“Much.” Louise nods.
“I’m glad,” I say between mouthy chews. Relish is dribbling down my chin. There is mustard on my shirt.
“I was diagnosed five years ago,” Louise says suddenly.
I frown around my hot dog.
“I’m answering your question, Gem.”
I think back and recall a vague question I asked about her breast cancer during that first meeting, cut off by Penelope’s arrival.
“What was it like?” I ask.
“I found the lump while I was in the shower. By then it was already eight centimeters.”
My eyes widen. Eight centimeters? That makes my two-point-four centimeters sound like child’s play.
“Treatment lasted eleven months total—before and after surgery. They had to remove eighteen lymph nodes.”
My next bite swallows wrong. “Eighteen?” I balk. During my surgery they only removedfive.
“Lymphadema is a stone-cold bitch.” Louise purses her lips.
“Well, at least treatment worked, right?”
She huffs a humorous sound. “Worked, past tense. They diagnosed the recurrence two years ago.”
I make a strong effort to push down the recurrence anxiety that threatens to rear its ugly head. The r-word is a sore subject. Even hearing someone speak about recurrent cancer can send me into a tailspin. Do you know what the worst part of having cancer in your twenties is? It’s knowing that you have to live another fifty or sixty years under its thumb, and that’s if you’re lucky. Laying awake at night, wondering if the cancer is settling into your lungs or making a home in your ribs. Some cancer is curable, some is only treatable. You can do all the exercise, eat all the veggies and dark berries in the world, and some cancer will still find a way. You could waste an entire life beating your fists against the door of fate. Learning to live with the fear of metastatic recurrence is yet another in a long line of injustices you have to make peace with.
The Dark Place is reaching out its grubby little fingers at me, trying to coax me into another pathetic bathroom cry. I shut itdown, thinking about golden retriever puppies, Lake Michigan in August, frozen mangoes during a hot flash.
“Donotget a spine tumor.” Louise points a finger at me, as if I have control over this. “Nasty piece of work. Painful fuckers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Louise is a thriver,” Alma says, through a mouthful of fries.
“Survivor, thriver, whatever you want to call it.”
Suddenly I think about Alfred Feeney’s final book, the one about the couple dealing with cancer. “Is that whatBlue Rosewas about?”
This time, Louise gives me a real, hearty laugh. “My husband’s least favorite question was always, ‘What is your book about?’Every time, he would say, ‘Read the book. Then you’ll know what it’s about.’ But yes, he did write that while I was in treatment the first time. We had to create a world together, one we could live in while my health was so uncertain.”
Her words permeate the humid walls of The Sunny Island. What would it have been like to go through cancer with someone willing to create a world with me? A world where cancer didn’t make me lacking, where two people going through something harrowing could still find joy? Connection?
“He died suddenly.” Louise breaks the silence. “It was a stroke. No warning signs, no notice. ‘Idiopathic’ was the word the doctors used.” She puts down her hot dog. “I’m not sure which is better. Dying slowly, so you’re aware the end is coming, or going without warning, so you never have to know that you’re in your final days.”
I think for a second. “I don’t think I’d want to know. There are a lot of things I would trade to go back to living the way I did pre-brush-with-mortality.”
Louise shakes her head fiercely, picking up her hot dog again. “You can’t look back, Gem. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in many years of counseling, it’s that you can’t waste time on thepast. You have no idea what could have happened on any other paths your life could have taken, all you can do is walk the one you’re on. The only direction is forward.”
“I know,” I rush out, reminding myself that even though she’s off-duty, she’s still holding the key to Pen’s happiness, and thereby Pen’s agent. “I do know that. A girl can dream, though.”
“Save your dreams for things that can actually come true. Otherwise you’re living in a nightmare.”
I bite my tongue. Literally. “Ow, goddamnit,” I mutter, soothing the spot. I try to laugh off Louise’s implication that I’m living in a nightmare. That feels like an extreme, reductive view of my life. But considering I almost spiraled when she mentioned recurrent cancer, it may not be altogetherfalse.
“I’m feeling much better!” Louise declares. “Never met a problem a Chicago-style dog couldn’t solve.”
