LOBBY again but it is too late and the doors open at 10. I see the landing. It is a runway, waiting for me to show off my new cap and also show the office that my hair is officially gone.
As I am taking a deep breath, I see my executive producer, Victor. I was hoping to make it to my cubicle before anyone could see me so that I could reposition my cap one more time. And I was hoping I could test it out on some other coworkers before the big cheese saw me with it. I am praying that he doesn’t notice my hat. Since my cancer, all I want him to notice is my work.
I haven’t missed a day of work since I returned from my mastectomy surgery. It was hard to come back because it felt like everyone was talking too fast. My chest was also pounding, but I refused to take my painkillers because they made me too tired. I keep coming to work. Showing up at work defines me. Just being there is a victory. I am too scared to lie at home in bed because I feel like I am dying. I need to prove that my brain is still working. It is really all that I have. Even on the day when there was twenty-six inches of snow on the ground, three buses, two vomits, one subway, one taxi, and four treks over huge piles of plowed snow later, I showed up. I rested once, but who even knew that. All that mattered was that I was there at my cubicle, ready to pounce on the day’s top stories for 20/20 .
My stomach is cramping, my hair is falling out, but at least I can still think. My brain is on fire. I can’t count on anything else in my body but my mind. I am bloated, I am seasick, I taste metal, my right eye keeps tearing, but I still am finding great stories for 20/20 segments. No one on the other end of the phone knows I am bald. Part of my job is to deliver newspapers, and lately I’ve had to deliver one at a time because they feel so heavy. I don’t tell anyone.
And controlling my body has become a constant challenge. Every day I will myself to make it up the ten floors in the elevator without puking. It would be so humiliating if I didn’t make it and vomited on Hugh and Barbara. I mean, they’re my idols!
I am on my chemo for two weeks, and then there is a two-week break. For the two weeks straight that I am “on” chemo, I take a cytoxin pill six times a day. No wonder cytoxin means “cell-killing,” because about twenty minutes after I take it I feel my stomach cramp and I need to go into the bathroom and just deep-breathe or puke and then spray aeresole hairspray to cover the smell (not as obvious as air freshener). It is stressful having only a cubicle during such privacy-demanding moments, but thankfully, my cube is right next to the bathroom. I am a frequent visitor. I always show up at work on Friday afternoons after my chemo shots, too, even though my skin is the shade of an artichoke.
My skin color and thinning hair aren’t the only things my bosses are noticing. I am convinced that everyone at ABC only knows me as “cancer girl,” especially because I was profiled in an ABC News special called “Cancer in the Family.” But when I get paged to Victor’s office, Meredith is there waiting, and they want to promote me! I am just hoping to live out the year, but they give me a three-year contract. They believe I will make it, and they don’t want NBC or CBS to hire me away. Getting noticed at work is giving me some power back and pushing me to be bolder and turn up the volume in my life.
And now, even today, after all my hair has just fallen out in the shower, I am here. My show must go on. But facing Victor in my baseball cap feels almost as hard as when I told him that I had cancer. I keep my eyes down and try to keep walking, but he stops me.
“Geralyn! You look so cool! I love that hat!”
I am stunned by his compliment, and so grateful that Victor can see my coolness and not my cancer. I am reappearing. I am still tired all the time, but especially tired of looking so exhausted and feeling invisible. I think I have found
As I am taking a deep breath, I see my executive producer, Victor. I was hoping to make it to my cubicle before anyone could see me so that I could reposition my cap one more time. And I was hoping I could test it out on some other coworkers before the big cheese saw me with it. I am praying that he doesn’t notice my hat. Since my cancer, all I want him to notice is my work.
I haven’t missed a day of work since I returned from my mastectomy surgery. It was hard to come back because it felt like everyone was talking too fast. My chest was also pounding, but I refused to take my painkillers because they made me too tired. I keep coming to work. Showing up at work defines me. Just being there is a victory. I am too scared to lie at home in bed because I feel like I am dying. I need to prove that my brain is still working. It is really all that I have. Even on the day when there was twenty-six inches of snow on the ground, three buses, two vomits, one subway, one taxi, and four treks over huge piles of plowed snow later, I showed up. I rested once, but who even knew that. All that mattered was that I was there at my cubicle, ready to pounce on the day’s top stories for 20/20 .
My stomach is cramping, my hair is falling out, but at least I can still think. My brain is on fire. I can’t count on anything else in my body but my mind. I am bloated, I am seasick, I taste metal, my right eye keeps tearing, but I still am finding great stories for 20/20 segments. No one on the other end of the phone knows I am bald. Part of my job is to deliver newspapers, and lately I’ve had to deliver one at a time because they feel so heavy. I don’t tell anyone.
And controlling my body has become a constant challenge. Every day I will myself to make it up the ten floors in the elevator without puking. It would be so humiliating if I didn’t make it and vomited on Hugh and Barbara. I mean, they’re my idols!
I am on my chemo for two weeks, and then there is a two-week break. For the two weeks straight that I am “on” chemo, I take a cytoxin pill six times a day. No wonder cytoxin means “cell-killing,” because about twenty minutes after I take it I feel my stomach cramp and I need to go into the bathroom and just deep-breathe or puke and then spray aeresole hairspray to cover the smell (not as obvious as air freshener). It is stressful having only a cubicle during such privacy-demanding moments, but thankfully, my cube is right next to the bathroom. I am a frequent visitor. I always show up at work on Friday afternoons after my chemo shots, too, even though my skin is the shade of an artichoke.
My skin color and thinning hair aren’t the only things my bosses are noticing. I am convinced that everyone at ABC only knows me as “cancer girl,” especially because I was profiled in an ABC News special called “Cancer in the Family.” But when I get paged to Victor’s office, Meredith is there waiting, and they want to promote me! I am just hoping to live out the year, but they give me a three-year contract. They believe I will make it, and they don’t want NBC or CBS to hire me away. Getting noticed at work is giving me some power back and pushing me to be bolder and turn up the volume in my life.
And now, even today, after all my hair has just fallen out in the shower, I am here. My show must go on. But facing Victor in my baseball cap feels almost as hard as when I told him that I had cancer. I keep my eyes down and try to keep walking, but he stops me.
“Geralyn! You look so cool! I love that hat!”
I am stunned by his compliment, and so grateful that Victor can see my coolness and not my cancer. I am reappearing. I am still tired all the time, but especially tired of looking so exhausted and feeling invisible. I think I have found
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