First, a disclaimer. This story is not about Meg Ryan, the actress. It’s about Meg Ryan, the look-alike. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t want to mislead. If I should ever have a story about the real Meg Ryan, I promise to post it. My apologies to all who were expecting dirt on the ‘real’ Meg.
Back in January, 2006, a couple of weeks after all this started, I was scheduled for an appointment with Admissions at the hospital. This was a couple of days before my first lumpectomy on the right breast. During the visit, the Admissions clerk took all my information: DOB, allergies, emergency contacts, etc. After that, I was sent back out to wait for the Intake Nurse to see me. This would be the person that would have me sign all the consent forms and take a detailed medical history.
A petite, perky blonde with a clipboard called my name. I followed her back to a small office where she introduced herself. She was the spitting image of Meg Ryan, if Meg Ryan had actually let herself age gracefully, that is; without awful cosmetic surgery and collagen uber-lips. She was maybe 45, had the same great Meg hair and cheerful smile. I liked her immediately, although that would change.
She started with the first question.
“Okay. What are you here for?”
“Surgical biopsy of the right breast.” I replied. “They suspect breast cancer.” I added helpfully.
At the mention of breast cancer, she looked up sharply. “Breast cancer?” She looked thoroughly alarmed. “My mother died of breast cancer. Five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry!” I said. Feeling bad for reminding her of that tragedy and wondering if that’s a great thing to bring up to someone just starting on this journey.
“Well actually she died of the Tamoxifen. They gave it for seven years and it eventually killed her.”
Now I should mention that Tamoxifen is given to some breast cancer patients, usually those with estrogen-receptive cancers, (which I do not have) to prevent a recurrence of the cancer. The new protocol is to take it for a maximum of five years. I guess that protocol was not in place when Meg’s mother was taking it.
“Any history of cancer in your family?”
“None. Not on either side.”
“Really?” She looked up and shook her head with sadness. Her eyes immediately welled up, big and brown. Irrationally, I was reminded of the Bugs Bunny cartoons, where Bugs or Daffy would suddenly develop large, teary eyes whenever they were in danger or wanted something. Meg’s eyes were now exactly like that.
“Oh. I’m so, so sorry.” She said, patting my hand for comfort. “You know, there are great support groups out there for cancer victims.”
“I’m okay. I’ve got a great group of friends and family supporting me. I’m good with this. I’m in good spirits. Upbeat, actually. If I feel the need to go to a support group, I won’t hesitate. But for now, I’m good.”
She looked down at her questionnaire and continued, all the while shaking her head and sighing.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“Occasionally some wine, with a meal.”
“That’s fine.”
“Allergic to any medications?”
“Codeine.”
“Anything else?
“Nope.”
She looks up at me again, her eyes still moist. “How are you doing, really?”
“I swear I’m okay. I deal day-to-day. I had my moments when I first heard. But I’ve come to terms with this.” I said.
She looked at me sadly, tsking, tears brimming and threatening to spill. She seemed to be expecting, or wanting, something more from me.
“Really. I’m good.” I added.
“My mother went through so much...” She trailed off. “Remember, there are groups you can go to.”
“I know.”
She continued taking my history. Peppering her writing with sad glances at me and intermittent sighs, accompanied with shakes of the head.
I crack a joke trying to lighten the mood. She looks at me and says, “I don’t think you’ve absorbed this yet.” The gall of this woman, I think. That she hasn’t gotten over the death of her mother, is obvious. The irony is, her mother didn’t die of breast cancer, but Tamoxifen poisoning. I think she needs a support group.
Thankfully, the interview finally ends. She stands up and looks at me as if this will be the last time I’ll be on this earth, as if she is reading my epitaph. Her look tells me she thinks I’m silly, that I don’t get the gravity of the situation, that I’m deluded. All this is conveyed and evident on her face. The only thing that would give her comfort is me breaking down into a mess of tears, babbling about my fears and how - dear God - I’m gonna die. She seems to be sure of it, anyway.
“Good luck.” She says with a large, sad exhale. In a second I’m out of there looking for some sane, fresh air.
Fast forward a month.
By now I’ve had the first lumpectomy, and only two days before I had my port inserted. Now I’m in the outpatient surgical wing, for the third time, to have a surgical biopsy on my left breast.
By now I know everyone in the area. I greet people, as I come in, by their names (this only worked before my chemo brain.) I ask if I can place my clothes in the usual locker (number 14) and go to the usual curtained cubicle. I saunter confidently through the area, making it my own. Once in my surgical gown and shower cap, with my little booties on, I lay on the Gurney. Barbara sits beside me. We turn on the tv to Ellen and adjust the arm it’s on so we can both watch the screen.
One of the nurses comes in and asks me if I stopped by admissions to check in. I say no. I was told that since I had a procedure here only two days before, I could forego the admission procedure and go straight up to the Outpatient floor.
“Hmm. Nope. You still need to sign consent forms. No problem. We’ll have someone come up.”
I’m relieved. The last thing I want to do is travel around the lobby in my gown and booties. I have no reputation to destroy – did that, years ago – but even I have limits.
In a few minutes I look through the gap in the curtain and catch a flash of blonde hair and a clipboard. I know immediately what I’m in for.
“Watch this.” I whisper quickly to Barbara.
The curtain parts and in enters Meg. She doesn’t look up immediately but I await expectantly for the moment.
“Okay... Let's see here... hmm... I just need some information...”
She looks up...
Our eyes meet...
And freezes...
as if Medusa had given her the look. She lets out a long, “Ohhhhhh..... It’s you.” An expulsion of air so long that I almost expect her to fold into the floor like an empty leaf bag.
“Hello.” I say, cheerily.
“Why are you here?” She asks, alarmed.
“They want to check my left breast.”
“Oh.” Then, after a second, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. They’re just being careful.”
She shakes her head. I’m so familiar with that shake by now, that I can not only anticipate it, but have to stop myself from mimicking her. Her eyes are once again welling up.
I introduce Barbara.
“Have you joined a support group yet?”
“Nope. Still good.”
“I guess your history hasn’t changed, then. I can copy what we had before.” A haughty tone has crept into her voice, now.
She hands me some forms to sign. Then she stops what she’s doing to say, “I don’t think this has sunk in yet.” Haughty, haughty, haughty. And yes, a bit of disapproval has now joined the haughtiness. The more she disapproves of my behavior, the cheerier I become. I can’t help myself.
I can see that Barbara is getting indignant now, so I cut in before she says something that will make her leap over the Gurney to strangle the woman.
“Look. I certainly know what I’m in for. It’s definitely sunk in. I’ve done plenty of research and have friends who have gone through this so, believe me, It’s definitely sunk in.” I hoped that would be the end of it. But now, a new tone has set in: anger. The damn look-alike is actually angry with me for not falling apart, for holding off the gloom, for not succumbing to her fatalistic attitude. I shake my head this time.
“I’m fine.” I say.
“Allright, if you say so.” And with that she wishes me good luck and leaves in a huff.
“Wow.” Barbara says. “You were not exaggerating.”
“My dear, by now you should know that I never do.”
And friends, as strange or off-the-wall my tales might seem at times, I never exaggerate.
Till next time, stay well, y’all. That’s a bit of Southern for you – Southern Italian, that is.
©2006 Annelise Pichardo
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