Reconstructing natalie, p.11
Reconstructing Natalie, page 11
Groan. Another food bit the chemo dust.
What no one seemed to get was I couldn’t force it. I wasn’t trying to be anorexic or anything—the foods just wouldn’t go down, and those that did often came right back up. I got to where my diet consisted of chicken noodle soup, dry toast, tapioca pudding, and Ensure—vanilla only. The chocolate and strawberry flavors were too nauseatingly sweet for my chemo-altered taste buds.
Just like Pop Tarts. And how sad is that—to be unable to tolerate Pop Tarts?
“You’re a shadow of your former self.” Merritt frowned at me one afternoon.
“Just call me Nicole Richie.”
I decided it was time to start writing in the cancer journal Andy gave me. Maybe it would launch me into a whole new career as a writer. Surely it would make the New York Times bestseller list once the scintillating content was revealed.
Monday
5:00 PM—Another day in chemo paradise. I lie back in the comfy, wide recliner halfway through my two-hour drip of Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Merritt, who’s arranged with her work to get off early the days she has chemo duty, distracts me with the latest celebrity gossip from People.
Today Nurse Paul was busy with another patient, so I got another nurse who didn’t know my rolling veins. It took her three painful tries to insert the IV. And people wonder why I don’t like needles.
5:32 PM—Merritt’s in the middle of telling me something she read about that new show on Fox when one of the prostate-cancer guys flies past us to the bathroom, pushing his IV pole in front of him. She reads louder to try to drown out his tortured retching sounds, but to no avail.
My stomach clenches. The little bald girl across the room gives me a sympathetic smile.
8:15 PM—My tissue expanders are rock-hard and stretching my skin so tightly I feel like they’re going to pop out of my chest like giant zits. Discomfort, the doctor said? Can you say understatement of the century?
11:20 PM—Having a hard time getting comfortable enough to go to sleep. I channel-surf but don’t go quickly enough past Fear Factor, and all at once I’m heaving. Something about a woman in a glass enclosure with hundreds of black shiny beetles crawling all—
Back now. Shouldn’t have even written about it.
Tuesday
11:55 AM—Got back the results of my blood work and the bone scan that Dr. Peterson ordered. Finally, some good news: the cancer hasn’t spread to my bones or organs. Thank you, God! Celebrated with a Snickers bar.
12:22 PM—Threw up my lunch and the Snickers bar.
3:47 PM—Woke up from my nap to throw up again.
5:11 PM—Sucked on some ice chips.
6:13 PM—Threw up.
7:20 PM—Sipped some chicken bouillon on Dad’s watch.
8:59 PM—Puked again.
11:17 PM—Too weak to walk. Crawled to the bathroom. Dry heaves.
Question of the Day: Will I ever be able to eat chocolate again?
Wednesday
12:59 AM—More dry heaves.
3:32 AM—Ditto.
7:10 AM—Now I’m getting it coming and going. Gross. Okay. Ready to be finished with all this cancer stuff now. Ready for my regular life to return. Now would be good.
10:35 AM—Dr. Peterson said I have an unusually sensitive stomach and he’s a little concerned about how often I’m throwing up, so he put me on IV fluids for four hours to hydrate me. He also said he’s going to change my chemo treatments to every two weeks instead of weekly. I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news. The whole thing will take longer, but I’ll have more time to recover in between rounds.
7:02 PM—Went nearly eight hours without puking. Yippie!
Thursday
3:30 AM—Woke up to puke.
7:16 AM—Threw up again 11:01 AM—And again.
12:49 PM—Watched Nana’s “story” on TV—the soap opera she watched faithfully for years and years. Just when this season’s bad girl announced she was carrying her sister’s child in a surrogate pregnancy, I threw up.
4:30 PM—Napped for most of the afternoon and dreamed of a guy on a white horse. Or was it just a guy in white? Nurse Paul? (Except he wears blue scrubs.) Was enjoying the delicious dream until my rolling stomach woke me up.
4:33 PM—Threw up again.
5:10 PM—Josh brought his stuffed Curious George over to keep me company.
8:01 PM—Shoved Curious George out of the way in my race to the bathroom.
9:20 PM—Fell into a fitful sleep. Woke up a couple of times in the night with it coming and going from both ends but was too out of it to write down the times. Sucked on some more ice chips since the idea of swallowing anything, even water, is abhorrent.
If I ever think of bulimia as a way to control my weight, somebody shoot me.
Friday
Didn’t feel like writing much today. Am sick of just writing “Threw up” or “Puked again” all day long. I need a break!
These days I’m sensitive to everything. Noise. Tastes. Smells. My own limitations.
Even the tags on the insides of my shirts.
Those sharp little suckers felt like shards of glass slicing into my skin. In a frenzy, I ripped them out. And when they wouldn’t rip, I grabbed the scissors, twisted them around, and cut off the tags.
Leaving holes in every shirt I own.
On Saturday, Merritt and Jillian brought DVDs over for a Drew Barrymore film fest. Drew’s one of my favorite actresses. There’s a goofy sweetness to her that’s so endearing. I bet she’d make a great friend.
We watched Ever After and Never Been Kissed for the zillionth time. I sighed as I always do at the end of Never Been Kissed, when Michael Vartan strides onto the football field and gives Drew that killer kiss she’s been longing for. Mmm, that guy was hot long before Alias.
Then it was time for Charlie’s Angels—just to see three women kick some serious butt. (Although Cameron Diaz shakes hers just a little too much in my opinion.)
Hmm. I didn’t remember all the cleavage in this movie. It was one jiggle shot after another. I’d never seen so many tight-fitting costumes and plunging necklines showing the curve of perfect breasts.
I asked Jillian to turn it off.
Then Merritt popped in Sweet Home Alabama so Jillian could see what Nurse Gorgeous looks like. She pointed at the screen. “There he is. That’s Patrick Dempsey. He looks almost exactly like the nurse Natalie’s in love with.”
“Yum. If I had that to look forward to, I wouldn’t mind going to chemo,” Jillian said. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“He does make it a little more palatable,” I agreed. “Emphasis on little.”
In the mood for some male eye candy after that taste of my Nurse Gorgeous look-alike, Merritt stuck in Oceans 11. And all three of us leaned back and sighed.
“But I can’t believe you’re into Matt Damon,” Jillian said to Merritt. “He’s kind of geeky.”
“I know. That’s what makes him interesting.” Merritt crunched on a pretzel. “He’s not the typical Hollywood pretty boy. He’s smart too.”
“Yeah. And you have to admit that he shed the geek factor in The Bourne Identity.” I took a sip of my banana smoothie, which oddly enough I’d found I could handle. “And then some. Oh my.”
There was a light rap on the door before it swung open to reveal Andy with a covered dish of steamed chicken (no seasoning), potatoes, and carrots. He set it down on the kitchen counter, then glanced at the TV and our tongues hanging down to the floor. “Oh, it’s the lusting-over-Hollywood-hunks film festival again, huh?”
“’Fess up, Andy. I’m sure you have your own little crushes.” Jillian nodded at the screen. “Julia Roberts, maybe?”
Merritt shook her head. “Nah. I’m betting he’s more an Angelina Jolie kind of guy.”
Andy just smiled and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge.
“You’re both wrong,” I said. “Andy likes the two Kates: Winslet and Blanchett—the latter spelled with a C, thank you very much.”
Jillian arched her brows at him. “Oh, you have a thing for English accents?”
Andy swigged his water. “Who doesn’t? But mostly I like excellent acting and intelligence. And beauty that doesn’t try so hard.”
Saturday
10:15 PM—Great day! Felt like old times. Laughed loads with Jilly and Merritt and lusted over some movie-star hotties. Didn’t feel like cancer-girl for a change. And after several failed culinary attempts, Andy finally brought over a great dinner. Who knew bland chicken and potatoes could taste so scrumptious? I didn’t even get sick!
Well, not for a couple of hours at least, and then only once. Hallelujah!
chapter thirteen
I was officially on leave from work.
Chemotherapy, at least mine, wasn’t conducive to the workplace. Running to the bathroom every few minutes wasn’t exactly professional, especially with the thin walls we have.
Can you say Jurassic Park in surround sound?
I had really wanted to maintain as much normalcy in my life as possible while going through this whole cancer thing, which meant continuing to work. But after a few embarrassing T-rex barfs in the loo—situated right next to the conference room— during our weekly employee meetings, I began to reconsider. Add to that my general weakness and inability to perform many of my normal office duties, and everybody began to reconsider.
So my boss—even if he is my dad, he still has to act like a boss—arranged with the office manager (Mom) for me to take the rest of my sick days at full pay, then a leave of absence at reduced pay for the chemo duration.
And even though all this made me mad at first, the break from work was good. It gave me time to reevaluate my professional life and think about what I really wanted to be when I grew up. I mean, I liked my job. But I was realizing it wasn’t my life’s ambition to be executive assistant—or even office manager—in my dad’s office.
But what else could I do? I pulled out my journal to jot down ideas. But the pages remained blank.
I sighed and looked around my shabby-chic cottage at the antiques I’d inherited from my grandmother, mixed in with my “finds” from flea markets and garage sales.
Hey, maybe I could open an antique store. I’d always liked the idea of owning my own business, and I’d have an excuse to go on buying trips to Europe and stuff. It would even be a tax write-off. (Working for a CPA had taught me a few things in that regard.)
Then that same CPA background reared its practical head.
It costs money to lease the necessary property for a store. Then there’s all the decorating and setup and filling the shop with antiques people will want to buy. Not to mention hiring help to cover the register while I’m away on those fabulous trips.
Maybe something that didn’t require a shop or so much money up front might be better. Perhaps I could provide some sort of service. But what?
Well, I’m really good at keeping things in order. Organization was one of my strong points at work, and living in such a small space made me super-organized at home. Maybe I could become one of those professional organizers and go to people’s homes and workplaces, clear away their clutter and towering stacks of paper, get them all sorted out. I could do that.
Then again, that’s what I already did for Dad at work. I wanted to try something different. Something a little more exciting. A little more creative, perhaps?
Being a musician was probably out. I love music, even played the clarinet briefly in fourth grade. But I’m not much of a singer, and it was a little late to learn another instrument and play it professionally. My chances of becoming the next American Idol were, well, zero.
What about painting? I dismissed the thought instantly. Merritt already had that covered, and though I liked to sketch and to doodle, I’d never be anything like her.
Could I be a writer? I’d actually considered that before. My seventh-grade teacher had always given me A’s on my writing assignments, and I already owned a laptop and a journal. What more did I need?
It’s not like you need a special degree or anything to be a writer (unless you want to be a technical writer like Andy, and I knew there wasn’t a chance of that). If Hemingway and Fitzgerald are any indicators, you just needed lots of angst and booze. I’m not much of a drinker, but I could definitely call up some angst. Especially recently.
Turning the page, I resumed my cancer journey entries, keeping in mind that they were now potential publication fodder.
Thursday
No puking today.
Hmm, maybe that was a little too graphic. Perhaps I should soften it and make it not quite so short. I tried again.
Today I was so relieved not to throw up again as a result of the chemotherapy drugs coursing through my body. They do tend to have a rather negative impact on one’s digestive system, even when hardly anything has been digested. I believe the medical term for the latter is dry heaves.
I stopped and reread what I had written. Sounded a bit stuffy and clinical. Plus, I’d forgotten a setting. Wasn’t it important to always have a setting and lots of description in your writing—or was that just in fiction?
I thought back to something Constance had said at my second support-group meeting: “My life changed for the better as a result of my cancer. It helped me discover my passion.”
Her passion, like Merritt’s, was art. I made a mental note again to introduce the two of them.
Meanwhile, I wondered, what was my passion? (Nurse Paul and the guys inside my cabinet didn’t count.)
Did I even have a passion?
The phone rang. “Hey, girl, you busy?”
“Rashida?”
“The one and only. I’m calling for a favor. I tried a couple of the others, but Constance is out of town, it’s Johnna’s tae kwan do night, and I can’t get ahold of Pat.” She expelled a tired sigh. “I promised Jane I’d bring her family some dinner, but my car’s in the shop. Could you give me a ride?”
Fifteen minutes later I was knocking on Rashida’s front door in one of the newer housing developments in town. Hers was not your basic tract home, not by any stretch. Definitely custom. Which I noticed the moment I stepped into the marble entryway. Soaring cathedral ceilings, a winding cherrywood spindle staircase that led up to the second floor, and a spacious, open living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a marble fireplace, and burnished cherry hardwood floors beneath plush Oriental carpets and richly colored sofas.
Rashida, in white jeans, a loose tunic, and a black-and-white polka-dot scarf, ushered me into the enormous kitchen. I drank in the granite countertops, slate floor, gleaming stainless-steel appliances, and cooktop island with a full set of Calphalon pots and pans hanging from the pot rack.
She looked at the digital timer on the state-of-the-art convection oven. “That casserole has seven more minutes to bake, so let’s sit in the living room and rest while we wait. Don’t know about you, but this chemo stuff just wears me out!”
I sat on one of the plush tapestry sofas and picked up a silver-framed photo of a beaming woman in multiple braids and cap and gown, flanked by two smiling young boys. “Is this you?”
Rashida nodded. “That’s when I graduated from law school. Those are my babies.”
But I wasn’t focused on her sons. “Your hair was so long and beautiful. Love all the beads. Did you wear it that way to work?” I stole a surreptitious glance at her now-scarfed head.
She laughed. “Uh-huh. Don’t think the partners knew quite what to make of this sistah with the wild hair—though it was mostly extensions. But they’d seen me in the courtroom and knew I was a bulldog who’d do right by my clients.”
“Was it hard to lose your hair?” I brushed mine out of my face.
“Oh yeah,” she said softly. “At first. But now I’m used to it.” She gave me a gentle smile, then slowly unwound her scarf to reveal a perfect milk-chocolate hairless head.
“I hope I look as good as you bald.”
“Don’t trip. You’ll be all right,” she said. “’Specially with those gorgeous eyes . . .”
There was a loud clatter from the kitchen and the sound of something hitting the slate floor. Rashida raised her voice. “What’d I tell you ’bout bouncin’ that basketball inside my house?”
A couple of disembodied “Sorry, Mamas,” wafted into the living room.
“Now get your butts in here and meet my friend.”
Two skinny and incredibly tall teens with shaved heads just beginning to stubble appeared in the doorway. Rashida introduced me to fifteen-year-old DeShawn and his younger brother, DeWayne.
They ducked their heads shyly. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” I looked at Rashida and pouted. “I’m not even thirty yet.”
“That’s just a sign of respect.” She inclined her head to her sons. “Y’all can call her Miss Natalie. Now go on up and shower that flop sweat off you. I’ll be leaving soon, but when I come back you both better be nice and clean and doing your homework.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison before bounding up the stairs.
Rashida called up after them, “And don’t you be playing no computer games until your homework’s done, either.”
“No, ma’am.”
Rashida’s fond gaze followed her sons. She cupped her hand and stroked her bald head reflectively. “When I started losing hair on my pillow, my boys shaved my head for me. Then they shaved their own heads too.”
My eyes filled. “You have beautiful sons. You must be very proud of them.” I looked around. “You’ve got a beautiful home too.”
Her gaze snaked through the living room, which was empty save for the two tapestry couches, one end table, and the silver-framed photo I’d admired earlier. “Thanks. It will be once I get everything in place.” She waved her hand to the far end of the room, where a bevy of paintings and pictures leaned against a stack of boxes. “We moved in over two months ago, but between work, my treatments, and just getting food on the table, the last thing I’ve been worried about is hanging pictures.” She sighed. “I planned to hire a decorator, but then I got diagnosed, and I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
