40

One

Brigantine, NJ

June, 1982

Tuesday, 6 PM

             I freeze, the speculum rattling between my splayed legs, the tenaculum stretching a part of me that hasn’t had a month off since adolescence.

And I’m not talking the whoopee kind.

“Now relax, Diane,” the doctor says from beneath the drape. “This might pinch a bit.”

In goes the curet and my abdomen implodes—like earth collapsing from an underground blast—a vibrato of cramping ripping through me to my teeth, my vision tunneling as I suck air to keep conscious.

“God-damn…” I whimper, stars pricking the ceiling, the curet boring into my uterus, my fists twisting the paper matting as it excavates a sample.

Those three Anacin I took? Might as well dosed myself with Snickers. “That’s a pinch?”

From beneath the drape I hear her tsk. “No good, Diane. I’m sorry, but I have to go in again. Now try to hold still.”

Then just like that another stick’s boring inside me, brain blanking against an aftershock more catastrophic than the first.

Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn…my mouth too gaping to manage more than “Uhh!”

“I know, I know,” says the doc with professional-grade sympathy. “I’m sorry. It seems it’s always a bit more painful for women who’ve never had any, well…you know.”

Oh believe me, after hearing never all these years, I know.

“Okay and…done.” The doctor sits back, considering the curet as she lifts it into the light. “Looks like an excellent sample. We’ll send it out tonight.” She hands the bloodied digger to the nurse and bends back in, instruments clanking as they hit a metal tray. Finished, Dr. Lang stands, nudging my bare legs from the stirrups. “Okay, Diane, rest a few minutes and after you’re dressed, let’s have a chat in my office.” The nurse follows the doctor out.

Quiet. Except for the goddamn tinny music spewing out of that blowhole of a speaker. Christ, my jaw’s sore from clenching it. I let go of the matting, paper crackling as it flattens, my insides aching and my crotch on fire. When I sit up, my hand slides to my belly.

They say that’s what pregnant women do. Always protecting the baby. Not me. My protective gesture’s defensive.

This whole thing’s an exercise in futility. Such attention, my lady parts have been getting, when they’ve been acting like goddamn bitches.

On the wall ahead there’s a rosy-cheeked baby spouting a speech balloon, Have we taken our vitamins today, Mom? Such a chastising little face, such an icon of innocence. Shut up you little shit. I know what you grow into. That’s incentive enough to get up and get out of here.

I ease myself from the table, swiping off KY with the drape before stepping into on my underwear. I foolishly thought less machinery would mean less maintenance, but no. (Like I said—bitches.) Every six months I get a CA125 blood screen and a trip to the doc’s, ever prepared for the inevitable. I know it’s coming back, probably sooner than I think. Why else this biopsy today? If it is, then why do I keep putting myself through this? Why so much agony over a set of superfluous parts? Tell me it wouldn’t be better to get it all cut out? Why don’t I just go ahead and do it?

You know why. Every woman does. Whether she believes it or not. We need the bitches more than they need us.

The bitches make us who we are.

I slide on my pantyhose, shimmy into my skirt, pull on the rest of The Uniform. It’s not the first time today I got dressed. Just a little while ago I was wearing a sheath, classic black, size twelve. Been awhile since I wore it, the zipper sticking as I pulled it up. And no, it had nothing to do with the dim sum they had in the caf the night before (I hope so because damn, it was delish). I didn’t even eat that much of it, not really. I’m holding water, must be, or not drinking enough to wash all that soy sauce out of me.

“Come on…” I yank the skirt’s zipper. This one too? The damn thing catches, then slides into place. It’s always the little things that make life miserable, isn’t it?

The bar manager leaned in. Between his opened collar, a gold cornicello tap-tapped the upper fringes of his thickly matted chest. “What you call that again, babe?”

            Diane glanced up from the keys, replaying the last four bars. “’The Man I Love.’”

            “Ah.” The manager swirled his scotch, ice tinkling. “Lemme guess—Billie Holliday.”

            “Well actually…” She smiled, propping her elbow on the piano ledge. “…it’s the Etta James version.”

            The man laughed, taking a swig. “Sweetheart, what’s the difference?”

“Idiot.” I leave to meet the inevitable down the hall.

 

 

Two

6:18 PM

The gynecologist is scribbling onto a chart as I enter her office. It smells of that morning’s coffee and something sweet, a bowl of party-colored jellybeans at the corner of her desk. I ease into a chair opposite, hugging my purse. “So, how long do I have?”

Dr. Lang barely lifts a brow, still scribbling. “Jeez, Diane. Ever the optimist.”

This is the part I hate. This is the part where we discuss. Where she seesaws between Comedy and Tragedy. Doctor Serious is all authoritative and by-the-book clinical. The other is more subliminal, more chattsy—Doc Girlfriend. Either way it’s tedious.

Dr. Lang taps a line on a form. “I notice you have a big birthday coming up on Thursday.”

I shift against the seep of KY. “That’s kind of subjective.”

“Forty!” The doctor whip-snaps the word. She flips up a sheet from my file, scans it, flips it back. “Which means it’s almost fifteen years since.”

And here it comes. “I was there, I know.”

“I know you know.” She sits back, clicks-unclicks the pen. “So you really need to think about getting the other ovary out.”

The other ovary. I made a joke to remember which one was gone. After the right went wrong I had one left. I do not want to do this today. “I’m thinking.”

“Unless, of course, you’re thinking of children fairly soon.”

The horror, the horror. “Is that even a question you still have to ask me?”

“Even if I don’t, it’s a fair question.” She leans in, sets down the pen, folds her hands atop the pages. “You’re not getting any younger, you know. As it is, you’re at the edge.”

Oh boy. Here comes Doctor Serious.

“You know the further you get past thirty-five, the harder it becomes to get pregnant. Even more so when you have fibroids like you do. Yes, they’re mostly harmless, but they do impede conception, and they’ll only increase in perimenopause. Which could be another reason behind all that heavy bleeding you’ve had lately.”

I know this. Don’t I have a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves? “Then why don’t you put me on the pill? Wouldn’t it help regulate my period? Slow it down from a geyser?” Not that I’d need it for any other reason with the quality of men I’ve been meeting lately.

The doctor smiles sympathetically. “You know I can’t do that.”

Of course not. Not with my history. Increases the risk. Use a condom, foam, a diaphragm. Or better yet, who needs men? Go for the guaranteed and get an appliance. No shame in it. Send for our free catalog. Or come around the back to that XXX shop on Baltic Ave. Truly, the whole thing’s exhausting. “So now I’m perimenopausal?”

“Well, let’s see. Have you had any hot flashes? Fatigue or moodiness? Night sweats?”

Is she kidding? Considering what I’ve been through lately, moodiness and fatigue are practically de rigueur. “I did wake up in a sweat yesterday, but I’d been dreaming of Tom Jones.” Truth. And I don’t even like Tom Jones.

The doctor giggles, softens, goes deep into Doc Girlfriend. “Occupational hazard, I guess.” She looks a decade younger as she twists in her chair. “The man’s still got it. I saw he was at the Sands. Did you go?”

“Me?” I’m grateful for the subject shift. “As if eight hours in a casino isn’t enough.”

“Busman’s holiday.” The doctor swivels back. “But seriously, Diane…”

And just like that… I’m practically psychic.

“Look, we have to consider all the reasons for heavy bleeding, and fibroids in your uterus is one. Taking into consideration your history, well…. You know I like to be cautious.”

You’re telling me. Though what the doc is really trying to say is my lone ovary’s been on borrowed time since my right was ripped out fifteen years ago, encased in a tumor the size of a cantaloupe. (Why do they always compare tumors to fruit? So unappetizing.) Leaving the left was only so me and the husband could create some progeny. When he finally emerges from the theoretical, that is.

She slides on the sympathetic face. “Getting it removed only makes sense.”

Why can’t I ever get away from it? Just when I think I can breathe again, it jumps me.

“Do we have to talk about this?” I say. “Do we always have to talk about it?” I’d like to lob my purse through the window. “You’re just like my last gyno. With either of you, every time—it’s like a trip to death row.”

“Is that what you think? Really?” The surprise on the doctor’s face shows how hard that hits. “Then I’m sorry. I must be doing a terrible job of explaining what’s going on.” Dr. Lang comes around the desk to perch next to the jellybeans. “Look, it wasn’t good you were bleeding for three weeks, but you had an infection. It’s not unusual when you have one. But the antibiotics did take care of that.”

Always the preamble. “So why the biopsy?”

She looks at me like she’s parsing her thoughts. Making me wonder why. “Because there could be any number of reasons for prolonged bleeding, From perimenopause to fibroids—”

“Which you’ve said are harmless and common.”

“Right. But there’s also the possibility—” Suddenly Dr. Lang starts coughing, but not for a second do I think something’s stuck in her throat. She’s buying time and that’s just plain bad.

“Sorry,” the doctor says, reaching for a tissue. “This weather is killing my sinuses.”

As the doctor blows her nose I look to the window and the rain rolling down it, the cars out on the street piling up at the light. People are tapping steering wheels, smoking cigarettes, singing to Top 40, their arms stretching across the backs of their seats. Tuesday afternoon is quickly shifting into Tuesday evening, and I know the doc’s already spent more time with me than usual. And me with her. She needs get to the point.

“Doc, I hear what you’re saying. I’ve got to get it out or have a kid pronto, because the longer I wait, the worse the outcome for both.” I stand, ready to leave. “And everybody knows a woman without kids isn’t really a woman.”

The doctor tosses the tissue into the trash. “That’s not what I said.”

“No,” I say, sliding my purse to my shoulder. “You wouldn’t. But the implication is crystal clear if you’re bringing it up.”

“Hey.” The doctor stands. “You want to have a kid? I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“Me?” I want to laugh. “Have kids? You must be joking. Rip the goddamn thing out. I don’t know why you haven’t already.”

“Because ovaries are for more than just facilitating babies. The hormones they produce keep you young, vibrant.”

“Then take another look.” I think of  this afternoon, sweeping my hand across me. “My point exactly.”

“Are you serious? Diane—you’re gorgeous.” She sighs, almost with indignation. “Look, I’ve said it before—we’re still women whether or not we have kids. And because you didn’t, it doesn’t make me think less of you or—” I try to leave but the doctor grabs my hand. “Or think you need your ovaries any less than I need mine. All I’m saying is if you’re done with it, whether you’ve gone through menopause or not, taking it out will lower your risk.”

“Of what…?” Yes, she’s being like that.

She lets go. “Of anything returning.”

I’m so sick of dancing around the word, that linguistic leper relegated to hushed tones and polite euphemisms. I want to hear it.

“Of the cancer returning,” I say, saying it.

Doctor Serious retorts, “And you really want to wait for that?”

I should appreciate the honesty. Because then we could chat benignly about fashion or Tom Jones or what’s for dinner because there’d be nothing to angst over. I wouldn’t have been bleeding clots for three weeks, wouldn’t have had an infection that made me vomit with pain, wouldn’t have needed a biopsy, wouldn’t have had a history of cancer. Back when I was turning twenty-five I would’ve been fit enough with two functioning ovaries, ready to make issue with Mr. Right. But I wasn’t that woman then and I’m sure as hell not it now. I’m turning forty and turning it alone, my crotch sore and seeping and my future walking the wire.

“Diane, listen to me.” She cracks a smile and in an instant, the righteous doctor vanishes. “I don’t want you obsessing about this. There are lots of things that could’ve caused an infection, and more than likely whatever it was is gone. You’re not bleeding anymore and honestly, everything looks fine.”

“Then say for certain I have nothing to worry about.”

She blinks. “Nothing is ever for certain, but yeah, you every reason for optimism.”

“So why the biopsy then?”

She huffs. “It was supposed to ease your mind. Not make you crazy.”

“Wouldn’t you go crazy if for fifteen years you had a bomb ticking inside you?”

Again, she looks surprised. “Diane, you have it all wrong. Fifteen years is a long time to be cancer-free. It’s not remission—it’s a cure. You need to stop worrying and enjoy life while you’re still young.”

She’s just being patronizing. “Forty is not young.”

“Stop comparing yourself to those stick figures in Cosmo. Believe me, there’s plenty of life past twenty-five, and you’ve been living it. Now start living like you have forty years ahead of you, because chances are you have even more.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Damn, that’s a long slide down.”

The doc looks ready to throttle me. “You’re such a cynic. Life can be good if you let it.”

Who knew it’s all a matter of letting it? So I guess I’m really holding back on purpose. Still, if I don’t at least look like she has a point, this moral beatdown will kill me before the cancer does. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

“You know, it never hurts to be positive.” She pats my arm. “Look, I’m well aware how antsy you can be waiting on the test, so I’ll tell the lab it’s a rush. That should get me the results by Thursday morning. I’ll call you as soon as I hear.”

I give the doc’s hand a good shake. “So you can give me the best birthday ever.”

“Absolutely. Now come on. Let me see a smile.” I cringe. Yet I gift her with one that rivals neon. “Perfect. Now get to work and don’t worry about it. I’ll call you Thursday.”

I flee, still smiling as I cross the rainy parking lot to my car, hand skittering around the doorhandle like I’ve forgotten how to open it. Somehow I find myself inside, fingers shaking so badly I can hardly line up the key with the ignition and it’s tap-tap-tapping around the steering column until the key finally aligns and I can turn the engine over. I creep out onto soggy Brigantine Avenue, the traffic light a smear of red before it blinks green and I’m shushing through the back bay flooding, fifth car in a traffic train’s dead crawl. After a minute I swerve from the left lane to the right to the shoulder, my foot stomping the gas until I’m whizzing past everyone, aimed at AC.

“You got anything a little more up-to-date?”

            “Absolutely. How about some Billy Joel? Some Bee Gees? Chrissie Hynde? Or—I know—Aretha, like ‘R-E-S—” She played the notes for P-C-T. “Then there’s—”

            “Sure sure sure.” He set his scotch to the table. “But what about your dress?”

            She looked down. “My dress?”

            “Yeah. Got any a little more…” He came over, his hands cupped in front of his chest. “You know. It should show some bazooms.” He bounced his hands a bit, fingers spread.

            “Ohhhh…you want sexy, right?” She winked. “Oh, I have sexy. I have dresses so low cut you can almost see paradise.”

            “Ha!” He pulled out a smoke, snapping his lighter. “’Cause that’s what really sells it, you know. The dresses.” His brow arches. “Or what’s left of ‘em.”

            “Oh I have those.” She played a few notes in B flat. “Some are practically illegal.”

            “Right! Just legal enough to keep the cops on the sidewalk.” His finger trailed an imaginary U around his lips. “That’s what sells it, babe. A hot dress and a sexy smile.”

Diane’s widened into an especially seductive one. “Well…of course.”

He reached for his scotch and emptying it, leaned in, eyes hooded. “Hey.” He rattled the ice. “You want one of these, babe? I got a bottle of the best in my office.”

            She trilled a glissando down the keyboard. “I thought you’d never ask.”

I pass Harrah’s, heading straight for the Boards.

Smiling.

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