conversation.
“Yes.” I had a strong sense of him at that moment. He was saying ‘sorry’ since it had taken so long to contact me . I wasn’t freaked out – in fact, I was relieved. So t here was a World To Come. Death wasn’t just earth scraped over a coffin – it was the beginning of something that we , sight constrained like a horse in blinkers, could only infer from scattered signs. One day, we would put it all together. One day, we would ascend the Tree Of Life and come to face-to-face with ourselves.
DIAGNOSIS
June 2010. Things were going well. I’d been called back to CoutureBay to add another feature . Aurora wasn’ t acting up since she had David to torture. There was one thing I hadn’t done, and it was driving Nigel nuts. I hadn’t had my year ly mammogram. W hen the time had come , six months a go, I’d been too depressed to go. Now, he was pressuring me daily . This was n ot just obsession – for once. It was crucial for me to have this test , since I’d been diagnosed with breast cancer back in 2007.
It hadn’t really been that bad. They ’d caught it at Stage Zero, in situ, and after a lumpectomy, I’d been able to do Mam m osi te radiation. This is a technique where a catheter i s inserted and radiation, constrained to a balloon, targets the cancer site. Instead of the usual seven weeks, it involved only ten treatments, twice a day. I was able to work between sessions.
Still it wasn’t a complete cakewalk. One afternoon, Mary called and asked me to come to her villa, about twenty paces away. I had to ask her to walk to me. I was actually too weak to make it . But beyond this short-lived fatigue, my brush with the Big C hadn’t been too s cary. I told everyone it was no big gie ; that I was completely fine. I walked in the Susan G. Komen Race For the Cure, wore a pink shirt, and was awarded a Survivor’s Medal . It was a short blip in an otherwise healthy life.
Now Nigel was whining at me day and night (like this was something new). I decided to have my mammogram in Seattle, since I really liked the hospital there, where I’d had my surgery and Mammosite.
Two days before my flight, The B of A called. It was not a happy occasion. They wanted their truck back.
“Let me think about it,” I told the no-nonsense rep on the phone.
“ If the vehicle is not returned, I’ll have to report it as stolen.”
I called back in a few . “OK , I’m coming in out of the cold . Can I keep the car till Friday? I need to get to the airport.”
“Sure. We can do that. ” Amazing. A human being.
“I’ll park in the Metrolink lot across from Burbank airport. The keys will be under the driver-side visor.”
I know. Shades of, “Comrade – the poison soup will be served at Drago at dawn.” But it all went down as planned, and I walked past the lot into Burbank , small suitcase in hand. BING BING BING! Another bumper hit on the Great Recession machine. I could now add Repo to my Financial Hall Of Shame. In L.A. terms, I’d become a likely target for arrest: an Angelena without wheels.
Overlake. The best hospital on the Eastside, where I’d spent quality time in the new Maternity Wing. Don’t get any ideas: I was recovering from a hysterectomy, surrounded by two-day-old infants. We all should have been embossed on a coin symbolizing Woman’s Reproductive Cycle. In any case, the hospital was large and clean, and since my last visit, has added a bunch of buildings and the ultimate status symbol: An off-ramp of its own.
Overlake is stationed in the bourgeoisie city of Bellevue , a Beverly Hills Wannabe with its Jimmy Choo and Versace . Please! As if Bill Gates and his ilk would wear this kind of thing. In the Northwest, it was all about Gore-Tex and plaid – topped off by hiking boots.
I took the elevator to Overlake’s second floor and walked into a familiar office. The Breast Diagnostic Center. Since I was already in the system, form filling-out was short . I picked up a
“Yes.” I had a strong sense of him at that moment. He was saying ‘sorry’ since it had taken so long to contact me . I wasn’t freaked out – in fact, I was relieved. So t here was a World To Come. Death wasn’t just earth scraped over a coffin – it was the beginning of something that we , sight constrained like a horse in blinkers, could only infer from scattered signs. One day, we would put it all together. One day, we would ascend the Tree Of Life and come to face-to-face with ourselves.
DIAGNOSIS
June 2010. Things were going well. I’d been called back to CoutureBay to add another feature . Aurora wasn’ t acting up since she had David to torture. There was one thing I hadn’t done, and it was driving Nigel nuts. I hadn’t had my year ly mammogram. W hen the time had come , six months a go, I’d been too depressed to go. Now, he was pressuring me daily . This was n ot just obsession – for once. It was crucial for me to have this test , since I’d been diagnosed with breast cancer back in 2007.
It hadn’t really been that bad. They ’d caught it at Stage Zero, in situ, and after a lumpectomy, I’d been able to do Mam m osi te radiation. This is a technique where a catheter i s inserted and radiation, constrained to a balloon, targets the cancer site. Instead of the usual seven weeks, it involved only ten treatments, twice a day. I was able to work between sessions.
Still it wasn’t a complete cakewalk. One afternoon, Mary called and asked me to come to her villa, about twenty paces away. I had to ask her to walk to me. I was actually too weak to make it . But beyond this short-lived fatigue, my brush with the Big C hadn’t been too s cary. I told everyone it was no big gie ; that I was completely fine. I walked in the Susan G. Komen Race For the Cure, wore a pink shirt, and was awarded a Survivor’s Medal . It was a short blip in an otherwise healthy life.
Now Nigel was whining at me day and night (like this was something new). I decided to have my mammogram in Seattle, since I really liked the hospital there, where I’d had my surgery and Mammosite.
Two days before my flight, The B of A called. It was not a happy occasion. They wanted their truck back.
“Let me think about it,” I told the no-nonsense rep on the phone.
“ If the vehicle is not returned, I’ll have to report it as stolen.”
I called back in a few . “OK , I’m coming in out of the cold . Can I keep the car till Friday? I need to get to the airport.”
“Sure. We can do that. ” Amazing. A human being.
“I’ll park in the Metrolink lot across from Burbank airport. The keys will be under the driver-side visor.”
I know. Shades of, “Comrade – the poison soup will be served at Drago at dawn.” But it all went down as planned, and I walked past the lot into Burbank , small suitcase in hand. BING BING BING! Another bumper hit on the Great Recession machine. I could now add Repo to my Financial Hall Of Shame. In L.A. terms, I’d become a likely target for arrest: an Angelena without wheels.
Overlake. The best hospital on the Eastside, where I’d spent quality time in the new Maternity Wing. Don’t get any ideas: I was recovering from a hysterectomy, surrounded by two-day-old infants. We all should have been embossed on a coin symbolizing Woman’s Reproductive Cycle. In any case, the hospital was large and clean, and since my last visit, has added a bunch of buildings and the ultimate status symbol: An off-ramp of its own.
Overlake is stationed in the bourgeoisie city of Bellevue , a Beverly Hills Wannabe with its Jimmy Choo and Versace . Please! As if Bill Gates and his ilk would wear this kind of thing. In the Northwest, it was all about Gore-Tex and plaid – topped off by hiking boots.
I took the elevator to Overlake’s second floor and walked into a familiar office. The Breast Diagnostic Center. Since I was already in the system, form filling-out was short . I picked up a
Similar Books
