Reprieve

Not long ago, I had a cancer scare. I had an abnormal pap, and for me that’s more serious than for some since I had a somewhat protracted bout with abnormal paps in my mid-twenties, leading to all kinds of delightful procedures like Leeps, where the doctor punches out a piece of your cervix, and cryotherapy, where the doctor paints freezing gas (liquid nitrogen) on your cervix to destroy precancerous cells. That latter procedure, considered the less invasive, didn’t work for me. No one could have been more surprised than I was when I returned from Budapest a year after the first troubling pap result to discover abnormal cells were back, and worse.

At the time, my mom was dying of cirrhosis in Alta Bates Hospital. I was at her bedside daily for a month as she was slowly, or rather quickly depending on your perspective, poisoned by toxins her dead liver couldn’t clear. I had the Leep done in the same hospital and returned to her bedside dizzy with raw pain and breathtaking cramps. I just wanted to cry to my mom, to say I was hurting. I wanted her to touch my head with her hand.

That was one thing she was good at. She could be shockingly neglectful and abusive and had been for years, but if one of us was sick, we were all hers. At least that was true when we were little. It’s a wonder I don’t have Munchausen syndrome, pretending to be ill for the attention and sympathy. Because, truly, the times when I was sick are among the few positive memories I have of my mother.

First, she would stay home from work. This alone was a big deal, and I would bask in the attention. She was a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle and later, the Oakland Tribune. She was ambitious and took her job seriously. I’ve gathered that women reporters in her day had to do the job of one-and-a-half or two men to be taken seriously. That included returning to work immediately after having one’s babies. It included getting a shot to dry up your milk. It included pretending you weren’t a mother at all — work was your baby. At least, this was the interpretation my mom chose in the 60s and 70s.

But, when we were sick, she was there for us 100%. It was the only time she was. First, we’d get to stay home from school. She’d call the school to tell the receptionist we wouldn’t be in that day. Then, she’d call her office to say the same. I’d hold my breath gleefully as she made the call. Once she hung up, I could relax. Next, she’d move me to her bed and turn on the TV. She’d take my temperature, making sure the cold metal tip was planted well under my tongue.

I’d clamp the thermometer so tight it made my jaw ache. Still, it would slide to the side. Finally, I’d give up and hold it in place with my thumb and index finger. She’d bustle about until it was time to check the thermometer. Sometimes it took a very long time. Sometimes, it took forever. But, it was okay, because I could hear her in the kitchen. The sun would be pouring in the windows, and my mother was home. All was right in the world. And rare. Exceedingly so.

She’d announce our temperature. There was a kind of pride in this. If it was high, we got more attention. If it was just high enough, we could enjoy it. My mom was really good at nursing us slowly after throwing up. She’d wait at least an hour after we’d vomited. Then, she’d introduce a little 7Up with ice. I was instructed to take tiny sips. If I managed to keep that down, she’d graduate to a little beef or chicken broth. If that worked, we could have soft-boiled egg, a little toast, and Irish tea with a little milk and honey. Sometimes, a mashed banana was offered.

If we continued to vomit, that wasn’t so bad either because while we were literally in the act of vomiting, my mother would do the amazing: She would touch us. Or at least me; I can only speak for myself. I have no idea if my siblings received the same tender treatment. When I raced to the toilet to vomit, she’d race after me. I’d be on my knees throwing up, and she would kneel behind me, hold my hair away from my face, and make comforting clucks and murmurs of sympathy.

It was and still is one of the most tender symbols of support I have ever experienced or known. It was especially tender because it was the only time she allowed herself to touch us, or me. She was not demonstrative in her affection, not in the least. She did not put us to bed. She did not read us bedtime stories or kiss us good night. She never hugged us or held our hands. She seemed embarrassed by physical contact and maintained strict boundaries. I remember as a little girl in her bed once being terrified because my leg had accidentally touched hers.

Seated beside her then, in my own acute pain as she lay dying, I wanted to feel her hands on me. I wanted her to hold my hair, to tell me it would be all right. But of course she needed my sympathy far more than I needed hers at that point, and her pain was greater — manifold greater, no doubt. And this time, it was me holding her head, brushing her hair, stroking her back. Cirrhosis is a bad way to die. One of the annoying side effects in the weeks leading up to expiration is intensely itchy skin as the body’s toxins collect. She would moan in gratitude as I scratched her back.

Anyway, my point was, I had another scare recently, twenty years after the first one. I had gone for a routine checkup and got a call a few days later saying my pap had come back abnormal. They scheduled me for a follow-up procedure whereby the doctor would take a look and if he thought it was warranted, do a Leep.

My heart was in my throat for nearly a week. I made all kinds of deals with God. I finally, finally, modified my diet and stopped putting sugar in my coffee every morning. I walked in the hills daily, even meditated a few times. I read, took naps, took it easy, sought balance. I told God I would do anything if he’d give me more time. I told myself I’d change my life if I had another chance: no more sugar, much more exercise, follow my art, follow my heart, balance myself, be good to myself, forgive myself, understand myself, be brave, put myself out there, try.

I was reading Philip Gourevitch’s We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda about the 1994 Rwandan Genocide when I went to the appointment. The attendant gave me a blue paper sheet to use as a skirt and instructed me to remove my jeans and underwear and sit on the table. The doctor took a long time to arrive. I concentrated on the book, which was a good book to have because it told me loud and clear that my suffering nowhere near rivaled that of the victims in this book, obviously. I worked hard to regulate my breathing, to take deep, smooth breaths. I reminded myself that no matter what happened I was luckier than these folks, far so.

I had actually calmed myself considerably when the doctor finally entered the room after a terse knock. He was followed by a young man (who of course looked like a boy) in training. He asked me if this bothered me; I said no. He appraised me briefly, asked me about my book. I thought my voice was normal, but he must have heard heaps of tension and fear in it because he summarily cut me off to say, “First of all, you know, I hope, that you’re not high risk. You don’t have HPV type 16 or 18 — those are the dangerous ones. You were exposed to a low-risk type, which means you’re at very low risk for cervical cancer.”

With gratitude gushing from my voice, I said, “No! I didn’t know that! Thank you!”

Then, he had me lie back. He started to insert a speculum then said to the attendant, “I need a bigger one,” and to me, “You’ve had a couple of kids, haven’t you?” Yes, I smiled.

The young boy peered over the doctor’ shoulder. The doctor pointed at whatever landscape he happened to find interesting as he went along. I’ll spare you those details, gentle reader. Finally, he said, “Your cervix looks healthy. It looks healthy here…” then, in a quieter voice to the attendant, “Okay, now we’re looking underneath the cervix, we’re checking all sides…”

“That side looks good too. And here too, good. Good. Good.”

Then, he pulled back, gently removed the speculum, and said, “You’re fine. Nothing to worry about. Come back in a year.”

I was stunned. No Leep, no freezing gases, no biopsy, no scary silences. I was… fine. According to the doctor.

As I was leaving, elation and relief bubbling in my heart, I suddenly doubled back. I asked an aide where the doctor was; I had one more question. She directed me to an office.

I said, “Excuse me, doctor, I have one more question. Do I have HPV that I can pass? Do I need to tell people?”

He said, “No, you have the kind 90% of the population has. Your body will clear it, if it hasn’t already. Just be safe. One lover at a time. And use protection. Okay?”

Then he smiled. I noticed he was handsome.