Most of Me (23 page)

But then his lip begins to quiver, he slumps back in his chair, and he starts crying too. Whatever I've got must be contagious.

Then along comes Nellie, her big brown eyes darting back and forth, her pink tongue panting rhythmically, her stubby tail wagging with delight. The crying continues; the food grows cold; Nellie disappears. Then we hear a stream of squeaks and squawks under the table. It's Nellie—accompanying our duet, improvising on her squeaky toy, chomping it in her mouth. The more we cry, the faster she squeaks, until we are sobbing and laughing hysterically at the same time, releasing weeks of pent-up tension and stress. Eventually Nellie drops her toy and curls up by our feet, quiet and content—our cue to settle down and finish dinner.

RECOVERING FROM
this latest surgery is easier than last time—at least for me. But not for Bergen. Even though there's no massive scar, no bloody drain, and no new damage to my limbs, my body feels battered and fatigued. So I spend most of my time resting and requesting. There's no shortage of things to ask for: scrambled eggs, almond butter on toast, chicken noodle soup, home fries, roasted chicken, beans and rice, salad and fruit, juice and tea and water. I keep Bergen busy beyond belief. And not just in the kitchen. The phone has been ringing off the hook, and Bergen is my answering machine. He's also my doorman—welcoming visitors, accepting deliveries of flowers, gift baskets, and books.

I am so grateful for Bergen's support. I always say please and thank you. But he deserves much more than that. In fact, had I known my expunged organs would lead to another generous shower of presents, I would have signed up at Home Depot's gift registry. So instead of sending me “get well” roses or “speedy recovery” gourmet snacks, family and friends could have sent him “we appreciate you” power tools or rechargeable batteries or an assortment of nails and screws—anything a handyman might desire when he's not tending to what's left of his wife. It's too late to register now, but if I ever require more of me removed, that's exactly what I'll do.

MY NEIGHBOR HELEN
drops by this morning with another one of her beautiful fruit salads.

“Thank you so much,” I say, admiring the colorful mix of delicately chopped apples, pears, pineapple, banana, grapes, and strawberries.

I can see a pattern emerging: the more body parts I lose, the more fruit salads Helen gives. I'd hate to jinx this winning streak, so I make a mental note: exempt Helen from the Home Depot gift registry notification plan.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Pretty good, my energy is coming back slowly.”

“Did you know that Will's band is performing next week? It's a Battle of the Bands fundraiser for the dentistry school student yearbook society.”

“Who are they competing against?”

“Oh, this band of young dentistry students. It should be fun.”

“I'd love to come out to the show.”

“Maybe you'll be feeling better by then,” Helen smiles.

“I hope so,” I say. Every band needs a one-breasted groupie.

EVERYONE WANTS
to know how I'm doing—I've got a glut of e-mails and phone calls to return. I just don't have the energy to reply to each relative and friend individually. So I e-mail them this update:

Hi everyone.

I survived my oopherectomy and learned some valuable lessons:

1 That old expression “Never trust a stranger” doesn't apply to surgeons. Because early Thursday morning I met Dr. Mazgani, and within one hour I let this perfect stranger (albeit a qualified one) poke holes in my abdomen and yank out my ovaries and fallopian tubes.

2 Contrary to rumors I'd heard down at the cancer agency, there is no Ovary Fairy! I know this for a fact because I tucked my organs under my pillow the other night, and when I woke up in the morning, they were still there. (I was secretly hoping I'd strike it rich, because last summer the Breast Fairy was very generous after my mastectomy.)

3 So far, instant menopause isn't so bad—a hot flash here, a mood swing there—here a beard, there a mustache, everywhere extra hair . . .

4 I've kept the promise I made to my surgeon—that I wouldn't lick my stitches—but maybe I should have promised that my stitches wouldn't be licked. By anyone. Or anything. Anyway, I forgive my dog, Nellie, and have warned her if she does it again, I'll take that obnoxious plastic lampshade cone off
my
head and make
her
wear it.

5 Generally speaking, I believe in free speech. But for the foreseeable future, I've banned that three-letter word that chickens lay from being spoken in our house. Bergen and Naomi are happy to comply, if it makes me feel better. Which goes to show there's a sunny side up to everything. Even censorship.

6 This is my first year celebrating Valentine's Day as a breast cancer survivor. And even though I only have one breast left, I'm grateful to still be here in this downsized body of mine, surrounded by so much love and compassion. Makes me want to stick around for more.

THE GOOD THING
about having two simultaneous diseases is I'm spared from wallowing in either one too long. Following the rhythm of doctor appointments and surgical procedures, I swing back and forth between breast cancer and Parkinson's disease.

Today I have a follow-up appointment with my neurologist, Dr. Stoessl. It was booked six months ago, and yesterday his secretary called to remind me.

“Remember,” she said, “don't be late or Dr. Stoessl won't see you.”

And I thought, imagine that, a doctor who goes blind when his patients are late. Poor thing. So I assured her I'd be on time, and in fact I arrive early.

Even though there are no decorations or balloons or cake and ice cream, meetings with my neurologist remind me of a child's birthday party. That's because there are plenty of games and activities—and I get to be the center of attention! We play “tap the patient's impaired reflexes” and “try to move the patient's rigid left arm.” Then we play hand-eye coordination games such as “try to touch the doctor's moving finger” and “copy the doctor's well-rehearsed intricate hand movements.” At this point, the partylike atmosphere turns a little sour, since I always lose and my neurologist always wins these contests. But pretty soon things brighten up thanks to the Beck Depression Inventory. Here's a sample from this uplifting multiple-choice questionnaire:

Choose one statement from among the group of four statements that best describes how you have been feeling during the past few days:

I do not feel like a failure.

I feel I have failed more than the average person.

As I look back on my life, all I can see is a lot of failure.

I feel I am a complete failure as a person.

For the final games, we walk out into the public hallway. “Scrutinize the patient's lopsided walk” is almost as much fun as “make the patient lose her balance but catch her before she falls.” As we return to the examination room, Dr. Stoessl smiles proudly. “You weren't expecting me to pull you backwards so violently, were you?”

Sadly, the party is over. Instead of a grab bag, Dr. Stoessl hands me a prescription. He assures me my quality of life will improve by treating my symptoms. This will be the first Parkinson's medication I try. Exhausted but hopeful, I pick up my winter coat and begin the slow struggle of threading my arms through the sleeves. Dr. Stoessl tries to help. This is no easy task, because my left arm is now stuck in the folds of the fabric and twisted behind my arched back. I'm feeling awkward and spastic (and a little mischievous) as my chivalrous neurologist tugs at my sleeve. Suddenly my left arm jolts violently against Dr. Stoessl's body. Then it happens again, and again. By the time my coat is on properly, I've “accidentally” punched him several times. Dr. Stoessl smiles proudly again, and for the first time that day I do not feel like a complete failure.

The next day, while walking Nellie, I bump into Helen outside her house. She looks exhausted and green around the gills.

“Are you
OK
?” I ask her. “You don't look so well.”

“I'm not,” she groans. “Last night was the big show. Battle of the Bands.”

“I know. I wanted to go, but I was too tired.”

“You're lucky. I wish I had stayed home.”

“Why? What happened?” I ask.

“The music was so loud, it actually made me sick.”

“Oh, no. That's awful. How's Will doing?”

“He's deaf,” she says under her breath.

“He's deaf?” I repeat, wondering if I'd heard her correctly.

“When he woke up this morning, he couldn't hear a thing.”

“That's not good,” I say. “How are his hands?” I ask, hoping he hasn't lost his ability to floss.

“Oh, they're fine. At least his band won,” Helen mutters. “And the girls had a blast. They made special T-shirts that said: ‘My Dad's In The Band.'”

“That's so sweet,” I say, picturing their two-breasted, arm-swinging teenage daughters prancing around the dance floor in the shirts. Having fun, no doubt. But the medium is the message after all, and with all that wiggling and jiggling going on, I can't imagine anyone was actually able to read the words. Which is a crying shame. If I had been there, my shirt would have read: “My Neighbor's In The Band & In My Dreams.” And I would have stood as still as a billboard, in front of the stage, all night long, making it easy for everyone to read me. And while some might have thought I was crazy—that I'd gone overboard for the Overbites—I wouldn't have cared. Because that's the price you pay when you're a one-breasted dopamine-depleted groupie.

IT'S OFFICIAL
—I'm a pill popper. Every day I dip into my geriatric pill dispenser and swallow a fistful of vitamins, supplements, and prescription drugs. There are antidepressants, anti-estrogens, antioxidants, anti-inflammatories, and now anti-Parkinson's. These little white tablets pack a punch. Classified as a “dopamine agonist,” they conjure up images of a pharmaceutical superhero: