Not To Us (11 page)

≈≈

Michael and I have been busy moving and combining our things into the beach house at a glacial pace. The good.

We are supposed to marry in three weekends at the beach house on the 21
^st
of February. Emily will finally get to be a flower girl, while Elaina will be my only bridesmaid and my two sons will be groomsmen for Michael. We have a judge coming from Seattle, who is an old friend of Michael’s from our college days. The cake has been ordered as well as the flowers. My dress is a beautiful crème colored sleeveless number that flows like spun sugar around me. Michael’s black tuxedo is hanging in the quaint master bedroom of the beach house already. Elaina has already placed crème colored candles in candelabras throughout the house. The caterer has already created the menu with a nice Pacific Northwest cuisine theme to serve sixty.

It will be an intimate elegant beach party for our closest friends. After much debate, we’ve included Robert and Carrie on the guest list.

My mother is coming and so is my father, much to my complete surprise. Somehow, I know that an Ellie-is-your-only-daughter-and-she-had-or-may-still-have-cancer-and-we-all-need-to-be-there-for-her discussion has ensued with my mother doing all of that talking to my father. My secret conclusion: it was about time my dad stepped back into my life after a twenty-year absence with only the placation of birthday cards and infrequent phone calls. Yeah team! The good.

≈≈

Now, I lay in this white tube ticking off these good and bad things and fight the claustrophobic feeling and the anxiety that ensues about staying still for more than half hour. Why is it that no matter who you marry there comes this little inkling of doubt on whether this is the right thing to do or not? This has come about with even Michael and me because of this baby. It is ironic that the very thing that probably caused us to move faster toward this juncture of impending nuptials is the very thing that threatens to undo all of these illustrious plans between us. The bad.

At least, we finally got everything out in the open yesterday. We were at my house working with the movers on what to move to the beach house and what to leave behind. Michael and I had a rare private moment in the master bedroom. The movers were outside arranging bedroom furniture from the kid’s rooms and the master bedroom into their gigantic moving truck.

The kids were negotiating deals with their friends for some of the stuff they’d discovered in the garage they no longer wanted. Not wanting to dampen their entrepreneurial enthusiasm; I gladly sent them off with their various treasures. Frankly, it gave Michael and I a half day of
alone time
, which we hadn’t been able to have since, well, since this whole new idea of getting married and moving to the beach house had taken root a mere two weeks ago. So, during that
alone time
, Michael brought up the fact that I’m now more than sixteen weeks along and we really need to talk about this.

“Talk about what?” I had to ask.

Well, this apparently upset him enough to come across like a complete jerk when he said, “We’re talking about your
life
, Ellie, and you insist on putting this baby ahead of you. I didn’t sign up for that.” Well, that was bad.

“Michael,” I said. “You said I was going to be just fine. Are you going back on that promise, now?”

I had never seen him cry. The big, burly movers returned to our master bedroom and warily witnessed this tall golden god of a man’s breakdown just as I did.

“I can’t promise you that anymore, Ellie! That’s what I’ve been trying to
tell
you. You should be fine. You’re not fine. Ellie, I want to marry you, but I want you to be
here
.”

This god-like man wept in front of me and the two big, burly, must-like-football-and-eat-hot-dogs-on-Sundays kind of men. Michael cried and he didn’t stop. The bad.

“Okay,” I finally said in desperation. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying. You cannot promise me that everything is going to be okay. Okay. I will get the MRI tomorrow and then we will see what it says, what it tells us. If it’s bad, then Michael, you and I,
together
, we’ll decide what to do. Okay? We’ll decide together what we have to do. I want to be here, too, Michael. I want to be here with
you
.” The good.

“Ellie,” he said in this heartbreaking voice, “Ellie, I love you.”

“I know this to be true,” I said. The good.

≈≈

Referred pain. Reflective pain where the pain or problem is somewhere else in the body, but is felt in a
referred place
. This is what I have. The joke is played out on all of us as they
—
the radiologist, Michael, and Josh
—
discover, all at the same time, the tumor in my other breast which has been causing all this angst and havoc. I can tell by the grim look on all their faces that this is not a good thing. The bad.

How much more bad news can there be? Oh. I shouldn’t even ask that. I shouldn’t even think that thought. Based on my promise of yesterday, I have no doubt that this pregnancy will not even come up on a list of priorities. I can already tell this by the determined look on Michael’s face. The topic of our baby is already closed and not even open for debate.

If I were able to salvage or save five things, what would they be? I ask myself this in this listless state.

My answer: me; myself and I
—
my two breasts.

My sense of humor has not completely left me. I smile to myself.

Why am I not more scared? I do not know. If I look at any one of their faces for too long though as they study the x-ray scans, I begin to get scared. They are talking as if I am not here. Maybe, I’m not. The bad.

“Jesus,” Josh Liston is saying now. “I can’t believe this. She had a mammogram six months for both right and left. It didn’t even show up. It’s aggressive. We’ll need to call in Tom. We’ll do a
double mas
with a complete reconstruct. I’ll schedule the OR. We’ll biopsy it this afternoon just to make sure we know what we’re dealing with, but based on the growth level. Jesus. God damn it!”

Michael is not even talking. Josh is talking. The radiologist, Ben Thompson, is nodding. He points out the shadow on the right side of the screen and does a quick measurement from one of the films. “One point three centimeters in less than six months. This is not a nice cancer.”

“Are any of them nice?” I ask, coming up behind them to look at the films for myself. I have interrupted a boy’s group session. They automatically turn to me and begin to realize that I’ve been standing here the whole time, completely forgotten. All three of them hang their heads for a moment.

“Ellie,” Josh says, breaking the silence. “We have to do a double mastectomy. We’re going to call in Tom to do the reconstructive surgery. We’ll do radiation, chemo
—
the works.” His voice breaks at this point.

I can see that Dr. Josh Liston is out of options and possibly promises. The bad.

I struggle for composure, somehow sensing I need to provide it for all of us. I smile at my team.

“Well,” I say with as much valor as I can emanate. “I guess I better meet with
Tom
, pronto, because I have always felt that these…” I point to my perfect “C” cup breasts. “These are my best feature, so he’s going to have to promise perfection.” I give these three miracle workers my best smile. “Yeah, team!” I know I have succeeded in making them forget, momentarily, how dire our current situation is because, as a team, all three of them smile at me. My only regret is that my Oscar-worthy performance is not caught on film of any kind. We only have x-ray machines in the room all around us, no cameras. “Well, when do we do this biopsy?” I say in this false bravado voice.

“Thirty minutes,” Michael answers for the group.

One of the nurses comes in with one of those toasty blankets to keep a patient warm and she leads me to a chair and drapes it over me. I have spa treatment status at the hospital, now, because of my team
—
Michael, Josh, Ben and soon to be, Tom. My status as a special client is now complete. I do thank the nurse. If she could just bring me a cup of tea like they do in real spa, I could actually forget that I’m sitting in a radiologist’s suite surrounded by x-ray machines and films with my name on them with nothing good in the news. My bravado starts to wear off. About to cry, I head to the bathroom in my blue paper slippers and cotton hospital gown, turn the water on full blast, while tears stream down my face. The bad.

≈≈

Dr. Thomas Giordani is Italian, which immediately endures me to him because he seems sympathetic to my most womanly fears. He is a friend of Michael’s.
Who isn’t a friend of Michael’s in this hospital?
He is invited to our wedding. I didn’t even know this, until we start talking about it. I give him the lowdown on all of our wedding plans. His face becomes a bit of a mask of feigned interest and dull enthusiasm as I talk. I can tell that he’s uncomfortable and faraway.

“Ellie,” he finally says. “You’re planning on getting married in three weeks?”

“Well, yes. You got the invitation.”

“Ellie, what does your dress look like?”

“It’s gorgeous. This sexy, sleeveless number…” I have not obviously thought about the ramifications of a
double mas
, as Josh called it, and breast reconstruction and what it will mean. I do now. Dr. Thomas Giordani,
Tom,
since he will now be a part of my growing team is looking at me with this kind of dismay and obvious sympathy. “I won’t be able to wear it.”