"The Cachet of Cancer" - a short story performed at the Show n'Tell at UCB January 2007

"The Cachet of Cancer"
by Fielding Edlow

On May 24th, I found myself in a place I never ever thought I would be. Because after 13 years of therapy, 9 years of group, and lots of bullshit vitamins, I found myself in my gynecologist’s office with a secret. We awkwardly chatted. I politely asked her about her new baby even though I could give a shit, and then she went down the list. “Are you having sex? Yes. Are you using condoms? Pause. Pause pause. I know you’re not on the Pill. That is correct. Care to elaborate? “Well, I was sleeping with a really insecure comic book artist who looks like Gopher on The Love Boat without any protection and then I started sleeping with my obsessive-compulsive actor boyfriend who looks like a cross between Alf and Frasier so you know, what are you going to do?” She said, “I would like you tested for everything and, what are you on some kind of death wish?”

We moved on to the breast portion of the exam. She was lingering around much longer than usual. Hmmm. “I’m feeling a little something right here, and I’d like you to get it checked out.” She handed me the card of Dr. Kristi Pado. It was surreal to be carrying a small white card in my back pocket that said Breast Specialist. I am 30 years old. I should be carrying a card that says “Save the date – we’re getting married at the Santa Barbara Ranch house this July!”

I called my mother and broke the news. There was some heavy resentful breathing and even loud obnoxious chewing. Then she said, “Well, what are you going to do? It’s happening. This is life, Elizabeth, this is what people have to deal with.” And, this woman/my mother just got her phD as a psychoanalyst and sees patients in my old bedroom. I would pay not to see my mother.

The next day, I walked into Dr. Pado’s office at the women’s center at Cedar’s. Finally, the door swung open and a spritely, sun-streaked woman who couldn’t have been over 25, literally, bounced in the room. “Hi, call me Kristi”. I was like, okay, why is the Clairol girl treating me for a fiber adenoma or a cyst or whatever the hell it was. And my second thought was what would I have to do to get her to have sex with me or at least snuggle with me and fast. She had me take off the fluffy white robe and I was now facing her breasts totally exposed. I sucked in my stomach and prayed she would find me somewhat attractive. She stared at my chest area for a while, had me raise both my arms and kneaded my breasts like a loaf of challah. Then she stuck a very long needle in my left breast while reassuring me that what I had was absolutely nothing. I wondered how my boyfriend was doing who was climbing half dome in Yosemite and had no idea that I had a 12 inch needle in my left breast and who I hadn’t heard from in 2 days. And I don’t give a shit that there’s no cell phone reception in Yosemite. Find a pay phone!

I left the office and waited for her call. I got the message on Monday. Hi Fielding, it’s Dr. Pado, so I don’t think you have cancer but we found some atypical cells and again, I don’t think it’s cancer but we need to talk about it and maybe do a biopsy or minor surgery soon-ish. I started crying, not because I definitely had something awful but because I felt exactly the same way I did when 9/11 happened. Alone and completely fucked.

Because I was single at that time and I thought, well obviously I’m going to be single for the rest of my life. And leave it to me, to turn an unconscionable global atrocity into a sesspool of love-starved self-pity. Betsy rushed right over and took me to get some Jew soup to get my mind off of it. Then, Olivia called me and said “Look, even if you do have cancer, it will be one of the best things to ever happen to you. First of all what are you going to do your next one woman show about, your family again? Yeah, that’s a lot of fun, and let me tell you something, now you’ll be the cool pretty girl at the party who has a great story about Cancer.

I called my mother again. More huffing and puffing like a vengeful Jewish dragon and then she insists she’s getting me an emergency appointment with Dr. Allison Goldfarb who’s the best breast surgeon in New York. I said, fuck Allison Goldfarb, I’m sticking with Pado and then I heard my father shout in the background, “Pado doesn’t sound Jewish!”

My boyfriend, Larry, finally called me. I told him about the weird cells in my left breast and I was ecstatic to hear the fear in his voice. I told him about the doctor and how hot she was. He goes, “Did she touch you a lot?” What do you mean of course, she had to poke around my breasts for a while. He said, “Okay, stop. And tell me again very slowly. I decided to schedule the surgery here in LA with Dr. Kristi “Baywatch” Pado.

Surgery day finally arrived. I wore cute juicy sweats, brought my stuffed bunny, and some extra mascara for post op. Betsy could not get over how my Mother had not come out for the surgery. I asked her, “If you were getting some major surgery, would you call Hitler to head up the comfort unit?

The waiting room which looked like a scene out of Cocoon stared at me. I started feeling really bad. I realized that I was the only woman there under 35. And there were a lot of red bandanas covering bald heads and walkers and hand-squeezing under the chairs and I realized that I was lucky, very lucky – that this was probably just some small inexplicable thing in my breast and some women might have been waiting for six-month prognoses, double mastectomies and maybe a morphine drip. But, I was me, the me with amazing friends, a boyfriend who goes out to get me decaf every morning and a brother who says love you Lizzie in every single phone conversation we have.

When I got out of surgery, an obsequious, poorly dressed nurse phoned Larry for me who was at the moment in the men’s section in Banana Republic at the Beverly Center. And not because he’s a dick but, he was there because he wanted to be as close to Cedars as possible when he got the call that I was ready to be picked up. I wanted the nurse to hold my hand and put a cool wet rag over my forehead the way Annie Sullivan did to Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker. But I would rather someone drop me on my skull in Runyon Canyon then ask for someone to hold my hand. And something else seemed amiss. Where the hell is my doctor? Where’s fucking Kristi? How is it that I just had a $17,000 operation and my doctor can’t take three minutes out of her “rounds” to pat me on the arm and ask me how I’m doing?

Suddenly, Larry appeared with a new navy blue, very cute Banana Republic shirt. He took my hand and there was a kindness in his eyes that changed me and it is that kindness which keeps changing me no matter if I have a mother who only loves with a Bloomingdales credit card or a surgeon who can’t stick around and say, “Hey, we got it out, now you rest okay?” I felt suddenly embarrassed and shy around my boyfriend and started tentatively getting dressed in front of him - putting on my not so sexy granny panties, and he said, “You know what, honey, it’s just not a g-string day”.

And he drove me home and we lay on my couch and watched Huff with a package of frozen strawberries on my chest and it was beautiful it was real life and it was happening just like my mother had told me. And my left breast is doing great, they found no cancer, just those few irregular cells which got me to see that I could lie in a regular hospital bed with no jokes, no mints and no makeup and have someone take my hand and really see me. And it is Larry who reminds me, that God breaks the heart over and over and over again until it finally stays open.