found buried under my sports bra several months ago had now begun to throb. Dr. Sturgis warned me it might, because it was sitting directly under my muscle near my chest wall. He was optimistic we could remove the affected tissue and get enough of a clear margin that a full mastectomy might be avoided. Here’s the kick in the ass, however. He also warned me to be prepared that once they got in they might find more affected or suspect tissue and the breast would have to come off.
As in, say goodbye to your boob, Ella.
How vulgar!
I started verbally attacking my cancer. I told it how much I hated it. I yelled at it, and tried to summon all those antibodies that are supposed to seek out and destroy foreign cells in our bodies. The ones we hear so much about on the cartons of green tea, and vitamins, and fortified sports drinks. Why did they let me down when I needed them most?
I have explored the cancer blogosphere full of stories from millions of patients all over the world. Some of them are funny, and they make me laugh. Others give me a knot in my throat I can’t swallow down for days. Now that cancer has invaded my own space, I find myself pissed off and totally amazed that we are still treated much like lab rats when it comes to conventional medicine. Sure, I get the end game, but why do they have to brutalize our hair follicles, make our teeth gray, and send us to the bathroom with wracking chills and violently heaving intestines? Why do they make us too weak to talk, shatter our hopes for children by crippling our ovaries, and drip poison directly into our veins? Just when they think we can’t possibly take another moment of the torture, oops, I mean treatment, they lay us down and zap us with skin-searing radiation that we can only hope doesn’t get too close to our lungs. If that happens, we could have an even bigger problem on our hands.
“But we’re trying to save your life,” they will tell me. “Be thankful you are young and strong and more importantly, are able to pay for what we are about to charge you because as we all know, cancer is a cash cow and if you want to live to see Christmas you better be prepared to feed the whole farm.”
I hate them already, the doctors, nurses, and receptionists who will look at me with downcast eyes and sickeningly sweet smiles as they watch me deteriorate into a bald, shriveled, radiated, and potentially boob-less corpse.
Am I feeling sorry for myself?
Maybe at this very moment I am.
It does not last long. I switch out the why me, and consider why not me? It’s true I guess, to a certain practical extent. At least I can afford cancer. At least I will get the best torture/treatment available. At least I have some hope that I’ll survive this. At least I have a good plastic surgeon on standby just in case I need him. Don’t think I won’t have the last laugh. I will design the perfect breasts, and they won’t budge an inch for the rest of my life.
How many women can say that?
Once I’ve had enough of the online cancer world, I switch sites to look for flights out to Los Angeles. My mother freaks out when I book my own flights, so I never use my real name when I buy tickets. She’s convinced potential terrorists regularly hack into airline manifests to scan for high profile passengers. I have learned the best way to avoid a national security event is to be as inconspicuous as possible. I don’t travel all that much; most of my trips are out to the West Coast to hang with Lauren. I never get away with it and always promise not to do it again. I do it again, only because I have to. I mean really, do I honestly need White House clearance to board a plane? I appreciate her concern but I think my mother is giving me more credit that I deserve. No one in the real world gives a shit about my travel plans.
I have cleared my schedule at work for the next couple of weeks so I can head out anytime. My job at a publishing house is a bit of a joke. Sure, I’m diligent and qualified and give it my full attention, but I could come in drunk off my ass, throw up on my boss’s desk and still be employee of the month. I had my pick of jobs out of college and floated around Manhattan for a couple of years before settling into Hyde House. The company’s president is my dad’s former frat brother and runs a tight ship. When it comes to everybody else, that is.
I was hired around the same time my mother was inaugurated so name recognition was at a crescendo. Alan Shiro was already a giant in the industry so I was caught off guard when he offered to give me the key to a back door entrance so I didn’t have to slink by the paparazzi staked out at the front door every day after hearing of my hire. He even offered to send his personal driver to my apartment each morning so I could skip the subway. I remember thinking at the time that he didn’t have a clue what he was suggesting. Did he really think shuttling the ass of the twenty-four-year-old newbie in the company limo would go over well?
I kindly, but firmly rejected all his offers and even had my dad call him personally to ask him to back off. Alan is a good man, but I know he was angling to watch his stock rise by employing the daughter of the vice president. In the end, he had the most successful business in town, with the most exciting up and coming writers to preview, and it just worked. I’m always granted first glance at the new manuscripts that come in and usually have the final say before Alan or one of his partners signs off on a contract. It’s a small but satisfying sense of purpose that I have grown to really appreciate. It makes me so proud when a nondescript author surfaces on my watch and becomes a star. It’s almost like I had a hand in molding the future of a perfect stranger.
I really do love my job. It’s just me and my manuscript, and when it’s a story worth telling I can kick back and read it all day long. And, of course, get paid for my bliss.
Does it get better than that?
When I left a voicemail for Alan, I explained I’d be away from the office for awhile, but I’d finish proofing and editing and email in any changes directly to the authors. He quickly texted me back saying no problem, take as long as I need, and call him if I need anything from him.
See? Job stress is definitely something I don’t pretend to deal with.
It’s almost like God said, “Let’s give her the office with the view and the famous family, but make her path cross directly into a giant pile of dog shit.”
Best of all, let’s name that dog Cancer.
I have a small window to book my flight before my mother becomes aware of my airline transaction. We are supposed to alert Secret Service whenever we travel on commercial planes, trains, etc. My brother gets a pass on this because he generally flies charter to and from his games. Kelby follows the rules, but does so grudgingly because it’s just another step in the process and any extra work pisses her off. When I book my ticket, I’ll use a fake name but I’ll have to charge it to my real credit card and it will only be a matter of time before the numbers ping the watchers in Washington. I’ve learned that it can take up to twenty-four hours for the transaction to process so I will wait until the absolute last minute to pull the trigger. That way, I’ll already be in the air when my mother gets the alert that one of her chicks has flown the coop. As soon as we land and we’re allowed to turn on our electronic devices, mine will be screaming at me all the way from the White House.
The whole notification of movement thing can be such a bitch. I’ve left a message for Lauren letting her know I’m on my way.
She puts in super long days on the set so I know she won’t get back to me for several hours, factoring in the time difference. I will be on my own getting to her house; she can’t just skip out of work to meet me at the airport.
I arrange to rent a car at LAX, again using my fake name but my real credit card, another security alert that will take my mother from zero to ten in a heartbeat. I do believe, however, that once I drop the C-word, my travel transgressions will be forgiven.
