Pale Girl Speaks Read online

  What Dreams May Come

  I’m on the beach right now. I’m lying on a black towel. I see cigarette butts and beer cans mixed in with the sand, like a bag of Chex Mix. It is so freakin’ hot. I look up at the sky and it’s too bright to see anything. I shade my face with my hand, but it’s too bright. I am blinded. I reach over to grab sunscreen, and I can’t find it. The bottle is gone. I’m searching frantically for the sunscreen, and I can feel the heat of the sun scorching my skin. Sunscreen . . . I need my sunscreen . . . I roll from one side to the other, looking for it. I feel like a piece of bacon frying in the microwave . . . I am a piece of bacon. I can smell myself cooking, bubbling and cracking under the heat of the giant light. I look to my right and see that the people next to me have turned into sausage links and they are frying in the sun, too . . . beep, beep . . . beep, beep . . . what the . . . Jesuschrist . . .

  The Sweet Smell of . . . Hospitals

  I am standing in the elevator with my mom, Adam, and a man who appears to be older than God. He looks like he was run over by a Mack truck, scraped up off the cement, and then propped up in the elevator like some discarded Muppet. I’ve just decided: I don’t want to get old.

  What is that smell? The air is thick with it, whatever it is. A disturbing combination of solvents, bodily fluids, and “old.” For the love of all things holy, get me out of here. I want to jump out of my skin. I want to jump out of my skin, scramble to the nearest exit, and run like bloody hell as fast and as far as I can go. I hate hospitals. There’s something so unsettling about them. Maybe it’s that they remind me that sickness is out there, just waiting for me to “catch” it. Hospitals are full of all the things I spend time trying desperately to forget. Sickness. Old age. Death. The air is so stale. Stagnant. I breathe in, deep, my lungs stretching for oxygen, but instead I end up with a mouthful of carbon dioxide and a musty fart.

  Me: Hi, is this the sign-in for Dr. Gregory?

  Receptionist: Yes. Oh, but the patient needs to sign in for him- or herself.

  Me: Oh . . . um . . . wait . . . I am the patient.

  Receptionist: You are the patient?

  Me: Right.

  Receptionist: You are.

  Me: I am.

  Receptionist: Okay, then. Sorry. I mean, sorry for the mix-up.

  Me: Not a problem. It’s not like I’m in a particularly vulnerable state right now or anything. It’s not like I have cancer or anything . . . asshole.

  The real question: How cold can a patient room get? Hospitals must have thermostats that read 80 70 60 50 room temperature. I may very well lose toes on this visit. I have to fill out a medical-history report that the nurse just gave me. Let’s see . . . this is not so bad. This packet is only . . . um . . . uh . . . twenty-five pages front . . . and . . . back. I’m so glad they didn’t have me strip just yet, since it’s going to take the better part of a year to fill out this motherfucker. Oh, wait, I’m already in my fucking birthday suit with a hospital gown the size of a . . . Name? Address? Insurance info? Past surgical procedures? Family medical history? . . . yada yada yada . . . Miscellaneous complaints? Complaints about what? Life? Love? Chest size? What? I’m just writing “too many to list.”

  Waiting. The waiting is killing us all. Mom, Adam, and I are still in this ten-by-ten-foot hospital room . . . waiting. Waiting for what? No one really knows. We’ve been making jokes to pass the time. Mom joked that on the prescription-medicine portion of my packet I should list all the drugs my grandmother takes, just for shits and giggles. (Aspirin, Gleevec, Fenesin, Ipratropium Bromide, Mucosil-20, Nuprin, Valium, Vicodin, Vioxx . . . )

  Knock. knock.

  The Doc: Hi. I’m Dr. Gregory. Nice to meet you.

  Me: Nice to meet you.

  This man, my surgeon, the person who will be removing skin from my stomach, looks like he’s just stumbled out of a fraternity party, bought a pack of smokes at 7-Eleven, forgotten where he was supposed to go next, and wound up at a hospital (not knowing how or when he’ d changed into a pair of scrubs). His hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. His belly is big and is hanging over his pants, making the waist fold over onto itself. His teeth are large and yellow, coffee-stained from years of late-night study sessions. His handshake is crushing. But . . . his smile and voice are warm and instantly inviting, and his eyes sparkle. I can’t help but immediately fall in love with him.

  The Doc: So, let’s get a look at you. Okay . . . uh-huh . . . lymph nodes under your arms feel normal. Let’s check your neck . . . okay . . . everything feels normal here. Now, if you could just lie on your back, I’m going to . . .

  Me: Whoa.

  The Doc: . . . check the nodes in your groin.

  Adam: I bet you say that to all the ladies.

  The Doc: Those feel good too. So, let me tell you what’s going to happen during the surgery, and then you can ask questions. Based on the depth and width of your melanoma, I will be removing an elliptical-shaped portion of skin approximately three and a half inches long, two inches wide. The skin above and below the incision will then be pulled together so you will have a single-line scar. I will remove tissue down to the layer of fat. You will have several layers of stitches. We will biopsy, blah blah blah . . . clear margins. We should receive the pathology, blah blah . . . blah blah blah. I don’t think I need to remove blah blah blah, but I want to blah blah before making a blah. Lastly, you have an option when it comes to blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah blah. You decide. So, what do you want to know?

  Me: Why am I so scared?

  Doc: Hillary?

  Me: Huh? Um . . . yeah, could you repeat that last part?

  Doc: What, the incision part?

  Me: No, after that. Something about—

  Doc: The scar?

  Me: No. I got that. At the end.

  Doc: The layer-of-fat part?

  Me: No. At the very end. Something about having to decide something.

  Doc: Right. Whether you want general anesthesia or local plus a sedative.

  Me: What’s the downside to the local and sedative?

  Doc: Well, technically, with the local, you’re awake during the procedure, so—

  Me: General. I want the general. I don’t want to experience a fucking—I mean, a second—of this thing.

  Doc: What I was going to say was that while you are theoretically awake, you won’t remember anything.

  Me: Nothing?

  Doc: Nothing.

  Mom: Will she have less nausea with the local versus the general?

  Me: My mother only asked that question so she could use the word “nausea.” “Nausea,” “effeminate,” “annual” (meaning, a yearbook)—to me, these words are like nails on a chalkboard and they are some of her favorites. They roll off my mother’s southern tongue like water off a duck’s back—“Looking at his high school annual, the effeminate teen felt a wave of nausea.” Just kill me now.

  Doc: With a local and sedative, she shouldn’t have any nausea.

  Mom: Honey, no nausea. That sounds—

  Me: Mom, the melanoma hasn’t affected my hearing. Okay, I’ll go with the local.

  Doc: Great. So, any other questions right now?

  Adam: Um . . .

  Mom: Uh . . .

  Me:

  Doc: Well, I guess I’ll see you bright and early on Monday. The nurse will go over our pain-management packet with you and she’ll explain all the aftercare for the incision. Okay, well, it was nice to meet all of you, and I’ll see you Monday.

  Me: Thank you.

  Mom: Did he seem effeminate to you?

  Operation “Cancer Removal”

  I just want this fucking thing out of me . . . couldn’t sleep last night. Kept feeling my stomach. Touching it. The spot. The “bad” spot. I don’t feel sick. I don’t look sick. Well, no sicker than usual. I don’t act sick . . . no sicker than usual.

  I’m in my sweats, just like the nurse suggested. She said no makeup, but I’m wearing mascara. I mean, really. Who a
re they kidding . . . “News Flash: Woman dies on operating table. Investigators looking into possible mascara contamination.” She said no deodorant, so, on top of everything else, I can smell like ass when I get out of surgery. And no hair products (just to add to the overall freakishness of the event). I love my life.

  Me: Ok, babe. We’re off.

  Adam: I love you. Just remember, it’s all going to be okay.

  Me: Yeah, I know.

  Adam: You do know, right?

  Me: Yeah . . . here. You better get one last look at “the cancer.”

  Adam: I kissed the spot for good luck. Remember, I’ll be there when you wake up, okay? And you’re sure you don’t need me to come with you, right?

  Me: Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’m scared. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Can’t you see that? I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I love you.

  It may seem strange that Adam isn’t coming with me to the hospital. I do have cancer, after all. I mean, my mother, my mother-in-law, and my father-in-law are coming, for fuck’s sake. Not my husband. He can’t come. Not really. “I have to finish a TV spot for Fast & Furious.” That’s what he said, but that’s not what he meant. What he meant was he’s too scared, it’s too hard, just too much. Adam doesn’t like to do anything he isn’t good at, and hospitals, he ain’t good at. An overachiever since birth, he doesn’t like to do or try unless he’s sure to conquer. He wasn’t a normal child, not normal in the least, according to the above-mentioned in-laws. At fourteen months, with neither a word nor a step under his belt, he had his parents convinced he was developmentally “challenged.” Little did they know he was biding his time, waiting for that perfect moment to make his move. So one day, from the back seat of the Fogelson family truckster, a sixteen-month-old Adam asked—clear as day—“May I have a cookie, please?” He had waited sixteen long months, patiently sucking his thumb and toes, until he had the vocabulary for a beautifully constructed sentence.

  So I understand why he can’t be here with me today. Why it’s too hard for him to sit next to me without the right words. There are no right words. And I don’t blame him for not coming. For not wanting to see me this way. Vulnerable. Scared. No deodorant. He loves me more than anything in the world. This I know. This I see. I feel it always. He wants to make me happy. He wants to say something to make me better. To right all the wrongs. And he can’t. Not today. Men can be so strong when things are good and easy, but they just fall apart when things get tough or bad or . . . anything. Women are the amazing ones. When the goin’ gets tough, we get tougher. If our boyfriends or husbands or lovers are sick, we’ll tend to their wounds, cook them dinner, feed their pets, take out their trash, wash and wax their cars, and still find the strength to just be there for them, with them—and listen. I really don’t blame Adam for not coming with me to the hospital. I just . . . wish . . . he would.

  Crunch time.

  So, the gang’s all here: me, Mom, Ma-in-Law, Pa-in-Law. We’re all crammed into this tiny pre-op room (which, by the way, smells a lot like the inside of Adam’s loafers), trying to pretend like we always meet here, on Mondays, at 7:00 AM, to have . . . melanoma surgery. Some cold somethin’-somethin’ is being pumped into my arm to keep me hydrated or somethin’. I haven’t really been paying attention. Just chatting. The gang’s been talking about everything under the sun except the impending event. We’ve covered . . .

  The Weather:

  Mom: I’m surprised how hot it was this morning.

  Ma-in-Law: The valley has been unbearable the last few days.

  Pa-in-Law: It has been hot. I don’t ever remember it being quite so hot.

  The News:

  Ma-in-Law: Did you see that story last night on . . . what was it, Channel 4, maybe, warning about mercury levels in certain types of fish?

  Mom: Yes. Can you believe that? They’re now saying we have to limit our weekly tuna intake to, what was it, two servings a week?

  Me: But who eats tuna more than twice a week anyway?

  Friends:

  Me: Did you happen to catch Friends last night?

  Ma-in-Law: No. Why?

  Me: Oh my God, it was so funny. It was the one where we see how they all became friends in the first place. It takes place in the ’80s, and . . . well, if you didn’t see it, it’ll take too long to go into the whole thing, but . . . it was so fucking funny. The Don Johnson outfits, Monica was really fat, Rachel pre–nose job—funny shit.

  It feels like a huge pink elephant is sitting on my chest and no one wants to acknowledge it’s there or ask it to leave. We’re keeping the banter going full speed ahead for fear of the silence, but as the clock ticks down, I feel the room getting heavier; the elephant’s circus act is drawing to a close, and it’s just sitting there. Staring at me. Dead weight on my sternum. Maybe if we ignore it, it will go away. Maybe.

  Nurse #1: So, what have we got here? Let’s see. Okay . . . you’re having a melanoma removed from your . . . upper abdomen and . . . uh . . . a couple of lymph nodes removed from under your left armpit. Correct?

  Me: No. Well, actually, I never heard if Dr. Gregory felt it was necessary to remove the nodes. Can you check on that?

  Nurse #1: Well, it’s written right here in your chart. “Lymph node dissection.”

  Me: I understand that, but I’d feel better if you just confirmed it with the doctor.

  Nurse #1: He wrote it right here.

  Me: Maybe, but I’d still like for you to confirm it.

  Nurse #1: Fine. I guess I’ll have to go track him down, then.

  Me: That would be great. Thanks. Kiss my ass.

  Nurse #2: So, how are we doing today?

  Me: She doesn’t really want me to answer that, does she? You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?

  Nurse #2: It’s not so bad. Everything will be over before you know it.

  Me: I know it. And it’s not over.

  Nurse #2: So, let’s see . . . we’re removing a—

  Me: You know, another nurse was just in here, and we went over everything.

  Nurse #2: Oh, really? Who was in here?

  Me: I didn’t catch her name.

  Nurse #2: Blond or brunette?

  Me: Blondish brown.

  Nurse #2: Huh. Was her hair short? Kind of pulled back behind her ears?

  Me: I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention to her hair.

  Nurse #2: Well, no big deal. We can just go over a few things—

  Me: Actually, I was wondering if I could get a pen to circle the melanoma. It was biopsied, and I have so many moles that have been removed on my stomach, I just want to make sure he excises the correct place. Don’t want a mix-up.

  Mom: Remember that story of the guy who went in to have a leg amputated and they cut off the wrong one?

  Nurse #2: I’m sure the doctor knows exactly which mole he’s supposed to remove.

  Me: I would just feel better if I circled it.

  Nurse #2: I can’t let you do that. It’s against hospital policy.

  Me: What? Why?

  Nurse #2: The lines you draw could get confused with the lines Dr. Gregory draws to make his incision.

  Me: That’s comforting. My surgeon is going to confuse my half-assed circle with his precision markings. That makes me feel so much better . . . You know what? I’ll take full responsibility if something bad happens. Just give me your pen.

  Nurse #2: I can’t do that.

  Me: Does anyone have a pen? Mom, you must have one in your purse.

  Mom: I must . . . have one in here . . . I don’t . . . see one.

  Me: Linda? Ted? Anyone?

  Ma-in-Law: I had one in here . . . yesterday. No . . . I must have taken it . . .

  Pa-in-Law: I didn’t bring in my organizer.

  This is FUCKING GREAT. I’M ABOUT TO HAVE A CHUNK OF CANCEROUS SKIN REMOVED FROM MY STOMACH, AND NO ONE, NOT ONE SINGLE FUCKING PERSON IN THIS ENTIRE FUCKING HOSPITAL, HAS (OR WILL GIVE ME) A PEN. A PEN TO MAKE SURE THE “CORRECT” CHUNK OF CANCEROUS
SKIN IS REMOVED FROM MY STOMACH! I almost can’t believe this is my life. I almost can’t believe at twenty-five years old I have to beg for a pen from a nurse who is taking directions from a surgeon who is about to rid me of cancer—hopefully rid me of cancer.

  Nurse #1: So, I talked to the doctor, and, in fact, you are not having lymph nodes removed.

  Me: Could I borrow your pen for a quick second?

  Nurse #1: You’re not going to circle anything, are you?

  Me: No. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  Nurse #1: All I have is a pencil. So, they’re ready for you. I’m going to wheel you up to surgery. She should be done in about an hour. There is a nice waiting area on the first floor, by the elevators. Also, downstairs, next to the entrance, there is a great place to get some coffee. They have the best blended mochas down there . . . okay, we’re off.

  Me: Could you guys just follow me out to the elevator? Everything’s going to be fine. Right?

  Mom: Piece of cake.

  Me: I love you.

  Mom, Ma-in-Law, Pa-in-Law: I love . . . we love you—

  Elevators look so different when you’re strapped to a gurney, staring up at its ceiling . . . reddish-brown stain in the upper-right corner, a rip just off-center to the left, a small hole, possibly made by a pencil, in lower left, a thick yellow substance peeking out of lower-right corner . . . my heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. Deep breaths. Breathe from my diaphragm. In . . . two, three, four . . . out . . . two, three, four. Shit, I’m freaking out. Motherfucker sisboomba. Shit-damn fuck-a-damn fuck-a-damn-damn. Some motherfucker just fucked my man. I’ll fuck . . . the hills are alive with the sound of music with . . . what . . . shit . . . two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth . . . something something something . . . I took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference. It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee. And something she did with no other something something than to love and be loved by me. Focus. Focus, Goddamn it. There is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing to—I pledge allegiance . . .