Most of Me (21 page)

“Did you know that
VY
Canis Majoris is very unstable and will probably be destroyed, as a supernova, in less than 100,000 years?”

“I didn't know that,” I say. “In fact, I don't even understand that.”

Undeterred by my ignorance, Josh pulls out one of his drawings, which shows the comparative sizes of planets and stars.

“This is Europa; this is Titan; this is Dione. Of course, this is Earth.”

When he gets to Mars, Kayla comes over and asks, “Can I show you something now?”

“Josh, do you mind if we take a break? I'd like to see what Kayla wants to show me.”

“Sure,” he says.

Kayla and I sit on the floor, leaning against the couch. She opens her notebook and says, “I wrote all these stories.”

“Did you draw the pictures too?”

“Yep. I want to be an author and illustrator when I grow up.”

“I'm sure you will be. Especially if you keep writing stories. Can you read me something?”

“
OK
.”

Kayla begins with a story about a grade 2 teacher who apparently spends all of her teaching time explaining elaborate school rules to her students. One day, the teacher surprises the children by announcing that there will be a joke contest. The kids get all excited, but then the teacher spends the entire day explaining all of the rules of this contest.

“Is your school like this?” I ask.

“No,” Kayla assures me.

When Fern's husband, Bob, gets home, Fern and I go out to dinner together.

At the restaurant, we are seated at a table in a quiet section, which suits me fine.

“I'm glad it's not so noisy here,” I say. “We can actually carry on a conversation without shouting.”

“And without being interrupted by kids,” Ferns adds. “So are you having a good visit with everyone?”

“Yeah. Much better than I expected. I was really nervous about how everyone would react when they saw me.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . is that a fire alarm?”

“Sounds like it,” Fern yells over the shrill ringing.

We cover our ears and look around. No sign of smoke. No sign of firefighters. In fact, no sign of any emergency. Just business as usual: hostesses smiling, servers serving, customers consuming.

“Do you think we should be worried?” I shout.

“I'll go find out,” Fern yells, getting up from the table.

A few minutes later, she's back, “There's no fire. Apparently the alarm system has been malfunctioning.”

“Apparently.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Nah. I like things that malfunction, makes me feel right at home. Besides, I'm sure by the time we get our food, the alarm will be off.”

Wishful thinking. The alarm drones on for half an hour. When it's finally turned off, we are partway through dinner.

Fern picks up where we left off. “So why were you nervous to see everyone?”

“Because of how different I look: all stiff and robotic and missing a breast.”

“I don't think you look that different. You look beautiful. And you can't even tell that you've had surgery.”

“Thanks to Dolores,” I smile, patting my imposter.

“Dolores?”

“That's what I call my prosthesis.”

Fern laughs and grabs her belly roll between her fingers and gives it a squeeze. “I call this Yum Yuck, because of all the Tim Hortons breakfast sandwiches I eat. See, my stomach looks like an English muffin!”

“Cute. Do you want to see my party tricks?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Watch this,” I say, twisting my hands as if screwing in light bulbs. Very quickly, my left hand freezes in place, while my right hand continues twisting.

“I don't like that party trick,” Fern says.

“Then how about this one?” I stretch out my left arm and wait until it begins to tremor.

“Don't like that one either,” she says.

“
OK
. Last one. This is my future.” I pick up my glass of water and try taking a sip with my hand shaking wildly, water splashing everywhere.

“That's not funny,” she says with tears in her eyes.

“If I don't laugh about it, I'll cry.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Fern dabs at her eyes with a tissue.

And so we end the evening talking about our kids and husbands, our parents and brother. And by the time I'm back at Lisa's, I'm exhausted and ready for sleep. So is Dolores.

LISA LOVES SHOPPING
, and Lisa loves me. And she wants to buy me a gift. So we're going to a clothing sample sale downtown. When we arrive at the warehouse, the place is packed with women rifling through racks and racks of clothes: shirts, skirts, sweaters, pants, jackets, scarves. Standing by the door, I watch the action. At first, everything looks chaotic. But then patterns emerge. There are the zigzaggers who go diagonally from one rack to another. There are the wallflowers who prefer the tables near the walls. There are the groupies who dress the same and move in clumps. And there are the soloists who drift in and out with samples draped over one arm.

I look at Lisa. Her face is covered in tiny beads of sweat; her eyes are wild with hunger.

“Ready?” she asks.

I nod my head yes, despite my Tin Man body's protests. I can't remember the last time I went shopping for clothes. However, I do remember the last purchase I made: Dolores. Who, by the way, is delirious with joy to be in the company of so many breasts.

Lisa leads the way. I shuffle behind, reluctantly joining the jostling crowd, gathering shirts and sweaters to try on. There are no private change rooms. Instead, there is one large communal changing area. And it's crammed with women stripped down to their thongs and bras (heaven for Dolores, hell for me). Lisa quickly peels off her clothes, while I struggle to unbutton my blouse. By the time I'm finally ready to try on one of the sample shirts, Lisa has already tried on several. She's watching me out of the corner of her eye as I slip my right arm into one sleeve and make several pathetic failed attempts to insert my frozen left arm into the other sleeve. I can feel her hesitation; she's wondering if she should or shouldn't help me. But by the time she lends a hand, it's too late—I'm gone.

Poor Lisa. She thought she was taking
me
shopping, not my Cry Lady.

“Do you want to go home now?” she asks.

It's a perfectly reasonable question, and my Cry Lady has a perfectly unreasonable answer: “No.”

And so Lisa digs through her purse for some tissues, and taking control of the frozen left arm, she discovers that dressing my Cry Lady is like dressing a waterlogged mannequin—one that squirts and drips tears and snot. She mops up the mess and folds up the clothes that don't fit, while my Cry Lady says, “I like this one,” admiring the big-buttoned sweater.

“Me too,” Lisa says. “It looks great. Let's buy it.”

I used to think shopping and crying were never a good mix, unless you're a child whining for candy or toys.

MY TORONTO TRIO and I join a cult. Just for the weekend. We are all wearing the cult uniform: a plush white terrycloth robe and plastic reflexology sandals. We are naked underneath. So are all these subdued strangers milling about this place. This was Ruthie's idea. She always has good ideas.

We drove up this morning, north on Highway 400, into cottage country. The Muskokas. The spa is called Taboo. With a name like that, I was expecting kinky treatments such as “The Dominatrix Deep Tissue Tease” or “No-Hands Foot Fetish Pedicure” or “Sperm of the Moment Facial.” But everything on their menu is tame. Both Ruthie and Lisa are getting hot stone massages. Ruthie is also booked for a white mud toning wrap, and Lisa a traditional pedicure. Bonnie ordered an aromatherapy massage plus a cocoa butter wrap. And I am having a reflexology treatment plus a traditional pedicure.

We are expected at the lounge—our spa treatments start soon. So the four of us meet outside our rooms, in robes and sandals, with the intention of walking down the hallway together. And that's exactly how we start off—together. But soon, Ruthie, Lisa, and Bonnie are way ahead of me. Damn them and their arm-swinging prowess! I used to be the fast walker, leaving
them
in the dust. Now they're waiting for me to catch up; Ruthie's holding the door open.

“I think these sandals are broken,” I shout.

They watch me limping toward them, my left toes constantly sliding out of the top of the sandal, then inching their way back where they belong. It's a losing amusing battle. Before I accidentally trip, I kick them off and walk barefoot.

“I'll swap them for a new pair later on.”

The lounge is spacious and inviting. We wait on the couch. Then one by one, our names are called out, and we follow our leaders to private rooms. My leader is a young beautician, straight out of beauty school. She helps me get settled on the massage table and then begins my treatment.

“Have you ever had reflexology before?” she asks.

“No, never.”

She smiles and tells me, “You're going to really enjoy this.”

And then she starts pressing her fingers into my aching feet while providing a play-by-play commentary, which includes reciting textbook definitions she must have memorized for her final beauty exam. Her chatter nullifies whatever pleasure I derive from her touch. She never shuts up. Of course, it occurs to me I could ask her to stop talking. Or I could scare her into silence by flashing my mastectomy scar. But I'm not in the mood to be rude or assertive. I'd rather just try to tune her out.

When the treatment is finished, I am delighted. She escorts me to the pedicure room and says, “I really enjoyed treating you today. Isn't reflexology great?”

I nod, and as she walks out the room, I can still hear her voice yakking away in my head.

Lisa shows up a few minutes later, looking relaxed from her hot stone massage. She sits next to me, plunges her feet into a warm footbath, leans back, and closes her eyes. My feet are already soaking. While we wait in silence for our pedicurists to arrive, I pray for a mute pedicurist. My prayer is partially answered; she barely talks.

One by one, we reconvene in the lounge, sipping herbal tea and lemon water. Then we make our way to the dining room for lunch. The room is packed with pampered people wearing only white terrycloth robes. The hostess leads us to our table, and I sink self-consciously into the chair, feeling vulnerable and nearly naked: the gargoyle among the goddesses.

LISA AND RUTHIE
are sharing a room. Bonnie and I are in the other. After my shower, Bonnie nonchalantly asks, “How is your scar?”

I smile, thinking to myself: you can take the girl out of the leper colony, but you can't take the leper colony out of the girl.

“Do you want to see it?” I ask, knowing she does.

“If you want to show me,” she says.

I drop my towel and Bonnie's eyes light up. “Oh, Robbie. Your scar is really nice. It's not terrible at all.”

“You think?”

“I do. I've seen lots of scars, and yours is lovely.”

A wave of pride washes over me, and my eyes begin to tear. I feel as if Bonnie has placed a tiara on my head and I've just been crowned Ms. Mastectomy. I imagine stepping up to the microphone and giving my acceptance speech:

“Oh my God. This is amazing. I never imagined in my wildest
dreams that I'd end up here. This is so exciting. I want to thank
Dr. Chung, my brilliant surgeon, for her steady hands and exceptional
technique . . .”

My speech is cut short by the ringing of the phone.

“Hi. It's Ruthie. Just wanted to let you know I made dinner reservations for us at eight.”

“Perfect,” I lie.

By that time of night, I'm ready to flake out on the couch or crawl into bed. Fortunately, there's plenty of time to take a nap.

MENUS ARE MEANT
to be enticing, and this one doesn't disappoint. The four of us are salivating. The appetizers sound scrumptious; the entrees sound superb. We tell our waitress we need a bit more time to decide. I've never met the chef, but his victuals are revealing. I can tell he likes to garnish with fruit. There's grilled peach beside the duck, sautéed grapes on the lobster ravioli, and blueberry sauce drizzled over the bison. The menu also suggests that he's a hands-on kind of guy. His creations are hand rolled, hand snipped, handmade, hand picked, hand shaved. I imagine he is a compulsive hand washer.

By the time we place our order, we've polished off one bottle of wine. We're well into the second when the appetizers arrive. We share plates of pepper-seared Ahi tuna, risotto of woodland mushrooms, pastrami of magret duck, and red romaine with warm maple shallot dressing. The food is delicious, the company divine. And I am drunk and desperately have to pee. Soon. So I hold on to the table edge and hoist my body up from the chair.

Bonnie asks, “Are you
OK
?”

I'm not exactly sure, so I don't respond. Instead, I focus my attention on keeping my balance. The combination of alcohol and staying up late has exacerbated my Parkinson's symptoms: my limbs are extra rigid; my back is extra tight; my neck is fused in place. I feel like a frozen sapling, at the mercy of the wind. I take a few wobbly steps and wonder—if a tree falls in a restaurant, does anybody hear? Thankfully, I don't find out. Bonnie accompanies me to the ladies' room and back. Then there's more food and more wine and more trips to the washroom. Our voices grow louder and louder. When my Cry Lady makes a special appearance, my Toronto Trio knows it's time to go. We are the very last party to leave.

My last few days in Toronto are divided between visits with family and friends. There's lunch with my brother at a sushi bar, dinner at a deli with my parents and aunties, lunch at my cousin's, and an evening with Hildi at her home. The night before I leave, Lisa throws me a farewell dinner party. This is apropos, since I am living in a perpetual state of farewell: first brain cells, then breast, and coming out soon in an operating theater near me, my ovaries and fallopian tubes.