Not To Us (35 page)

Michael and I have been through far worse, losing our two children, now that was complete devastation and heartbreakingly permanent. In comparison to Court’s media problem, losing each other through all of this is more devastating; and, I can only hope, temporary.

≈≈

The day after Michael left, I showed up in Lisa’s office spa in spite of the media barrage that greeted me from every newsstand and every television set tuned into the major networks. Seattle was under siege by the national news. The city seemed to be set afire by the local sensation that their local golden boy of the high tech world had done wrong and his
cougar girlfriend
lived on Bainbridge Island.

The media had no qualms about digging up the recent headlines about the tragic deaths of Nicholas Bradford and Elaina Shaw. Those stories ran side-by-side with all the others. There were pictures of me picking up Emily from school and unflattering stories questioning the paternity of the babies I carry. There were talk shows covering the gambit of exploitable topics about older women and younger men relationships.
Feast or famine?
The headline asked. I set off whole new topics of discussion on all the major channels about sex at forty, babies at forty, and the younger lover under thirty for the older woman at forty.

It was debated and dissected just about everywhere. Court came out looking great; I came out looking like the modern-day whore wearing the famous red letter A as if painted directly across my bare chest. Once the media got a hold of the story about my bout with breast cancer, a whole new media round ensued, but I weathered it all from this faraway place of the emotionally detached, carrying a perspective for apathy. I didn’t care about Court Chandler and his media problems. I had enough of my own.

Mammograms of both breasts revealed something new. The cancer was back in my left one. I saw it as fit punishment. Lisa saw it as a no chemo regimen gone horribly wrong. I didn’t want Michael to know that the cancer was back. Lisa was dismayed at my request for secrecy, beside herself in fact, but her Hippocratic Oath prevented her from telling him.

Two weeks. I haven’t seen Michael for two weeks.
Two weeks.
Lisa and Stephen want to do a chemotherapy regimen for another two weeks and then I’m too close to my due date when the rate of infection is too high and the complications with uncontrollable bleeding would be too great.

So, I’ve had chemotherapy treatments and the side effects are very real. Cyclophosphamide, commonly known as Cytoxan, is this little innocent white table that I take and this alone caused me to vomit within hours of the first dose. While the Doxorubicin, commonly known as Adriamycin is administered intravenously in the spa offices of Lisa and Stephen’s practice and wreaked even worse havoc.

The AC treatment was the course of action immediately taken, after I went back to surgery with Josh to have more cancer removed. This surgery was done on that very Sunday following Michael’s departure, so Dr. Michael Shaw remains unaware that it has taken place. Lisa
manned up
and was even better than I would have been at announcing this edict
—
that Michael was not to be told of my newly developed status requiring more surgery or the chemotherapy regimen.

People on our team were encouraged to go along with this part of the program or they would be unceremoniously off the team. No one dared cross Lisa or me, at this point, so the secret of my recurring cancer remained among the team and the latest surgical procedure with the removal of both my breasts was done in secret and only known by Josh, Ben, Tom, Lisa and Stephen. My team was a little freaked out that cancer had returned so soon and since radiation was out of the question, a mastectomy was the best option and, at this point, a double mastectomy was the preventative choice for the right one.

I was done with being sad and protective of my bodacious tah tahs because I’d lost all of my wishes, except Emily and Mathew and the babies I carry. My team, especially Josh, Ben and Tom, struggled with keeping the secret of my
double mas
with complete reconstruction and chemotherapy regimen from Michael. I saw it in their eyes every time they came into the hospital room where I stayed for the first three days after surgery. Tom outdid himself by preserving the outer skin and nipples of both breasts and I know his promise of perfection is pretty close.

Lisa is worried. I can see it on her face and she tells me she regrets her insistence that we start the chemotherapy right away. The nausea and the constant vomiting are almost more than I can handle and just the beginning of my problems. I have already prepared myself for the day that I will wake up and begin to lose my hair. Lisa hasn’t held anything back and she’s told me to expect this.

I’ve broken down; I called my mother and asked her to come and stay with me. I wasn’t sure that she could really help me, but I’m so sick after the first two weeks of the chemo that I’ve asked her to come. I asked Carrie to go and pick her up.

I’ve pulled out all the stops. I’ve begun asking everyone, who I have never wanted to owe anything to, for favors. Marjorie Bingham has been ferrying my children to and from school each day. It’s impossible for me to drive anywhere because of the surgery and constant nausea. Lisa is more than worried. She would like to put me back in the hospital, but so far, I’ve convinced her not to. I’ve literally begged her not to.

≈≈

The pain from the double mas and breast reconstruction stays with me. It’s fitting punishment for all the mistakes I’ve made with Michael. There is still no word from him, not one. I’m crushed by his silence. It’s more painful than anything else.

Lisa’s made a point of coming to the house every other day as if a ferry trip to Bainbridge Island is on her way home to her fabulous house in West Seattle. “Court called,” she says now.

“Don’t talk about him.” I think the fierce look on my face gives her a moment’s pause.

“He just wants to know how you are.”

“All you need to tell him is that I’m just fine and to quit calling. Tell him I said so.”

“He cares about you.” I get up from the sofa and get busy refilling our glasses with iced tea. Lisa follows me into the kitchen. “You’re going to have twins in little more than a month. You need some help. He seems willing.”

“He’s back with his wife. Eve.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard that.” Lisa takes the glass of iced tea I offer her and looks over at me in concern. “What are you going to do? I could talk to Michael.”

“No! Please. No,” I say more gently. “I don’t know what to do about Michael, anymore. I don’t know what else I can do, but I don’t want him to see me like this. Right now, I’m just staying focused on Mathew and Emily, and getting better.”

“Okay, but you’ll tell me if you change your mind about contacting Michael.”

“When I feel better, I’ll think about it,” I promise her now. My ability to lie with the best of them has not left me and the sincerity in my voice is convincing even to me.

Lisa nods, satisfied, I think, with my answer. She doesn’t even suspect that I’m breaking inside. I’m fractured into a million tiny pieces inside. She doesn’t know that I spend my nights lying awake in the dark, fighting nausea, and suffering with the mental anguish of losing Michael, practically twenty-four hours a day. I’ve kept this private hell from everyone, including Mathew, Emily, and my mother.

“You need a nanny,” Lisa says now.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m working on that.” This isn’t true either, but I give her one of my yeah-team smiles anyway.

≈≈

Stephen and Lisa decide to take me off the AC treatment after another week because we can’t get the nausea under control. I don’t argue; the side effects are still with me two days after the last one. My mother looks at me as I lay on the bathroom floor,
resting
.

“Ellie,” she says tentatively. I lift my head up off the floor and try to focus on her.

“What Mom?” I’ve just vomited up every part what little breakfast I just ate an hour ago. I’ve already cried three times today. It is day twenty-three, since Michael left me.

“I think you should talk to Michael and tell him what’s going on here.”

“No.”

I’ve tried to explain to my mother the details of our separation. I showed her the tabloid pictures that show the intimate details of my affair with Mr. Court Chandler. She’s seen the television shows that covered this particular aspect of my indiscretions for herself. Yet, every day, we have this same conversation about Michael.

“Ellie, you can’t go on like this. You’re wasting away. You’re going to have two babies in a few weeks or less and I’d like to know who is going to be able to take care of them.”

“I’ll…get a nanny.” I can barely speak and as if to emphasize the point, I throw up in the toilet basin, again. A few minutes later, when I look over at the doorway, she’s still standing there. “I love you, Mom,” I say with a weak smile. The tears stream down her face. “Don’t cry. Truly, I can’t take it.”

“I’m not crying,” she insists. My mother with her perfectly cut silver bob, her Arizona tan, her high-waist mom jeans and her western ladies shirt continues this vigilance over me as the tears stream down her cheeks.

“Why don’t you take Emily to the zoo or something? Take Mathew, too,” I say in this contrived cheery voice. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m fit to go anywhere. I’ll be right here or downstairs when you get back.” She starts shaking her head. “Mom,
please
. Take the kids out. They need to get out and do something fun. Take them for ice cream, at least.
Please
.”

“Fine. I’ll take them out for a few hours. Maybe you can take a nap or something.”

“That sounds great, Mom.” I summon a yeah-team smile. “I’m feeling much better.” My ability to lie remains with me; it knows no bounds. I force myself to a stand and move over to the sink to wash my face and brush my teeth.

I keep up the pretense of being okay for another fifteen minutes, while my mother herds my two children in general protest out the front door. Helen Katherine Miles is an even match for Emily, who is unable to convince grandma that she’s better off staying home. I wave at them from the upstairs bedroom window.

Both Mathew and Emily give me forlorn looks. I watch them drive away and almost smile, but the effort is too much for me as the last of my manufactured energy fades away at their leaving.

Just putting the façade up for my mother the last couple of minutes takes the last vestiges of my hard-fought strength out of me. As soon as I see the taillights disappear down the drive, I give into it and sag against the window pane for support. The coolness of the glass feels good on my face.

“Yeah team,” I say into the silence that engulfs me.

I move steadily over to the shower and strip out of my clothes and step under the warm water. It’s easier to give in to the tears, when I’m in the shower. I let myself cry for a long list of reasons
—
my long list of lost wishes: Nick, Elaina, Michael, and me, myself and I, the bodacious tah tahs.

My wish list now consists of Emily, Mathew, and these two babies. I delicately touch my new breasts. According to my team of doctors, I’m healing nicely. The scars are fading. Tom did an excellent job of making them look real and I chastise myself for being so attached to the old ones for so long and endangering my life by not getting chemotherapy sooner. My list of sins is long, too.

I let the tears fall, absently grab the shampoo, and begin to wash my hair. Then, I discover long strands of blonde hair in my hands and cry harder. I thought I might have escaped that bullet and might not lose my hair. But now, I hold the clumps in my shaking hands. “No!” I scream. My voice reverberates against the walls. “Oh my God.”

I quickly rinse out the shampoo and then find more of my hair gathering at the drain. In anguish, I step out of the shower and wrap up in a giant bath towel, bend down to clear the drain of my hair, and cry the entire time. “Fuck!”

Someone’s running down the hallway. I stop screaming to listen, filled with fear.

“Ellie! What is it? What’s wrong?” Michael asks in alarm from the doorway.

It has been three weeks and four days, since I’ve seen him. He looks tired and out of sorts, standing there in blue jeans and a grey University of Washington sweatshirt, but he’s still this golden god, causing my heart to pound wildly.

I can only imagine how I look to him, clutching my strands of blonde hair. Childishly, I put my hands behind my back, so he can’t see what I’m holding.

“Michael, what are you doing here?” I ask. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. “I didn’t mean to. I heard you and I thought...” He looks uncertain and rakes his hand through his hair. “I’m looking for the kids. Emily called me a few hours ago and begged me to come by and take her for ice cream.” He looks at me, intently, now.