hospital—a one-breasted shadow of my former self. While I am convalescing at home, nothing feels comfortable. Not my pajamas. Not my bed. Not the couch. Not even my name. I long to belong to a culture that honors life transitions, where shamans or elders bestow new reverential names that embody change, that reveal powers, that summon ancestors. I wonder what I would be called.

Somewhere deep inside, I feel a stirring. I let out a grunt, and suddenly I am Gug the Cavewoman again, clutching my empty chest, encircled by chanting clan members singing my praises. For the gods have accepted my sacrificial breast, and I have survived this gruesome test. Together we celebrate this rite of passage with song and dance in my honor as I await the unveiling of my new name. The eldest of the elders approaches, her ancient eyes twinkling, her toothless mouth issuing guttural grunts and groans that epitomize my pitiful condition. And then the elder declares, “Eee-Oooh-Huuh.” My new name, which means “One-Good-Tit.” It fits, at least for now.

BEFORE THE OPERATION
, Bergen bought me an
MP
3 player and loaded it with some of my favorite music. It came in handy while I occupied room 438, drowning out irritating hospital noises with the sweet, soaring voices of Feist, Joni Mitchell, and k.d. lang. Had it been wintertime with the windows sealed tight, I'm sure I would have continued listening to the device when I relocated to my own bedroom. But it was summer, and the windows were open, inviting cool breezes and a cacophony of lawn mowers, barking dogs, crying children, and roaring car engines. And somewhere in the space between the noises and fresh air came the sounds of pounding drums, electric guitars, melodic keyboards, and powerhouse vocals from a neighborhood band belting out a live soundtrack to my first day home: “Brown Sugar,” “Mustang Sally,” “Back in the
USSR
,” “Hot Blooded,” “All Right Now,” and many more covers of classic rock 'n' roll songs.

Sprawled out on my bed and loaded with painkillers, I had no idea which neighbor's house or garage this music was coming from. All I knew was that the band was hot, and, like it or not, I was probably their only one-breasted groupie on the block. Everything else about them was left up to my imagination. So I pictured cute guys in their early twenties—indie rockers with bed-head hair and bad-ass attitudes, wearing jeans and T-shirts, rehearsing in a semifinished basement strewn with empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, and making ends meet by playing cover tunes at weddings and bar mitzvahs. Little did they know that they were serenading a middle-aged dame's postmastectomy homecoming.

MY MENSERVANTS
, Beck and Call, bear a striking resemblance to my father and my husband. Beck is the tall, bald jokester, who brings me freshly squeezed juices and take-out treats and
New York Times
bestsellers I've been dying to read. Call is the silver-haired juggler, who dazzles me with his dexterity, functioning as my short-order cook, housekeeper, confidant, chauffeur, secretary, social filter, dog walker, and nurse.

Beck and Call are a good team, but their days of working together are numbered. Beck is booked to fly home later this afternoon. He makes one last trip to the health food store, and when he returns he packs his suitcase and sets it beside the door. There's still time to be helpful. So he looks around and sees a basket filled with clean laundry.

Meanwhile, I am in bed, propped up by pillows, reading one of my new books. As I'm turning a page, I look up and see a shiny bald head hovering above a stack of floating folded towels, slowly, cautiously ascending the top stairs.

“Where do these go?” Beck asks.

“They go downstairs,” I say, laughing for the first time in days.

I'm sure going to miss Beck when he goes.

The next day, Naomi comes home from camp covered in mosquito bites and bursting with stories. We don't say it out loud, but we both know it was good she was away while I was in hospital. It allowed her to keep her spirits up and me to let my guard down. She had called Bergen a few times to find out how I was doing. He assured her that the operation had gone well and that I was
OK
and explained what to expect at this point in my recovery. So by the time she sees me, she is prepared. She doesn't even flinch.

I have Nora to thank for making me presentable that day. She's a home caregiver, originally from the Philippines, with a bachelor of science degree. She's half my size and double my strength—and unbelievably efficient. In just one hour, she washes and styles my hair, gives me a sponge bath, moisturizes my skin, helps me get dressed, makes my bed, does a load of laundry, tidies up the bathroom, takes Nellie for a walk, and cheers me up enough to laugh at the irony of the neighborhood band singing “Pretty Woman” over and over again until they get it right.

Later on, I give Susan a call. Even though she has spoken with Bergen since I got home, she is relieved to hear my voice. I thank her for the funny get well card, and she asks if I'm up for a visit.

“I was thinking of getting a bit of fresh air. Would you like to take me for a walk?” I ask.

“I'll be right over,” she says.

We eventually make it halfway down the block, and then I burst into tears.

“I hate this fucking disease!”

“I know,” she says. “It's awful. Which disease do you mean?”

“Breast cancer,” I moan.

“It's inhumane—chopping off tits.”

Suddenly I feel faint and crouch down on the grass. Some walk—I'm not even moving fast enough to call it a shuffle or a creep.

“You're body's been through a lot.” Susan crouches down beside me.

“This is probably far enough for today. Every day you'll get a little bit stronger and walk a little bit farther. You'll see. Let's get you home.”

RECOVERING FROM
a mastectomy is draining. Literally—I've got a god-awful drain dangling from my side. Apparently, if Dr. Chung hadn't installed it after removing lymph nodes from my armpit, a lot of bodily fluids would have nowhere to go. I'm sure this tubular contraption is better than having my arm balloon up. Still, I can't stand the sight of it. Which is why I have obstructed the view of its bloody contents by slipping a sock on top of it. Out of sight, but not out of mind—the container needs monitoring, so I have to sneak a peek every few hours. The container also needs emptying, and the liquid needs measuring—jobs the homecare nurses really enjoy.

The nurses come in all shapes and sizes and have names like Debbie and Shawna and Barbara. They don't wear nurse uniforms or scrubs. Instead, they dress in comfortable summer outfits—usually capris and a short-sleeved blouse. Each day, one of them drops by the house with her medical kit and supplies to check up on me, change the dressing on the Steri-Strips, and tend to my drain. There's a lot of leaning over and hovering above me. The view peering down those billowy blouses is much more titillating than glancing down at my own vacant lot. So I am always happy to see them, even though their visits remind me of what I no longer have.

Plenty of others are around to help me too. My neighbor Helen makes me a beautiful fruit salad. Full of seasonal berries, peaches, pineapple, grapes, apples, and pears. Everything is chopped up into such tiny delicate pieces that each spoonful tastes delightfully different. I used to be able to chop like that.

A few days later, she pops by to say hello. I thank her for the salad, tell her I am feeling better every day—eating healthy food, taking long naps.

“I hope Will isn't keeping you awake,” she says, rolling her eyes and feigning exasperation.

My heart skips a beat; my cheeks flush with guilt. Does Helen know that her husband is flossing me in my fantasies? And if so, how did she find out? Not knowing what to say, I just stand there in silence.

Then she adds, “I haven't seen Will this happy in years. I don't even mind that the band has taken over our living room.”

“The band? Will is in that band?”

“Oh yeah, he plays drums.” Helen smiles. “You should see them. They're all dentists, around Will's age, almost ready to retire. Everyone in the band is faculty at
UBC
's Department of Dentistry, except for the singer. She works in faculty administration.”

I try to picture mild-mannered Will going wild on the drum kit with his balding buddies riffing on electric guitars and keys, climbing the crescendo of Led Zeppelin's “Stairway to Heaven.” But my mind can't sustain this incongruous image—one minute I flash back to the cute indie rockers I dreamed up while lying in bed; the next minute I flash forward to imagine one of the aging dentists keeling over from a heart attack and Will saving him with an electric-guitar defibrillator. I am tempted to tell Helen what I am imagining, but in the end I hold back—I'm not sure how she would react. The last thing I want is to piss her off. In case I have more body parts removed, I wouldn't mind another one of her fruit salads.

Then there are my girlfriends. I'd be lost without each one of them. Especially now. They're like
GPS
for my soul, helping me navigate through this uncharted territory of disease and detours and dead ends. My Toronto Trio calls me frequently, as does my sister. And my Vancouver friends drop by: Diana, Betina, Joey, Gillian, Linda, Yvonne. Gloria would be here too if she were in town, but she's spending the summer in Spain.

And then there's Hildi, my oldest, funniest, most gullible friend. We met in grade 6, when she was honing her skills as class clown—a job she took more seriously than her studies. I was new to the school, and she terrified me so much that I befriended her.

We often played practical jokes on each other, and to this day we still talk about the best one I ever pulled on her. She had asked me when my birthday was, and I told her I celebrate my birthday for eight days—beginning March 29 and going through April 5—because it took me eight days to complete the journey out of my mother's vagina. First my head, then my neck, and so on until finally my feet flopped out and the doctor cut my umbilical cord. It was the best lie I'd ever told, and Hildi believed me. Mind you, we were only eleven years old at the time, but I must have been extremely convincing and she must have been extremely naïve.

For years, we were inseparable. Best friends. And then our worlds shifted and gaps grew between us until we no longer played leading roles in each other's lives. Still, we kept in touch through occasional phone calls and visits whenever I was in Toronto. When Hildi heard I had breast cancer, she called me up and made me an offer I didn't refuse—to fly out and take care of me after my mastectomy.

The minute Hildi walks into our house, she takes charge of everything and everyone. Hildi is good at that. She takes charge of everything and everyone at work. (She's an interior designer and contractor.) She takes charge of everything and everyone at home (her husband, their three daughters, one nanny, two dogs, one guinea pig, and a chinchilla). And after she gives me a big hug, she sends Bergen out grocery shopping, tells Lourdes what chores to do, prepares an enormous salad for our lunch, bakes chocolate chip cookies for Naomi and her friends, makes a pot of chicken soup that will be ready for dinner, cleans my refrigerator and kitchen drawers, and then persuades Bergen to take a break from looking after me—his first break in days. He goes for a run in the forest, does some errands, and works in his office. When dinnertime rolls around, he is refreshed and relaxed.

After dinner, Hildi makes tea, and the two of us lounge on the couch in the living room. The balcony door is open, and she is massaging my feet while “Hey Jude” drifts in.

“Where's the music coming from?” Hildi asks, her hands momentarily abandoning my feet for her BlackBerry.

“My neighbor across the street has a band. They're all dentists. I don't even know the band's name, so I have decided to call them the Overbites.”

“They're really good,” Hildi says, resuming my foot massage. A grimace spreads across her face.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

She drags her hand along my stubbly leg hair and says, “If you want, I can shave your legs for you.”

Another offer I can't refuse—especially if I want any more of her foot massages.