An Intimate Life (34 page)

“Cheryl, I’m sorry for . . . for a lot, but I can’t say I’m sorry for having my kids.”

“I don’t want you to apologize for that. I love your kids and I’m glad they’re in my life.”

Forgiveness doesn’t happen in the course of one phone call, but it was a beginning. And I believed Meg. She hadn’t intended to hurt me, and even if she had, I was doing my best to jettison anger—no exceptions.

“No exceptions” included my parents too. For a long time I dreamed of a reconciliation with them that would consist of more than a series of tacit agreements not to talk about what we knew would trigger a fight. I wanted them to accept and love me for who I was. I wanted them to rethink much of what they believed, and I wanted them to understand how much their attitudes about sexuality had hurt me. I yearned for them to recognize me as a loving mother, a competent professional, and even a good daughter. I also realized that I was in no position to set contingencies and conditions on forgiveness. I had to let my anger toward them dissipate no matter what they had or hadn’t done, and that’s what I committed to finally do. It wasn’t the closure I wanted, but it was the one I had to accept.

Bob and Michael arranged to accompany me to my first chemotherapy infusion appointment. For his part, Michael had continued to make a diligent effort at friendship and I welcomed it. “It’s complicated” is used flippantly these days, but our relationship was . . . well . . . complicated. Michael and I had essentially grown up together: We had raised children together and experimented together. Our shared history, however tumultuous, would keep us in each other’s lives. Michael would stand beside me as I faced the worst health crisis of my life. If the situation were reversed, I would have been there for him, with all of my anger and love, resentment and tenderness. He attended the first three chemo sessions.

“Does she ever . . . ” I heard Michael whisper to Bob just as I had settled in to my first chemotherapy infusion. He shot me a mischievous look. I appreciated the attempt at a joke, but I was in no mood to laugh.

“Oh God, could you please not do that,” I said.

Bob went back to his photography magazine and Michael stared out the window. I didn’t need them comparing notes while drip-by-drip I took in the toxins that would save my life. Including this one, I was scheduled for six treatments, one every three weeks. It was August, and if all went as planned I would be done by Christmas, and I’d begin 1994 cancer-free.

I reclined back, closed my eyes, and thought about the Grand Canyon and Europe, two places I wanted to see more desperately than ever. When I regained my health I was going to make those trips a priority. It may sound clichéd, but having cancer forced me to realize that I didn’t have all the time in the world to do what I wanted to do. Procrastination was now the enemy.

As treatment wound on, I was thankful for many things. My family and friends were at the top of my list. Zofran, an antinausea drug that was relatively new at the time, was second. After my first infusion, my stomach felt like it was on spin cycle. Morning sickness was nothing compared to this. I vomited until I had nothing left in me and I was so weak that I had to be virtually carried the twenty feet from my bathroom to my bedroom. After that, I took Zofran intravenously before every treatment and in pill form if I needed it afterward.

Most of the time I was so exhausted that I had to remind myself that I was on my way to getting well. It sure didn’t feel like it. On my own I wouldn’t have left the house much, but my family took turns getting me out. More than once I heard one of my kids say, “Let’s take Mom for a walk.” If I had had the strength I would have laughed. What was I, a dog?

Bob also got me out. Once we took a trip to the University of California’s Botanical Gardens, where we had our first date. We walked along a path, Bob supporting me at each step. I soon had to rest and sat on the nearest bench. I put my head on Bob’s shoulder. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and almost fell asleep. Then I heard a child giggling. I looked up and coming toward us was a toddler tootling along, his beaming parents rushing to keep up with him. He had a head full of brown curls and bright blue eyes. He tried to climb up a little dirt mound, and when he lost his footing he slid down laughing. His mother brushed the dirt off his knees and kissed his chubby cheeks.

He’s just starting his life, I thought. That was me at one time. His parents are just starting their lives with him. That was once me, too. I may be at the end of my life. I felt enormous sadness for myself, and boundless joy for the strangers who walked toward me. How quickly life can end. It can all be over in a flash. I closed my eyes tight so Bob wouldn’t see me cry. Look at how much you’ve had, I said to myself. People younger than you die all the time all over the world. Children die. Babies die. They live for less time than a butterfly. You’ve had a good life, a rich life with so much experience. It’s going to be okay if you die. When I opened my eyes the family was gone, slipped away in the span of a few thoughts.

I don’t like the word
remission
, probably because of its sister word,
recurrence
. I prefer to think of myself as cured, and that’s what I told Dr. Resner on the last of our appointments. The chemo had done its job, and I could return to life and work. The anger and resentment I had accumulated over the years was also gone. I had a man who loved me, a newly healthy body, and a deeper appreciation of what mattered in life. At fifty, I had learned volumes—enough to make the next half-century even better than the first.

19.

sex and the senior girl: esther

A
s I entered the new millennium, most of my crowd was either firmly ensconced in the senior citizen bracket or on the cusp of it. The generation who venerated youth was doing the impossible—getting old—and this meant coming to terms with our aging bodies and changes to our sexuality.

After the Dalkon Shield disaster in my twenties, a thick layer of scar tissue built up in my fallopian tubes and my ovaries were covered in cysts. Between forty and forty-six, I had three operations to remove them. I resisted the surgeries for as long as I could and refused my doctor’s advice to have a complete hysterectomy because I knew that it would affect my libido. When one of my doctors asked why I needed my uterus, since I wasn’t going to have children, it betrayed a shocking ignorance about female sexuality. I explained that not having my uterus would limit my ability to have orgasms. My uterus was still perfectly healthy and removing it would shorten my vagina and needlessly impact my sex life. He argued that it would protect me from uterine cancer, but I wasn’t going to have it removed for preventative reasons. I wondered how he would feel about preemptive testicle removal. Would he volunteer for that to protect himself from testicular cancer?

Regardless, I had three surgeries to remove my fallopian tubes and ovaries, and I did worry about how this would affect my libido. And I would find out, because after the surgeries, my hormonal balance shifted and my libido became a shadow of what it was. I decided to go on hormone replacement therapy, and to rely on my decades of solid sex education. I knew that communication, imagination, and a willingness to experiment go a long way toward turning up the erotic temperature. If my body’s thermostat had been reset, my thought process would have to contribute more.

Sexual energy took longer to ignite, and while I still had orgasms, they no longer felt like a tidal wave sweeping through my body. I had to go to the ultimate source: my brain. I dipped into my treasure trove of sexy memories and relied more on fantasy to kick-start arousal. I reminded myself that sexuality changes over the course of a lifetime, and I was no exception. It was time for me to take the advice that I had given to friends and clients countless times: Keep playing; keep experimenting.

When I was in my early sixties I had an experience that inspired me to charge into my older years with as much commitment to having satisfying sex as ever. Esther was an old friend who had recently turned eighty-four. Married for over half a century, her husband, Henry, now struggled with dementia, arthritis, and a number of other conditions that spelled an end to his sex life. Esther loved and cared for Henry, and she was determined to revive her sex life.

She didn’t come to me as a client, but as a friend who wanted the benefit of my expertise.

One Saturday she came over for brunch. We sat in my backyard enjoying the first flowers of spring, sipping mimosas, and eating eggs and croissants. Esther explained that she wasn’t ready to walk away from the exhilarating sex she had enjoyed for much of her married life. She referred to her orgasms with Henry as “earthquakes, but good ones.” She wanted to return to them, or at least feel pleasure and arousal, but she needed a little help learning how to achieve this on her own.

“Here’s where you come in, Cheryl,” she said. When she flashed her lovely grin, a group of wrinkles gathered around her mouth.

“How can I help?”

“I want to learn more about sex toys. I tried a vibrator years ago, but I didn’t like it. Can we take a trip to that store?”

“Good Vibrations?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

I wish every town had a store like Good Vibrations. It’s a boutique that offers sex toys, lubes, condoms, books, movies, games, and more. They were founded on sex-positive principles and have helpful, knowledgeable staff who make everyone feel welcome. I remembered how exciting it was when they opened in 1977, and we suddenly had a classy community sex store that we could patronize without hesitation or shame.

Esther and I had drained our mimosas and finished our leisurely meal and decided we’d visit Good Vibrations the following day.

When I arrived at Esther’s house the next morning, she had pulled her gunmetal grey hair back into a knot, and wore rose-colored lipstick.

“The big day,” she said.

We headed over to the Berkeley store, and as we drove I gave her a preview of what she would find there.

“They have lots of vibrators and dildos, and just about everything you need to go with them. How is your lubrication these days? Do you think you might need something to help with it?”

“That’s another thing. I’ve gotten very dry.”

“Okay. That happens to many women after menopause, and most women at your age have a lot of dryness. We’ll take a look. My advice is to try a few different samples and see what works best.”

I parked around the corner, helped Esther out of the car, and we made our way to the store.

“Whoa,” Esther said, her hazel eyes wide, as we walked through the front door.

She scanned the large room and only moved out from the entryway when she realized a few people had circled around her to get in.

I gave Esther a quick tour. Dildos, vibrators, and other toys were on one side of the room; lubes, massage oils, and additional items were on the other. Just then an employee recognized me and said hello. I introduced her to Esther and told her it was her first trip to the store.

“Welcome, Esther. Let me know if I can help with anything,” she said.

“Thank you, dear,” Esther replied, still a little bedazzled.

I showed Esther my favorite lube and gave her my take on others. I doubt she heard much of what I said because her eyes were focused on the other side of the room where a huge variety of dildos and vibrators were affixed to the far wall.

“See anything interesting?” I asked.

“I think so. I’m going to take a look over there,” Esther said and, cane in hand, she made her way to the sex toys.

I busied myself with checking out the lubricants, condoms, and other supplies. I needed to stock up for both work and home. Just as I had put a few boxes of condoms in my hand basket, I looked up and saw Esther smiling at me from across the room. She was holding an almost foot-long, blue, silicone dildo.

I walked over to her.

“That one looks good?”

“I’d like to give a try. Tell me, Cheryl, do you have a preference?”

For years I had used a vibrator that was probably three-quarters the size of the one Esther grasped in her hand. As I had aged, however, I discovered I loved the Pocket Rocket vibrator, which was considerably smaller, about four inches long, and had one only speed, but it was a little powerhouse.