Reconstructing natalie, p.10
Reconstructing Natalie, page 10
The elegant white-haired woman nodded. “John was a very sweet man.”
“Men can get breast cancer?” Jane asked the question everyone else wanted to.
“It’s rare.” Johnna steepled her fingers. “Only about one percent of breast cancer cases a year are men, but they’re definitely not exempt.”
“I’ll bet that’s embarrassing on poker nights.” Faye gave a short, hard laugh.
Johnna turned to Pat. “We got a little sidetracked. I’m sorry. Were you finished?”
“Not quite, but I’ll be quick.” Pat grinned. “I just wanted to add that I’m sixty-three and recently retired from the DMV.” She glanced heavenward. “Thank you, God.”
We all laughed.
“And my husband, Jerry, and I are going on a Caribbean cruise for our fortieth wedding anniversary—a gift from our kids.” Pat shot a proud look down at her new chest. “So now that my girls are finished, I’m going to go out and buy the sexiest bathing suit I can find.”
Anita giggled. “Don’t forget a pretty negligee, too, for those romantic nights.”
Rashida winked. “What you need to get yourself is a black lace teddy.”
“A red bustier and a thong,” Jane offered.
All heads swiveled as one to the quiet pastor’s wife, whose cheeks were now as red as her hair.
“What?” She sent us an innocent look. “You think I wear high-necked white cotton or flannel all the time?” Her mouth curved upward in a wicked grin. “We Baptists really know how to get down.”
I scraped my chin off the floor.
“Go ’head, girl.” Rashida bobbed her chin up and down.
“Who knew we had our own little Desperate Housewives right here in Sacramento?” Faye crossed her legs again.
Zoey put her hand over her eyes. “Just don’t say anything about fuzzy handcuffs, please.”
“Eew,” we all shrieked.
“Okay, ladies.” Johnna clapped her hands. “Getting a little out of control now. Settle down. We’re still not done with the introductions.” She nodded to the final woman in the circle.
“Hello, Natalie. Lovely to meet you,” the older woman said. She was straight-backed and elegant, with a lacy network of fine lines on her face. “I’m Constance. What a beautiful tunic. Is that hand-painted?”
“Yes, thanks. My best friend made it for me. She’s a wonderful artist.”
“I’ll say.” Constance’s faded blue eyes gleamed in appreciation. “Does she have others for sale? Maybe I could commission her to make one for me. Or possibly a vest?” She smiled. “I know vests aren’t really in with young people these days, but middle-aged and older women still like them.”
Pat raised her hand. “I want a vest too.”
“I’ll take a tunic,” Rashida said.
“Ditto,” Zoey chimed in.
“Wow.” I shook my head. “Wait’ll I tell Merritt what a hit her shirt was. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Merritt?” Constance gave me a quizzical look. “As in Merritt Chase?”
I nodded, my eyes widening.
“I’ve seen some of her work around town,” Constance said thoughtfully. “She’s quite gifted.” She stared at my shirt. “I should have recognized her vivid style.”
“Constance”— Johnna gave her a fond smile—“could we hold the art discussion ’til later?”
“Of course.” She returned the smile. “Excuse me. You know how I get. Back on track now.” Constance recited, “I’m seventy-seven and had a mastectomy nearly forty years ago. I was living in the Midwest, and the doctor gave me a hysterectomy at the same time because back then they thought the two were related— both ‘female problems,’ you know.”
I gasped.
Zoey scowled. “Talk about the Dark Ages.”
“Every time I hear that, it makes my blood boil.” Pat drew her eyebrows together.
Constance waved off our concerns. “It was a different world back then. My doctor had only performed one other mastectomy before mine. Thankfully, I was close to forty and had already had my three kids.” She chuckled. “I didn’t mind him taking out my plumbing because that way I didn’t have to worry about periods any longer.” Constance stared off into the distance. “At the time, we thought my cancer was a death sentence, but I’ve outlived two husbands. You never know what the good Lord has in store.”
She directed a reassuring glance to Jane. “I clung to the promise in Jeremiah, where He says He knows the plans He has for me—plans to give me hope and a future.” Constance held up her right hand to display a ring with multiple sparkling birthstones. “My future included seeing my children grow up and give me grandbabies. Now those grandbabies have made me a great-grandmother.” She winked. “I’ve got a passel of pictures I’ll be only too happy to bore everyone with later.”
“Constance is the coleader of the group,” Johnna said. “She’s one of the founding members from thirty years ago, and she continues to come to encourage other women.” She gave the cancer veteran a warm smile. “She’s a great encourager and is happy to answer any questions you might have.” Johnna shifted in her chair. “Speaking of questions, does anyone have any questions or issues that have come up this past week?”
Anita raised a tentative hand. “A woman at church told me her sister had a friend who was so afraid to lose her breast that she had lumpectomy after lumpectomy but still wound up needing a mastectomy later. Only by that point, the cancer had already spread to her liver and brain.” Her voice quavered. “Does that mean my cancer will spread because I had a lumpectomy?”
“No way.” Rashida clamped her lips into a thin line.
Faye snorted. “Now we’re talking Dark Ages!”
Johnna gave Anita a reassuring look. “A lumpectomy followed by chemo and radiation is just as effective today as a mastectomy. But each cancer is different,” she said carefully. “Each woman is different. It’s a very personal choice, and you and your doctor have to make the choice that’s best for you depending on the kind of cancer you have and what you feel comfortable with. That’s why it’s so important to educate yourself and learn all you can.”
Rashida’s eyes blazed. “Do y’all notice that people feel the need to come up and tell you about the worst-case scenario they’ve ever heard? I mean, everyone has a cousin or a sister-in-law or a friend of a friend who knew somebody that died of cancer, and for some reason, they feel it’s their bound duty to tell you about it.” Her earrings jangled furiously. “Happened to me, and it was a sistah at my church too. All I have to say to that is ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’” She stabbed the air with her finger. “I’m surrounding myself with only positive people.”
Zoey nodded. “You don’t need their negative energy.”
“Amen to that,” Pat said.
Anita raised her hand again, her eyes clouded with pain. “But what about when your husband or boyfriend can’t handle it?”
Yeah, what about that?
“Or the woman in your life.” Zoey folded her arms across her chest.
“Good question—an important question,” Johnna said gently. “Usually the reason your loved ones have difficulty coping is because they’re afraid. They’re scared, angry, confused, and worried they might lose you. They’re also worried how the cancer will affect your life together.” She looked around the circle at each woman. “Cancer changes things. It changes you. And not just physically. Emotionally. Psychologically. It impacts every area of your life. But that’s not a bad thing, ultimately. It can be very empowering.” Johnna turned to Anita. “Would the man”—her eyes flicked to Zoey—“or the woman in your life consider going to a support group for caregivers?”
Zoey picked a piece of lint off her shorts. “Maybe. I’ll ask.”
“Not my husband.” Anita sighed. “He’s not good about talking about his feelings. It’s that whole Latino male thing.” Her mouth twisted in an imitation of a smile. “I fell in love with his strong, silent type, but now the silence is deafening.” She sighed, and Jane reached over to pat her shoulder with a sympathetic hand.
“Give him time,” Johnna said gently. “He may come around. We have fliers at the back listing different caregiver support groups in town—be sure to pick some up on your way out.” She looked at her watch. “Okay, that does it for today. See you all next week.”
“So, Pat.” Rashida linked arms with the older woman as we walked out. “Are you heading to Victoria’s Secret from here? You want some help picking out that sexy bathing suit?”
“We could make it a field trip.” Constance’s eyes twinkled.
Pat blushed.
“I have to get on home.” Jane gave a little wave. “But don’t forget the thong.”
“Constance Allen is in your support group?” Merritt’s eyes widened.
“Yep. Why? Do you know her?”
“No, but I’d like to. She’s a legend in the local arts community and has this fabulous gallery downtown.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oops. They told us the contents of the meetings are confidential. I wonder if that means people’s identities too—like in AA.” I sent her a beseeching look. “Please don’t repeat what I told you. I don’t want to get kicked out or anything. There’re a lot of cool women I’d like to get to know.”
Merritt pouted. “Cooler than me?”
“No one’s cooler than you.”
“I should think not.” She pushed her now-pink-and-turquoise hair behind her ears. “So how’d you find out about this group anyway?”
“There was a notice at the hospital, and Dr. Taggart also recommended it.” I glanced at Merritt’s C-cups. “She thought it would be good for me to be around other women without breasts—to know I’m not the only one.”
“Just so you don’t desert your other friends . . .”
“No way. These days I need all the friends I can get.”
chapter twelve
Who knew a male nurse could be so sexy?
The guy in blue scrubs at the cancer center reminded me of that cute doctor from Grey’s Anatomy. The one with the great body and fabulous hair. What’s his name again? He also played the rich New York fiancé Reese Witherspoon left at the altar in Sweet Home Alabama.
I’d never leave this guy at the altar. No way.
I was glad I’d worn the loose white camouflage shirt from Merritt and put on some lipstick this morning. I bit my lip, trying to think of the actor’s name, as Hunka Nurse bent over my arm and set up my IV.
Behind him, Merritt licked her lips and mouthed the word wow to me.
“Patrick Dempsey,” I blurted out.
“Sorry?” The nurse looked up at me with deep sea-blue eyes a girl easily could have drowned in.
I reddened. “Uh, I was just trying to think who you reminded me of.”
“Who’s Patrick Dempsey?”
“A doctor on TV.”
A gorgeous doctor, Merritt mouthed behind his back.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time to watch much TV,” he said. “Although what I want to know is why the gorgeous guys are always doctors. Why can’t the leading man ever be a nurse?” He finished up the IV and winked at me.
You can be my leading man any day.
I rushed to fill the gooey-eyed silence. “Hey, thanks for not hurting me with the needle. I’m a bit phobic.”
“We aim to please.” He smiled.
I felt my eyes going all puppy-dog-like in the smitten silence. Any minute now, my tongue would hang out and I’d start some heavy-duty panting.
“Here you go, sweetie.” Mom returned with my 7UP.
Whew. Saved by the mom. Though I never thought I’d use those words in the same sentence.
For my first chemo treatment, I was stretched out on the biggest and baddest leather recliner I’d ever kicked back in. Around me were nine other recliners, each one holding a man, woman, or child—the child being a sweet-looking little bald girl of about seven or eight who kept staring at my hair.
Nurse Drop-Dead Gorgeous, whose name tag read “Paul Gallagher,” was explaining the whole procedure and what to expect. “You may feel some nausea later this evening, but hopefully this anti-nausea medication we give you first will stave it off.” He offered an encouraging smile, his teeth dazzling white, of course, but the right front one was slightly crooked, which only made him all the more endearing. “There’s no way of predicting for sure how you’ll react. Many patients feel a little flulike afterwards but never actually throw up.”
I thought of Faye’s complaints, then pushed those thoughts away and focused instead on the adorable Nurse Paul and his instructions while Merritt took notes. When he looked down to scribble something on my chart, I couldn’t help but notice his incredibly long lashes.
Maybe chemo won’t be so bad after all.
My mom, Dad, Andy, and Merritt had all volunteered to accompany me to my chemo treatments. We agreed that they’d take turns, especially since there wasn’t enough room at the center for everyone. (Jillian had played her get-out-of-hospital-free card, and given her history, I really did understand.)
Merritt won the coin toss for the first treatment. But as we were walking into the chemo room, Mom suddenly appeared beside us with a stack of magazines. “You forgot your reading material, honey.”
Yeah, right, Mom.
I sent her down for the 7UP when I saw there was only one visitor’s chair next to each recliner. Then she and Merritt took turns sitting with me over the next two and a half hours.
That first treatment was pretty easy. I stretched out in the comfy recliner and feasted my eyes on Nurse Gorgeous while the chemo did its stuff.
The second treatment, not so much.
The chair was just as comfortable. But Nurse Paul was busy with another patient, so I had a different, not-so-gorgeous nurse who wasn’t as distracting. Nor was Dad, although he tried to take my mind off the toxic chemicals dripping into my body by filling me in on everything that was going on at work.
By the time we left, I was feeling pretty weak and queasy.
Dad had wanted me to move back home for the duration of the weekly treatments, but I’d put my foot down—again. (It got easier each time I did it.) I needed to be home in my snug little cottage. And that’s where I was, resting on the couch and talking to Merritt and Andy and Josh, when it hit.
“Uh-oh.”
Andy and Josh had just delivered Andy’s famous spinach lasagna, which I usually adore. Now one whiff stirred up something deep within me—and not in a good way.
I started to run to the bathroom, but no way was I going to make it. Andy grabbed the wastebasket and sprinted to my side, leaping over the hassock on his way and shoving the wastebasket under my chin just in time.
Thankfully the wastebasket was empty. Emphasis on was.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, mortified.
“Pretty fast on your feet there, Wonder Man.” I could hear the admiration in Merritt’s voice.
“Yeah, Dad. Cool!”
“I ran track in high school, remember?” Andy said. “I always won at hurdles.”
“That was hurdles, not hurling.” I peeked through my fingers, which were still splayed over my red-hot face. “I’m so sorry. Gross.”
He waved off my apology and took the wastebasket into the bathroom, where I heard the sounds of flushing and running water. He returned with a glass of water and wiped my face with a cool washcloth. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a single dad, remember? I specialize in puke. Right, Josh-man?”
“Right, Dad.”
Andy grinned. “Besides, I’ve seen you toss your cookies before, Miss Moore.”
I gave him a blank look.
“The year you were nine, you kept pestering me to take you trick-or-treating, so my folks made me do it, and you ate way too much chocolate.”
“Butterfingers.” My stomach recoiled at the memory. And that time I actually made it to the bathroom. But the vanilla almond candle on the back of the toilet only made things worse.
Now I understood the reason behind those signs at the center.
At my initial chemo appointment—the one where I first laid eyes on the gorgeous male nursing object of my affection— Merritt had offered to paint my toenails while we waited. But before she even finished one toe, Nurse Paul had appeared by my recliner.
“Sorry.” He’d pointed to a sign on the wall: “In deference to our patients, please do not wear perfume, aftershave, or other strong fragrances.”
I’d never actually thought of nail polish as a “strong fragrance.”
Now I did.
It was one of the countless smells I learned I just couldn’t tolerate.
Even smells I usually loved became way too much—coffee, candles, body splash, fresh flowers. I’d always liked to keep a Mason jar of fresh-cut roses on my kitchen table and a small vase on the dresser in my bedroom. Now the Mr. Lincolns were just too fragrant. And when I sat outside to get a little fresh air, the star jasmine along the fence was enough to send me running back inside.
Mom had to stop wearing her beloved White Diamonds. I pushed my freesia body splash to the back of my underwear drawer. Even the liquid Ivory soap from the pump dispenser I used to wash my hands was too strong.
It was all very annoying. But most distressing of all was my sudden aversion to chocolate.
Josh and I have always shared a serious addiction to triple-chocolate brownies, which I usually make for us. One day Josh, wanting to make me feel better, had his dad help him bake a batch, which they brought over fresh from the oven.
Just one whiff. That’s all it took.
One whiff, and I was puking in the kitchen sink. From then on, the very thought of anything chocolate or sweet made me gag.
Unfortunately, the same held true for Mexican food, Italian food, and most Chinese. There wasn’t much that didn’t set me off. I just wished everyone would quit pushing me to eat.
Mom and Dad tried to coax me with all my preferred foods, but to no avail. “Honey, look, I made your favorite—corned beef and cabbage,” Dad said. “And it’s not even St. Patrick’s Day.”
