Most of Me (16 page)

Naomi is enjoying having Hildi around—and not just because she baked her cookies. Hildi is a woman of contradictions—stylish yet original, unpredictable yet reliable, manic yet composed, hilarious yet philosophical. She is also a woman who never forgets—at least when it comes to other people's sex lives. It occurs to me that burning my old diaries—if I ever find them—wouldn't be enough to prevent Naomi from learning about my past. Hildi's brain contains a top-secret list of who-I-did-what-with-when-and-where. Which is why I'm a little worried. Nevertheless, everyone should have a Hildi.

I'VE ONLY BEEN
home one week and already I have dozens of thank-you notes to write to family and friends. My missing tit would be tickled by this outpouring of support: exotic flowers and gift baskets, books and
CD
s, pajamas and slippers and hats and scarves, home-cooked meals, antioxidant juices, homeopathic remedies, gift certificates, massages. There were also generous donations to breast cancer research on my behalf and in memory of my auntie Glenda.

This showering of gifts is both overwhelming and comforting. But I couldn't help recalling that it barely drizzled when I was diagnosed with Parkinson's. Clearly, in a popularity contest, breast cancer would win a landslide victory over Parkinson's. The headline would read: “Tit trumps brain cells: Sympathy gifts for middle-aged dame's diseases skewed.”

I'm not complaining. I'm just pointing out the obvious. It's easier for people to relate to breast cancer. Breasts are sexy, symbolic, and tangible. They stick out for all the world to see. And because breast cancer is so common and affects so many people, it has become a popular cause to support. Brain cells, in contrast, go about their mysterious business in the dark. And Parkinson's is a mysterious and frightening disease, gnawing away at our gray matter, hidden from sight.

It's always harder to relate to the unknown, let alone shop for it. So, to provide a service to the unafflicted, I compiled a list of gift ideas for someone who has just been diagnosed with Parkinson's—especially the early-onset variety. Here are some presents I would have appreciated at the time:

· flannel pajamas with built-in three-ply Kleenex dispenser

· a rearview mirror inscribed with the words “Warning! Abject woman in mirror is sicker than she appears.”

· a
DIY
suicide kit with fill-in-the-blank suicide notes and obituaries, plus no-nonsense noose with lifetime guarantee

Simple gifts, really. But all I got were shoulders to cry on—which probably saved me.

I FEEL LIKE
I've joined the circus, and I'm waiting in the wings for my cue. The ringmaster shouts, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Cirque d'Oy Vey. Get out your hankies for today's opening act—presenting Robyn the Wretched. She will bravely attempt looking in the mirror at her naked chest for the very first time—a dangerous stunt requiring a safety net. Remember, Ladies and Gentlemen—it ain't over till the flat lady cries.”

Thank goodness for Hildi. She catches me before I plummet to the ground and enfolds me in her arms. And when the ringmaster waves good-bye, she gives him the one-finger salute.

Had Hildi not saved me, I might have become one of the Lucky Ones:

After a tragic fall under the big top, Robyn the Wretched joined the Celestial Circus in the Sky. She leaves behind her old diaries, a stack of unfinished thank-you notes, and her unfulfilled dream of going to the Overbites' upcoming gig.

She will be dearly missed by family, friends, neighbors, and pets.

In lieu of flowers, donations to her favorite charity, Naomi's Soy Latte Trust Fund, would be appreciated.

HAVING BRAVELY VIEWED
my vacant lot, I'm prepared for the next day's showing at a follow-up appointment with Dr. Chung. Bergen and I are waiting for her in the examination room. Soon there's a knock on the door, and she walks in. She parks her clipboard on the sink counter, greets me with a smile, and says, “Your breast pathology report arrived. It's good news.”

“Great,” I say, thinking back to my school report cards that were loaded with A's and accolades. I imagine my breast pathology report card:

It was a pleasure having Robyn's right breast in my laboratory. I'm delighted to report that it excelled in all areas of testing. Most notably, it distinguished itself from the other specimens by developing two unique cancers in separate locations. The large tumor exceeded all size expectations, proving to be bigger than initial estimates. Both tumors demonstrated superb communication skills by constructing a cancerous highway between them. They were also tidy and considerate tumors, refraining from spreading their disease to any of the eleven lymph nodes that were surgically removed. In light of these accomplishments, Robyn's right breast has deservedly earned A+ in the following subjects—individuality, ambition, communication, and organization—and hereby graduates with top honors.

Bergen squeezes my hand, and together we let out sighs of relief. Dr. Chung beams with pride and says, “It's good we removed your entire breast. Let's have a look at how you're doing.”

I maneuver myself up onto the examination table and sit on the edge with my legs dangling down. Dr. Chung moves in closely, gently removes the gauze dressing covering my vacant lot, and begins her inspection. Her delicate fingers trace the periphery of my scar, hiding beneath the white Steri-Strips.

“No swelling at all, no sign of infection. This looks great,” she says, moving on to the drain tube jutting out from my side. “This also looks great. You're healing up quickly. How's your arm?”

“Painful and tight,” I answer, struggling to lift it up to shoulder height—as far as it can move. Dr. Chung touches my arm and asks “Are you doing the exercises from the book?”

“Several times, every day.”

“That's good. Keep it up. The mobility will improve.”

When the exam is over, Dr. Chung asks, “How is your daughter doing?”

I tell her that Naomi is coping quite well and fortunately has been out of town for much of the summer. And then Dr. Chung smiles and closes my file. It's time to go, and I give her a thank-you card, a jar of Bergen's homemade kiwi jam, and an A+ for likely saving my life.

MY PHONE RINGS
, and as usual, Bergen answers it.

“It's Gloria. She's back from Spain. Do you want to talk to her?” he asks. I think, of course I want to talk to her, but not over the phone.

“Can you talk to her? Just fill her in, I'm sure she'll want to drop by for a visit.”

Boy, is she in for a shock. The last time I saw her was six weeks ago—the day before she left for Spain—and just a few days before my diagnosis. We were out for brunch and I didn't mention my lumps. The timing wasn't right. Imagine saying, “By the way, I found two lumps in my breast that may be cancerous. I hope you have a wonderful holiday with your family in Spain. Have fun! See you next month.”

When the doorbell rings, I know it's Gloria. Bergen and Nellie greet her at the door while I shuffle to the front hall. The moment she sees me, she comes undone—tears cascading down her cheeks, arms crushing me close to her chest, deep sighs spilling from her mouth. For a moment, she loosens her grip and I think I will be released from this agonizing tableau with my remaining tit intact. But then she looks me in the eyes, shakes her head in disbelief, and mutters, “Oh, Robyn” several times before she pulls me and my left breast back into her arms. This time my drain gets wedged between our ribs, and I have to wiggle myself free.

She wipes away her tears, then semi-smiles.

“These are for you,” she says, handing me a bouquet of flowers she'd been clutching during the hug. Dahlias and freesias and gerberas.

“They're beautiful. Thank you.”

A few more drops trickle from Gloria's eyes, and I wonder—where are my tears? It feels strange to be the dry-eyed witness and not the weeper.

“Come meet my friend Hildi. She's visiting from Toronto.”

We head into the
TV
room, where Hildi is stretched out on a couch. She wiggles her toes hello. And soon, the three of us are chatting away, barefoot on the couch while Nellie lounges on my lap.

The conversation turns to how Gloria and I met. We take turns telling Hildi the story.

“It was almost twenty years ago,” Gloria starts, “before we had husbands and kids.”

“That was so long ago.”

My voice startles Nellie, and she scoots off my lap, curls up by Gloria's feet, and starts licking her pedicured toes. I can't remember when this first started, but every time she comes over, Nellie goes for her feet.

“Anyway,” Gloria continues, her eyelids beginning to flutter, her mouth growing slack, “I was on a lunch break, at Granville Island. And the moment I saw Robyn's artwork on display, I knew one of her paintings would make a perfect wedding gift for some friends of mine.”

“So Gloria commissioned me to make a custom painting for the couple.”

“Who aren't even married anymore,” Gloria laughs.

“Who got the painting when they split up?” Hildi asks.

“She did,” Gloria says, wiggling her wet toes.

“And then Gloria invited me out for lunch.”

“We had so much fun consulting about this project,” Gloria smiles, “I wanted us to be friends.”

By now, all three of us are watching Nellie—her little furry head bobbing up and down at Gloria's feet. It's hard to tell who is having more fun—my dog or my friend.

“This feels so good!” Gloria sighs, unabashedly stretching out her legs and arching her back, as if she's on the verge of an orgasm.

My own toes are tingling with vicarious pleasure, taking my mind off my sore chest and arm. That's when I realize my friendship pilgrimage is back on track. My friends are coming to me. They're meeting one another. And I am luxuriating in their love.

THE NIGHT BEFORE
Hildi leaves, we take her out for dinner at an Indian restaurant. The place is packed with families and couples. We are seated at an empty booth at the front. Bergen, Naomi, and I go for the all-you-can-eat vegetarian buffet. Hildi orders butter chicken off the menu. The food is delicious, especially my favorites—dal and basmati rice. I make several trips to the buffet at the back of the room, and each time I am delightfully surprised by how polite and considerate the other customers in line are toward me. They smile and let me go ahead of them—some of them even insist. Then they wait until I've finished filling up my plate before they approach the bar and begin serving themselves.

When we're done, a waitress clears our plates and Bergen pays the bill. As I slide out of the booth and sling my purse over my shoulder, the strap catches on my surgical drain, which is pinned to the outside of my shirt. A wave of shame envelops me—I'd forgotten to tuck it out of sight or at least cover it with a sock. What an eyesore! I've been parading around the restaurant with this blood-filled contraption dangling in full view. No wonder those strangers at the buffet were so nice to me.

On the drive home, my embarrassment subsides and soon I'm feeling smug. For I have discovered the secret to getting front-of-the-line treatment—the bloody surgical drain.

Back at the house, both Hildi and Naomi haul out their suitcases and start packing. Tomorrow they fly to Toronto—on different flights, for different reasons. Hildi is returning home to her family and work. Naomi is going on vacation, to visit family and friends. Originally, I was booked to go with Naomi. Then along came cancerus interruptus, and I had to cancel my flight. But Naomi still wanted to go. This will be the first time she travels on her own.

Once they're finished packing, we all sit around the dining table sipping tea and nibbling on fresh fruit. The kitchen looks sparkling clean, and the flower arrangements look stylish—thanks to Hildi's professional interior designer touch. It's been a long, busy day, and just as I'm about to suggest we all watch some Craig Ferguson to unwind, Hildi leaps up from the table and declares, “I need chocolate.” She starts pacing back and forth, running her hand along the counter and asks, “Has anyone seen that container of gourmet hot chocolate?”

“You mean the chocolate mix from that beautiful gift basket my cousins sent me?” I ask.

“Yeah. That stuff. I could have sworn I put it away in this drawer,” Hildi says, exasperated, digging through jars and bags of baking supplies.

“It's not in here. Shit. Where the hell is it?” she yells, slamming a bottle of vanilla on the counter, tossing bags of sunflower and pumpkin seeds beside it.

Of course, if anyone should know the whereabouts of this chocolate, it should be Hildi. Just two days ago, she reorganized everything in our kitchen, from baking supplies to cans of tuna to boxes of cereal. She may very well never forget other people's sexual secrets, but obviously her exceptional memory skills don't apply to food. There's no point telling her this—or anything at all—given the frenzied state she is in. Bergen gets up to help her look, but Hildi is determined to find it on her own.

And so instead of the
Late Late Show
with Craig Ferguson, we watch the
Obsessive-Compulsive Show
starring Hildi—as she frantically searches the cupboards and drawers until the counters are cluttered with everything but that elusive container of gourmet hot chocolate.

“I hate it when something special goes missing,” Hildi moans.

“Me too,” I say. But it's not chocolate I'm thinking about.

I'M NOT GOOD
at good-byes, especially when they involve boarding an airplane, which may or may not be doomed. My fear of flying generously extends to family and friends, so today, with Hildi and Naomi flying to Toronto, I'm a nervous wreck. Standing on the sidewalk, they give me reassuring hugs and kisses, I give them anxious ones in return. Bergen loads their luggage into the trunk. Then there's a flurry of hands waving from car windows, and for the first time in weeks I'm left all alone—abandoned by the curb, wiping away my tears, silently screaming, “Don't leave me! Don't crash! Don't die! Call me when you land!”