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How do you know your dog is dead?
My mother was worried and sent me messages about her old dog. I asked him if he was breathing and no, Wilbur was not breathing. He peed and fell shortly after. I told my mother to put on a towel and I would be there as soon as possible. It was a busy day. My novel was out in two months and I had to reply to emails before picking up children from a local park. But problems are worshiped on the altar of inconvenience.
Later that night, after taking the body to the vet, I found a lump in my chest.
I am now being treated for breast cancer. According to my oncologist, one in eight women suffers from this disease. More women have breast cancer than regular use of floss. This makes my diagnosis quite common, which is reassuring and frightening. As I write this, I am sitting on the bed leaning against something called a pillow. I am between surgery and chemotherapy, considering a cut of a rumor and reading about the likelihood of mouth pain. I want to write, but apparently cancer takes a lot of time. It’s annoying. He won’t let me do things.
As a parent, cancer is something you do while you are doing everything else. A friend, upon learning of my diagnosis, promised me a boob softie as usual and I would have cared about merino wool if it was out of cashmere.
The next day I left the dog’s body and arranged a mammogram and ultrasound. While the Russian woman in the blue mask and N95 mask carried her breasts to a plastic tray, while my age (47) half my breasts migrated to my armpits, I looked at the narcissus mural and asked why the woman. the flowers had to be remembered while standing topless in front of a large white machine. A week later, I went back for a biopsy and this time for a field of bright orange poppies. While I was at the table waiting for the technician, I jotted down some notes for a story about a Russian woman in a blue mascara.
Shortly afterwards, as I was about to take my daughter from physical therapy, I received a call. “It’s not the news we expected,” the nurse began. As I approached the car, he said clearly: “That’s how you’re going to get over it. But we should act fast. ‘ There were other words: growing tumor, surgery, chemotherapy. eten nion. “I have to look for parking. Did you email me what you just said? “He said he would. I found a place in the corner.
In the car, I told the 13-year-old about the news. “I’ll be fine,” I said crying, “but I have breast cancer.” He was silent and stared out the window. When I got home, he made me some mountain tea and suggested we see it Gilmore girls. It was the headline section of the Paris school newspaper. We stared at the screen and waited for the rest of the family to come home. My husband took the eldest to the DMV to test his student license. When they entered the kitchen, with permission in hand, I repeated something a hundred times more to my extended family. “I’ll be fine. But I have breast cancer. ” When I was describing what I understood about my illness so far, my eldest daughter cried, and my husband nodded slowly. We asked for Thai food and read the pathology report. After dinner, I gave myself an excuse to listen to a sample of my audiobook.
“The good news is that you can save the upper skin and breasts,” the plastic surgeon informed me, after drawing a diagram of my chest showing the location of the tumor. He pictured my chest like a completely round circle, like a small donkey’s nipple, with a small bang in the middle. I told the surgery team that my first novel would be out in a few weeks. “How exciting,” said one of the neighbors. “We can organize around that.”
Eight years ago, I spoke to a stranger who underwent a double mastectomy and double reconstruction with the same surgery team. He told me to buy this pillow wedge, and to apply for an anti-nausea medication to undergo general anesthesia. He encouraged me to take the medicine for the pain, and to wear a buttoned blouse to the hospital, because for several weeks I could not wear a shirt over my head. He assured me that I was doing the right thing, and that my new breasts would lack the feeling that they would be completed in symmetry and joy. He sent me a picture of his beak and offered to join me somewhere so he could see and touch her silicon breasts. “It’s what we do for each other,” he said, when I was impressed with his invitation. Then I put on lipstick and went to a virtual event for the first novelists.
Between the blood tests, the events in the Zoom book, and the doctors drawing my chest with the Sharpies, I was struck by the blow. Rocking back and forth on my bedroom floor, I had the fantasy of running away. I could fly to an island, swim in warm water, and order drinks from someone who thinks I’m healthy.
On a Friday in March, I woke up at dawn and showered with an antiseptic body wash. After removing my jewelry, I put on my sweatpants and my mother’s buttoned shirt. My husband took me to the hospital and took my hand in the waiting room. When a woman with hoop earrings asked me if she was a relative of mine, in cases where I couldn’t make a health decision, I started crying. My surgeon visited and asked if I was writing another book. “I think so,” I said. “I’ve been busy.”
The nurse with the mole on her forehead had to put the IV on my foot. The veins in my hands are “difficult,” he said. I gave her my merino wool knit chest, and she promised me that everyone would take good care of me. He then put a mask on my mouth and told me to take several deep breaths.
Six hours later, I woke up crazy with a big bandage across my chest. I felt a tremendous weight which made it difficult for me to breathe normally. Underneath the bandage, beneath my skin and chest muscles, were two spreaders that would save space for future implants. Excess fluid collection drains hung from my body like intestines. My husband kissed me on the head. Her lips were smooth. “You did it,” he said, proud and calm. We ordered chicken teriyaki from the hospital menu, and I took apple juice through a straw. That night I was asked by the nurses to leave the shadows open so I could see the lights on the skyscrapers next door. I half saw it Crazy rich rich people in Asia and a corset movie while I slept and took off with Keira Knightley. I saw it first Crazy rich rich people in Asia on a plane two years ago. I had cancer then but I didn’t know it.
On the way home from bed, protected by a wedge pillow, I looked at my email. Many people enjoyed it my novel. One reviewer described it as “strange and beautiful,” and another said, “This book will haunt me for a while; maybe forever and not in a bad way. ‘ I smiled and swallowed more pills. I could barely move. The sharp pains went through his chest like lightning. I felt my left arm burning. I had no other hunger for frozen water. And psychosis was more frightening than physical pain. I was afraid of being alone. I was worried that the drain would come out of my sides and open the incisions to get the spreaders out of my chest. I didn’t want to hurt myself, but I wanted to, no, I needed to get foreign objects out of my body. The next day, I took a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication.
A few days later, I went to a bookstore to sign. I wore a black hooded jacket with inside pockets to hold the drains. It was aimed at women who had their breasts removed. There was also a pink one, but that seemed very cheerful. I sat in a folding chair and signed 30 copies of my novel. A customer asked me what I was talking about. “Keep it a secret,” I replied.
My oncologist’s assistant called me today to interrupt a short story I was working on. I will start chemotherapy next week. There will be 16 infusions over five months. The story is about a policeman who is worried about his old body. I can’t decide how to end it. The strongest drug, Adriamycin, is bright red and can cause a burning sensation in the body, which is why it is called Red Devil. You can’t guess that.
Rebecca Handler is a writer in San Francisco. Rebecca’s stories have been published and awarded in various anthologies, and she regularly posts them on her blog. One Woman Party. Edie Richter is not alone, his first novel, published in March 2021, received a Kirkus Starred Review and was a long list for the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize. Rebecca was recently awarded a MacDowell Fellowship and hopes to spend April 2022 in the woods of New Hampshire, writing her second novel.
PS “After being diagnosed with cancer, I learned nine life lessons”, And what it means to think of it as a fight against cancer?
(Photo by Guille Faingold / Stocksy)
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