Rolling over to get out of bed, I caught a glimpse of myself
in the mirror and cringed. My reflection said it all.
Everything had changed.
I looked like death.
I blinked, moving my gaze from the mirror, and noticed the
calendar. It was Monday again. That meant everything in the
real world. It meant groaning about the morning and getting
the kids off to school. It meant struggling to get to the
office on time and then forcing yourself to move through the
day. It meant the start of something new and fresh and
undetermined. But Mondays meant nothing at Shady Valley. We
lived in the “pause” world, between “play” and “stop.”
Suspension was the toughest part for me. And loneliness.
Sure, I had visitors, but it wasn’t the same as being
surrounded by people in motion. I’d been on fast-forward in
the real world, juggling two kids and my business,
struggling to stay connected to my husband, my friends. At
Shady Valley, with beige-colored day after
cottage-cheese-tasting day, my pace was, well –
I had to get moving.
I supposed my longing for activity was behind my rather
childish wish to throw a party for myself. At least it gave
me a mission of sorts. A delineation of time beyond what the
latest in a long line of cancer treatments dictated. It had
been more than 18 months of treatments, doctor’s
appointments, hospitalizations and the like. I embraced the
solidity of a deadline. The finality of putting a date on
the calendar and knowing that at least this, my party, was
something I could control.
I noticed the veins standing tall and blue and bubbly atop
my pale, bony hands. I felt a swell of gratitude for the
snakelike signs of life, the entry points for experimental
treatments; without them, I’d be worse than on pause by now.
I pulled my favorite blue sweatshirt over my head and tugged
on my matching blue sweatpants.
Moving at last, I brushed my teeth and then headed next door
to Ralph’s. He was my best friend at Shady Valley—a special
all-suite, last-ditch-effort experimental facility for the
sick and dying—or at least he had been until I began
planning my party. I was on his last nerve with this, but
he’d welcome the company, if not the topic. He was paused too.
My thick cotton socks helped me shuffle across my fake wood
floor, but it was slow going once I reached the grassy
knoll—the leaf-green carpet that had overgrown the hallway.
An institutional attempt at Eden, I supposed. On our good
days, Ralph and I sometimes sneaked my son’s plastic bowling
set out there to partake in vicious matches. We had both
been highly competitive, type-A people in the “real” world
and the suspended reality of hushed voices and tiptoeing
relatives was unbearable at times.
“I’ve narrowed it down to three choices,” I said, reaching
Ralph’s open door. “’Please come celebrate my life on the
eve of my death. RSVP immediately. I’m running out of time.’”
“Oh, honestly,” Ralph said, rolling his head back onto the
pillows propping him up. I knew my time in Shady Valley was
only bearable because of this man, his humanizing presence.
Even though we both looked like shadows of our outside,
real-world selves, we carried on a relationship as if we
were healthy, alive. I ignored the surgery scars on his
bald, now misshapen head. He constantly told me I was
beautiful. It worked for us.
“Too morbid? How about: ‘Only two months left. Come see the
incredible, shrinking woman. Learn diet secrets of the
doomed,’” I said, smiling then, hoping he’d join in.
“Jennifer, give it a rest would you?” Ralph said.
“You don’t have to be so testy. Do you want me to leave?” I
asked, ready to retreat back to my room.
“No, come in. Let’s just talk about something else, OK,
beautiful?”
Ralph was lonely, too. Friends from his days as the city’s
most promising young investment banker had turned their
backs—they didn’t or couldn’t make time for his death. His
wife, Barbara, and their three teenage kids were his only
regular visitors. Some days, I felt closer to Ralph than to
my own family, who seemed increasingly more absorbed in
their own lives despite weekly flowers from Daddy and
dutiful visits from Henry, my husband of six years. Poor
Henry. It was hard to have meaningful visits at Shady
Valley, with nurses and treatments and all manner of
interruptions. We still held hands and kissed, but
intimacy—even when I was feeling up to it—was impossible.
So, there we were, Ralph and I, two near-death invalids
fighting for our lives and planning a party to celebrate
that fact. It seemed perfectly reasonable, at least to me,
because while I knew I should be living in the moment, the
future seemed a little hazy without a party to focus on.
“Seriously, I need input on my party invitations. It’s got
to be right before I hand it over to Mother. I value your
judgment, Ralph; is that too much to ask?”
“For God’s sake, let me see them.” Ralph snatched the paper
out of my hand. After a moment, he handed it back to me.
“The last one’s the best. The others are too, well,
self-pitying and stupid. Are you sure you can’t just have a
funeral like the rest of us?”
I glared at him, but agreed, “That’s my favorite, too.”
Mr. & Mrs. E. David Wells
request your presence at a
celebration in honor of their daughter
Jennifer Wells Benson
Please see insert for your party time
Shady Valley Center
2700 Hocking Ridge Road
RSVP to Mrs. Juliana Duncan Wells
No gifts please—donations to breast cancer research appreciated.
#
At first, I had been incredibly angry about the cancer.
Hannah’s birth, so joyous, had marked the end of my life as
a “normal” person. Apparently, it happened a lot. While a
baby’s cells multiplied, the mom’s got into the act,
mutating, turning on each other. Hannah was barely two weeks
old when I became violently ill. My fever was 105 degrees
when we arrived in the ER. I think the ER doctors suspected
a retained placenta or even some sort of infectious disease,
although I was so feverish I can’t remember much from that
time. All I remember was the feeling of being cut off from
my family—Henry, two-year-old Hank, and newborn Hannah—and
marooned on the maternity ward, a place for mothers-to-be on
bed rest until their due dates. That was hell.
At 33, I was a pathetic sight. My headache was so intense
the curtains were drawn at all times. I didn’t look pregnant
anymore, so all the nurses thought my baby had died. That
first shift tip-toed around me, murmuring. By the second
night, one of them posted a sign: “The baby is fine. Mother
is sick.” It answered their questions since I couldn’t. It
hurt my head too much to try.
By the third day, my headache had receded to a dull roar.
Surgery revealed that there was no retained placenta after
all. I was ready to go home to my newborn and my life. So
with a slight fever and no answers, I escaped from the
hospital and went home to a grateful Henry and a chaotic
household. I was weak and tired, but everyone agreed that
was to be expected. I thanked God for the millionth time for
two healthy kids and my blessed, if busy, life.
And then, not two weeks later, I found the lump.
Not a dramatic occurrence, really, at least not at first. I
was shaving under my arm, and I happened to bump into my
left breast with my hand. I could feel an odd mass that
hadn’t been there before. When I pushed on the top part of
my breast, closest to my underarm, it hurt. I freaked out
and called for Henry.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he reassured me while his eyes
revealed his own fears. “We’ll make an appointment to have
it checked out first thing tomorrow, OK?”
Our eyes locked then, and in that moment, I think we both knew.
It wasn’t, of course, fine. When the radiologist at the
Women’s Imaging Center read the mammogram, she called my
doctor right away. The solid, spider-webby mass had
tentacles spreading through my left breast. Deadly,
dangerous tentacles full of cancerous cells. Surgery
confirmed that what I had felt was a malignant mass that had
already begun to metastasize to my lymph nodes. They moved
me to the cancer floor and began treatments immediately, and
that’s where I’d been, in body or spirit, for more than a year.
Ralph was the one to describe them as “circle mouths”: the
initial reactions of family and friends expressing sympathy
for our rotten luck. When the doctors finally figured out
what was wrong with me, my family was the first to respond
with their blank stares and circle mouths. “OOOOOO,
Jennifer, we’re sOOOOOO sorry.” But, really, what else could
we expect? Before I had cancer, I know I probably reacted
the same way.
Initially, I was caught up in the angry stage of grief,
enveloped by it. It ate away at my soul and left me spent
with useless emotion. Why me? What had I done differently
than anyone else I knew? Did I drink too many Diet Cokes?
Eat too much McDonald’s? Did I live downstream from a
pesticide runoff? Was I a bad person? Why didn’t my children
deserve to grow up with a mother? Why? Exhausted by remorse,
I eventually found myself safely encased in quasi-acceptance
that wrapped around me like a blanket, smoldering the dreams
of middle– and old age, and draping the vision of my
children as teenagers and adults, tamping out hope.
Hope. I knew my family thought the party was a sign that I
had given up, that I was welcoming death, maybe even
hastening it a bit by my bold invitation. And yet, hope to
me was just another four-letter word without substance. I
needed a reason to hang on, to continue what had become a
painful and tedious daily struggle. For me, the best thing
about life was the people in it. Friends, lovers, teachers,
role models—they all made me the person I had become. I
needed to reconnect with the living if only for a single
night, to be assured my life had meant something and I was
not as forgotten as I felt in my institutional isolation.
No, the party was not a sign of lost hope, but the
opposite—a desperate gathering of the people from my past,
as if each held a piece of some cosmic puzzle that could be
reconfigured into something whole—and healthy. Hope.
“It looks nice, Jennifer, really,” Ralph said, jarring me
from my reverie. “Why are your parents hosting it, though?
Why not you and Henry?”
“Ah, because Juliana Duncan Wells would never forgive me if
I denied her the chance to host a party. She’s a
professional hostess, you know.”
Ralph chuckled weakly. His brown eyes were lifeless, tired.
I inspected his pale, thin, worn face more closely. His
head, which had been shaved and cut open for multiple
surgeries, was now more lumpy and grooved with scars than
round. He was an attractive man, but he had a prominent dent
over his left eye, swooping to his ear. My scars were tucked
away inside my cozy sweatshirt. My head was newly covered in
short curly blonde hair. It had been straight before chemo.
I looked away and asked, “What’s wrong today, Ralph? You
look really sad. New meds?” Ralph’s room sported the same
fake leather chairs arranged around an imitation wood table
that mine did. His naugahyde was burgundy; mine was brown.
Other than that, our rooms were identical, with
green-striped walls and white wicker stands on either side
of white bedside tables; a fake cheeriness that tried to
mask the anguish of the patients who resided here. I made my
slow trek to one of the chairs and sank into it.
“It’s nothing, Jennifer, really,” Ralph answered
unconvincingly, clasping his thin hands together on his
stomach. I noticed he had moved his platinum wedding band to
his middle left finger.
I knew he was lying, but I also knew enough not to pry.
Ralph Waldo Erickson—his real name, and his parents knew
better—had discovered cancer when he felt a pain in his
right cheek while shaving. He had a headache, too, both of
which his doctor dismissed as a sinus infection when he
first called. A few days later, he woke screaming in the
middle of the night, and was rushed to the ER, where an MRI
revealed a malignant growth the size of a lemon. On the
operating table, the skin of his face was pulled to the side
while the doctors cut out the tumor. Success—until they
found more tumors. And more still, after radiation, after
chemo. He was forty-five years old.
Six months earlier, he’d had a headache. Now, he had four
months, tops.
After a few minutes of silence, he suddenly asked, “Did you
know it’s the fall harvest?” with his eyes sparkling and his
hands gesturing in front of him. “I mean, all those years I
drank wine—loved wine—and I didn’t even take the time to
learn about it. You know, learn how they make it, when they
pick the grapes. God, that’s sad. They’re out there right
now, in California, France, even Ohio for God’s sake, just
outside our windows, and I never bothered to learn a thing
about it. Sure, I did the touristy winery hop in Napa and
Sonoma a time or two. But, this is harvest season! The most
beautiful time of the year, and I never bothered to be a
part of it—you know?” Ralph finished and looked up at the
ceiling, clasping his hands again. I’d never noticed how
long his fingers were before.
“So, add it to our list, Buddy, OK?” I said, gently, knowing
it wouldn’t really help, knowing the impossibility of Ralph
ever leaving Shady Valley, much less visiting Napa Valley
for the harvest. “Hey, it’s treatment time. I need to go
back. Buzz me when you feel like it.”
Ralph didn’t answer, and I didn’t really expect him to. We
all went through depressions at Shady Valley, triggered by
almost anything: harvest time, or an especially beautiful
orange-purple sunset. It was hard to keep your spirits up
all the time. He’d be fine in a little while.
I made my way slowly back across the slick floor and padded
down the thick green carpet back into my room. Promptly at
four, Nurse Hadley arrived with her arsenal of vials and
needles, all part of a new therapy I was determined to try.
“Well, aren’t we pretty in blue,” she said, as if speaking
to a child.
“My veins do look stunning today,” I agreed. Her eyes darted
to mine and then away. Heck, they are nice veins, I thought,
as I prepared to receive the latest experimental drug with a
mixture of dread and barely detectable hope. The side
effects might be hell—but still, this could be the one.