A Kick-Ass Fairy: A Memoir (19 page)

Near the end of September, I got the name of a Christian-based counselor from Lyn, but I told Doug that he needed to call. I thought he needed to show some effort to meet me somewhere along the path toward improving the situation.

He did, and we met with this man four times. He told us that our relationship was toxic. (I knew that already.) He told us that we had poor communication skills. (I knew that too.) He didn’t think there was anything he could do to help us since our troubles were enormous. It was his opinion that Doug and I were both very angry people and we were both apathetic about changing our behavior.

Finally, he recommended a Catholic-based marriage encounter program called Retrouvaille. He told us that this was more or less the end of the road, but that sometimes even after a couple is separated this could help, if we were willing to do the work. Around this same time in the Sunday bulletin at church, there was a little section on Retrouvaille and a telephone number. I had never seen this in the bulletin before or since this time. Was this what God wanted?

At this time, I was beginning to seriously contemplate the work of getting a divorce. How did we get here, divorce or Retrouvaille? In either case it was the end of the road and it would be work—more work—which I resented after everything else I had been through. I opted for Retrouvaille, but I wasn’t optimistic. What if that failed too?

Meanwhile, I was referred to a plastic surgeon in San Francisco to explore breast reconstruction options. I was interested in pursuing a graft from my backside, the last option, since two doctors had already told me that I could no longer have a simple implant due to the infection damage in the area. I really liked this new doctor. We consulted, and he didn’t think that the gluteal flap was necessary. Besides, he said, “Why would we want to ruin a perfectly good ass?”

I thought he was funny, and I trusted him instantly. Most of his practice was correcting congenital or accidental injuries to the face. His waiting room was always filled with patients of all ages in varying states of repair.

He did not think there would be any problem putting an expander implant under the damaged skin, stretching it, and replacing it with a permanent implant down the road. It would mean, however, that I would have to have two more surgeries.

“All right,” I said, “I need some good sleep anyway.” We scheduled the first procedure, the placement of the expander, for December.

I recommitted to working on my dollhouse again. I took a three-day class to make a miniature Christmas tree. Kim was testing for college admissions and got her driver’s license. When she began driving other girls from the neighborhood to school, she told me that she couldn’t hear them talking in the car. She thought there was something wrong with her hearing.

Her doctor referred her to an audiologist, where she was tested and diagnosed with an auditory processing disorder. This meant that she could hear only noise in one ear and had to overcome the noise while still trying to hear everything with her other ear. The audiologist said that typically people with this problem had trouble learning foreign languages and learning in a lecture-based environment. She said Kim had to be very smart to compensate for this disability as well as she had.

Now I knew why I’d needed to spend thousands of dollars on tutors and that Kim hadn’t just been slacking off since we moved to California. She couldn’t hear and process the information once the style of teaching changed in middle school. Interestingly, since this was considered a handicap, she would be allowed to have a tape recorder or a human note taker in all her classes. She was also told that if she wore an earplug in her good ear she could perhaps train her other ear to hear. In the infinite wisdom of adolescence, she opted to do none of the above.

Around this time, I learned that my uncle had colon cancer. His mother, my maternal grandmother, had died of ovarian cancer at the age of 82. I questioned my parents and cousins on my father’s side of the family about my paternal grandmother, who had also died of cancer, at 57. I had always been told that it was metastasized bladder cancer. Now my Aunt Gertrude was telling me that she may have had ovarian cancer instead.

In 1990 and 1994, respectively, the breast cancer mutation genes, BRCA1 and BRCA2, had been discovered, and were often in the news. Apparently, there was an additional risk of breast cancer in women with a family history of ovarian cancer. Given the new information of my younger grandmother dying of ovarian cancer, I thought maybe I should see a genetic counselor to determine whether I might have this mutation. Maybe this test might explain the breast cancer—and I had Kim to consider.

By the time I went for a follow-up appointment with the oncologist, he agreed that seeing a genetic counselor would be appropriate. Meanwhile, I was once again experiencing bladder symptoms although a follow-up ultrasound showed no new fibroids. The doctors attributed these symptoms possibly to low levels of estrogen, which they did not recommend supplementing due to the breast cancer risk, even though the invasive tumor in my left breast had been estrogen-receptor negative, meaning that, supposedly, estrogen did not make it grow.

Aside from all the extracurricular and social activities, plenty else was going on—too much, as usual. My career was seeing doctors and specialists. My marriage was on the rocks. My daughter was at the pinnacle of adolescence, hampered by an auditory processing disorder, but newly empowered by the freedom of driving. Brad was in second grade and doing well, when he wasn’t mimicking his father’s behavior.

That fall, Doug registered us for the Retrouvaille program. It consisted of a weekend retreat followed by six weekly meetings on weekends. The brochure advertised that the program was designed to provide the tools to help put your marriage in order again. The main emphasis of the program was on communication between husband and wife. As the counselor had told us, Retrouvaille was Catholic in origin and orientation.

Isn’t God perfect? I thought.

Chapter 17

November 1997–June 1998

W
e had our Retrouvaille retreat weekend at the beginning of November. I looked at Doug, seated next to me during the opening activities in an auditorium that was absolutely packed. His face was filled with childlike innocence and apparent determination. It seemed to me that he came to this weekend with a sincere heart. When I saw that, I thought I would try. What else did I have to lose at this point?

After getting a quick orientation to the events of the first day, we began classes about personality types, relationships, communication building and styles, problem-solving techniques, dealing with conflict, etc. Then we each wrote a letter focused on answering specific questions, and later came together to discuss the responses. The questions included: What were my reasons for marrying you? When have I experienced romance in our relationship? Disillusionment? How do I feel about compromise?

What did I learn over the weekend? I learned I was grieving, always grieving. I was angry—maybe from the process of grieving—but I was also bitter, which caused me to focus on Doug very critically, seeing mostly the negative. I was disappointed in the hand of cards I had been dealt and disappointed in the way I felt I was cared for during all the loss and trauma of the past few years. I learned that I wanted a dog.

I realized that Doug and I came from similar backgrounds. Emotional abandonment, trauma, and abuse are common features of the childhoods of people with one alcoholic and one absent parent. We also shared other issues. We were both highly sensitive but in different ways. We had both learned to become very self-reliant. I learned that Doug focused on logic and had a hard time getting in touch with his feelings. He avoided feeling, and when in danger of feeling bad, would either throw a bomb or flee. He had no tools to draw upon; he said his role models came from watching television in the 1960s and 1970s.

We knew we loved each other and were bonded. It would take a long time to recover and heal, and a long time to master better communication skills. We were optimistic we would have the chance. The new dog was going to be on hold. Doug wasn’t ready for that particular commitment and wanted me to wait and be sure.

After the seven weekends of sessions ended, did Retrouvaille solve our problems?

No.

But what it did do was afford us the opportunity for a truce and give each of us a better understanding of the other. We both learned that the only thing we had the ability to change was within our own selves.

Thanksgiving came and went, and, yes, we certainly had many things for which to be thankful. Hopefully, my health, our marriage, our lives were on the road to recovery. In the midst of the flurry, Kim’s cutting classes reached a crescendo when, while sitting in the line of cars waiting to pick kids up at the end of the day, I saw a couple of teens making out on the hill above me. I remember thinking, How would the parents of these two feel, knowing that all the parents waiting in their cars were observing this spectacle in full view?

Then I saw that it was in fact my daughter on the grass with some boy, and that she was cutting class for this interlude.

When Kim got into the car and I confronted her, she excused her behavior by saying she missed her biological father and her boyfriend was helping her to deal with all that was going on. How manipulative, I thought. That might have worked in middle school, but no more. I told her to knock it off and grounded her.

On December 4, I had the surgery to place the expander implant in my left breast, surgery number ten. It required an overnight stay in the hospital, and if everything went well, the doctor would continue to inflate the expander with saline at regular intervals to stretch the skin. Another surgery would be required eventually, to replace the expander with a regular implant. At least it would ultimately fill a bra, they assured me. I would no longer have to use the breast prosthesis, which was hot, heavy, and cumbersome. In some small measure, I would finally be somewhat physically “whole” again.

The Christmas season was full of festive activities. We saw the San Francisco Symphony and Choir for the performance of Handel’s Messiah. We went to the Christmas pageant at church, Kim’s holiday choral concert and various holiday parties. I had my breast expander topped off.

I also had the first of three appointments with a genetic risk counselor. I thought maybe there was a genetic reason these things had happened to me. I was concerned that my ovaries and not my breasts were the real ticking bomb.

Recently, my mother’s brother, who was in his sixties and already had been diagnosed with early-stage colon cancer, had also been diagnosed with prostate cancer. My mother had had three precancerous polyps removed from her colon in 1990. Most frightening was my cousin Anthony, a first cousin, the oldest child of my mother’s oldest sister, who at age 49 was diagnosed recently with lung adenocarcinoma, which had metastasized to the lymph nodes in his left armpit. His tumors were large, and he died within a few months.

I wanted to be certain that I was doing everything I should be doing as well as taking advantage of all the medical information that was currently available. The genetic counselor discussed the BRCA-1 and BRCA-2 gene mutations at length, and she thought I would be a good candidate for this testing. The real issue was not necessarily my ovaries but the possible implications of a positive test result for my sisters, my daughter, and possibly my cousins and even mother. In other words, if I had the test and the results were positive, how would the rest of the family respond to this new information? I decided to discuss it with them first, and defer any testing until after the new year.

As part of the preparation for the visit with the genetic counselor, I had my cousin Patty send me a medical consultation report from my grandmother May, the one who died in her fifties, six months before I was born. After reading it, I felt like I had a glimpse into her life. She had been chronically ill with asthmatic bronchitis and emphysema. She had double vision, high cholesterol, hypertension, and edema of both legs. I felt such empathy for her. She was so young, yet felt so horrible. This was two years before her diagnosis of cancer. I remember wishing I could be with her and hold her hand. Was she a happy person? Why did she get sick? Was my grandfather nice to her? There were so many unanswered questions that would never be answered, including one that might affect me—Did I inherit her poor health?

Over the holidays, we were called by the school district. Brad’s name had come up to number one on the waiting list for an alternative program at another elementary school in our school district. It was a continuous learning program designed to help high-potential students excel. He was in the middle of second grade, not a perfect time to change, but we decided that for him the change would be for the best in the long run.

So when school began again in January, after the holiday break, Brad started at a new school. Fortunately, he had a wonderful new teacher and saw a few familiar faces that he recognized from church and Cub Scouts. Later that month, he was tested at school and determined to be eligible for the gifted and talented program, confirming for us that we made the right decision to change schools.

The growth of my new breast continued with additional infusions of saline every two weeks. Checkups with the oncologist and the gynecologist continued. Other than the reminder of abnormal Pap smear results, life began to take on some semblance of normalcy, even for us. Our calendar was loaded with many wonderful activities. I was feeling very grateful and hopeful. Our entire family was doing well, all at the same time. Cousin Anthony’s death had reminded me that life—especially the life of some—was way too short. I needed to find joy while I still had time.

Doug was doing well at work but was always very busy. But he was positive, as I was. We were getting along much better. I made a conscious decision to notice and appreciate all his efforts. I had to remember that if I focused on the positives and blessings in my life with gratitude, things felt so much better. Medically, I was on cruise control. Therefore, now more than ever was the time to savor life. I wanted to celebrate. Through all of these years I had been the subject of so much attention—maybe now it was time to do something special for Doug.

In June, Doug was going to turn 40. I decided it would be nice to recognize him with a fun surprise party. Beginning that winter, I began to plot. I found out that this was the year that Motown and the Grammy Awards celebrated their fortieth anniversaries. That knowledge led me to come up with the theme for the party. Of course, the party would need a musical focus, so I decided to have a karaoke party with a DJ and invite everyone to come dressed as their favorite performer. There would be prizes for best performances by a single, duo and group, both male and female.

During the planning, I started involving some friends in my hunt for appropriate vintage clothing from the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. We had so much fun scouring the Bay Area for hats and polyester. A group of five of us, already good friends, members of the same book club, living in the same neighborhood, began to celebrate each other’s birthdays and with the upcoming party as another unifying bond, our group, the “Hidden Assets,” loosely named for where we lived, was born. The group consisted of Lyn, Mary, Jane, Kelly, and me.

We began to plan our karaoke act for the party. We decided to impersonate the Supremes and sing their hit “Stop! In the Name of Love.” With the merriment and silliness of teenagers, we choreographed and planned the costumes for our performance, which meant more trips to the vintage clothing stores, lunches, and rehearsals.

My sister Alane, a talented graphic artist, made centerpieces for the table, using the head of Doug from a high school photo and the body of John Travolta from the cover of the Saturday Night Fever album and shipped them from the East Coast. We created nametags from Doug’s baby pictures and even came up with musically inspired names for the food we were serving at the party. It was difficult containing my excitement and keeping the plans from Doug.

Fortunately, he was away on business when my parents arrived and final preparations were being made. He thought my parents were just out for a visit. Doug had no idea what I was doing for all those weeks, and he didn’t ask.

Doug was overwhelmed with surprise at the party. As soon as he walked into the backyard, he was given his party identity, Elwood Blues from the Blues Brothers, complete with hat and skinny tie, while the song “I Can’t Cut You Loose” from A Briefcase Full of Blues played in the background. My parents even got into the act as Johnny and June Carter Cash and sang “Jackson”: “We got married in a fever. ...” It was great fun to see neighbors dressed as Howard Stern, Tina Turner, Diana Ross, 1950s greasers, ’70s hippies, and the like. Even the caterers joined in the festivities, singing “Red Red Wine.”

The party was a smashing success. Friendships were cemented and new ones forged. For months at subsequent get togethers, our group of friends watched the party-highlights videotape and retold stories about the evening.

For Doug’s actual birthday present, I surprised him with a trip to Seattle, followed by a few days in Victoria, British Columbia, and then the ultimate for Doug—three days of salmon fishing with a guide on the Campbell River while staying at a fishing lodge.

In the midst of party preparations, I went for surgery number eleven, the placement of the permanent implant. It was no walk in the park, with drains hanging out for a week, but finally, the saga of my breasts was over.

Kim was finishing her junior year of high school, taking the SAT exam for college entrance, taking acting classes at a theatre conservatory in San Francisco, voice lessons, dance lessons, and getting involved in the local musical theatre community. Brad was active with the Scouts, camping, and dissecting bugs in the yard with his friends.

Now that we were both 40, Doug and I began to feel young again.