Goodbye to You (22 page)

I use the few hours before supper to prep for my group therapy session tomorrow. One of the activities my therapist, Dr. Luther, suggests for our pre-op counseling sessions is to keep a journal, or write a letter. To my breasts, telling them goodbye.

I understand why the exercise might help. When you’re angry with someone, you can yell or call or write them a letter to express your feelings, regrets, and so on. I sit on the couch with my journal—the letter is personal, and typing on the laptop too mechanical—and start writing. The end product surprises me.

My darling girls,

I can’t believe our time is coming to an end. We’ve been together for such a short time, but wow, fun times. You’ve caused me grief as well, but mostly it’s been an unbelievable ride. Especially our time in Key West. But the potential harm you could cause makes this radical step necessary. So I say:

“Goodbye to you, boobs.”

My prophylactic double mastectomy is scheduled for a few weeks from today. I’m scared shitless. So much pain and scarring. Most of all, there will be second-guessing.

There hadn’t been any of the latter until I met him. The god. Apparently of Irish origin, not Greek. But hot. Like J.-Crew-model hot. Hotter, even. His name is Shay Kelly. He loves you. He likes me, but you? He can’t keep his hands off of you.

This would be uncomplicated if I’d been able to leave him behind in Florida. But as ass-kicking fate would have it, he’s going to med school—at my college. After I ran into him at the university hospital, I was dumbfounded and speechless, like the first time we met. But he still asked me out. A wonderful, romantic date, and more after that.

And the sex. The mind-blowing, toe-curling sex. This guy is perfect. Gorgeous, smart, and ambitious. He doesn’t know you’ll be leaving soon. The one thing he despises is being lied to, the way people lied to him for years about his mother. Now I’m lying, by colossal omission. How do I tell him? Hell, Daddy doesn’t even know yet. He’s still mourning Mama’s loss to breast cancer six years ago and helping my older sister with her kids while she undergoes chemo.

So {gulp} I need to figure out a way to tell Shay . . . and find the strength to watch him walk away. Or worse—he’ll look at me like I’m nothing but a patient, and less than a woman.

Deep down, I guess I’ve struggled with this outward loss of my femininity. Shay’s presence and imminent loss bring those feelings bubbling to the surface, and I don’t like it all. I’m in charge here, and you’re still going, no matter how much joy you’ve attracted these past weeks.

I’ll miss you, but I must say goodbye. Adiós. Au revoir. Ta-ta forever, ta-tas.

The joke isn’t funny since I have even more to lose.

~Thea

Wow. The letter is less angry than I thought it would be. Mostly sad. I wish my words were more hopeful. I can’t force the optimism.

Having the mastectomy is the best decision, although the most difficult, ever. For me, any other way is passive, and I’ve decided not to live life submissively. To go after what I want instead of hoping it comes my way.

That’s one reason I don’t want to tell Shay about the operation. I’ve got what I want, and refuse to relinquish it, at least not immediately.

I don’t need to tell him; instead I could back out quietly. Become too busy to see him. Move away, or back home.

Not exactly living life actively.

What a way to wuss out.

Though my decision to prevent getting breast cancer is brave, I can’t find a way to channel the bravery into the rest of my life.

I better find a way. Soon. Before I hurt someone I care too much about, knowing he may never forgive me for damages already done.

I haven’t heard from Shay for a few days. He’s busy with classes and studying and prepping to start his internship next week, so I hung out with Jen and read more on my reconstruction options.

I didn’t talk to Daddy and Jen about the surgery, though, and I need to work things out in therapy before I do.

I’m in group therapy, surrounded by women who’ve undergone or will undergo a mastectomy. Most had cancer; others are like me¸ hoping to prevent the disease. I don’t speak much in group; I need to today.

“I thought vacation was supposed to be fun, Thea. We talked about this. Not forgetting about what’s happening, but at least for a moment, living life like you want to when the threat of breast cancer is eradicated.”

Dr. Luther’s right.

“Yeah, I know. But Bennie and Leesh kept pushing me about my ‘one last fling’ for the girls.” I cup my hands in front of me, and the group laughs. “I met this guy and had one of those vacation flings that sticks with you. You don’t forget a guy like him.”

A few “mmmm-hmmmmms” and “I know that’s right,” then I drop the bombshell: “You can’t forget a guy from vacation when he ends up moving to your town for school.”

“Say what?!” That’s Gina, one of the other group attendees. She makes me smile.

I snort. “Yeah. Ran into him at the hospital last week, and we, uh, kinda went on a couple dates since.”

“Thea, do you think this is someone you could be serious about? Did you tell him yet?” Dr. Luther jots something on her notepad. In our private sessions, we’re role-playing to help me cope with how to tell my family.

I avoid her gaze and stare at the pink-tipped toes peeping out of my sandals.

“I . . . no. I adore him. I like how normal things are because he’s clueless. Will he leave?”

Gina speaks again. “If he does, honey, he doesn’t deserve you.”

I sniff and dab at my eyes with a tissue from the box provided at the entrance to the office. “I know. Maybe he won’t leave today, or he’ll treat me differently, like I’m fragile and needy, which may be worse than him walking away.”

Dr. Luther interjects. “He deserves the truth. Consider your reaction if your parents withheld your mother’s diagnosis from you six years ago.”

I would have spit nails. Shay will be furious too since he’s still bitter about his family hiding the real cause of the car “accident” from him and his brothers for years.

Geesh, he’ll be madder than a wet hen in a tote sack.

“This is different,” I insist.

“How? You’re taking away his ability to make an informed decision about being in a relationship with you. You may not like his decision, but he should be the one to choose. What will happen after surgery, and he shows up? You’ve got the Jackson-Pratt drains in, and you tell him what?”

ugh.

It all makes perfect sense.

“You’re right. I’ll see him this weekend. I’ll tell him.”

Dr. Luther appears pleased. “Would anyone else like to share?”

Voices mutter in the background, but all I hear is the mock conversation in my head, the one I hope to have with Shay.

“Hey, guess what? I’m getting my boobs cut off to prevent getting cancer.”

“Oh, okay, preventing cancer is important. I’ll help with whatever you need. What do you want for dinner? I’m in the mood for Chinese carry-out.”

Ha. That would be the “in your dreams” conversation.

Scuffing chairs wake me from the daydream, and I stand to leave. Gina comes over and touches my shoulder.

“It’s hard sweetie, but you’ve got to tell your young man the truth. You remember when you first came here a few months ago? I’d been diagnosed right before.”

Gina’s wearing a scarf on her head today, and her eyebrows are penciled in, dark crayon arches over big brown eyes.

I swallow back tears. “Yes, I remember.”

“I’d started dating this man a month before I found the lump. To be honest, honey,
he
found the lump.” Her playful grin cheers me up.

She continues, “I called him right after the diagnosis. Told him over a cup of coffee. Expected him to walk away.”

Gina hadn’t mentioned him, so I suspect he ditched her.

“Girl, we got engaged. He proposed a few days ago, and I agreed today. Not sure why I waited two days to decide. What man takes on the responsibility of holding a cancer patient’s hair as she pukes up her guts and stays in bed for days? The good kind. You need to find out if yours is the good kind. Tell him, honey. As soon as you can.”

I grab on Gina and sob into her shoulder. She’s right. It’s possible I’m lucky and found the good guy like she did. She pats my hair and squeezes me tight, and for a minute it’s like Mama’s here reassuring me.

I pull back and swipe at my tears, happy for her encouragement.

I’m telling him. When he comes over this weekend, the first thing I’ll do is sit him on the couch and lay out all my cards.

Whatever the outcome, I’ll survive, no matter what.

Thea’s out of sorts again. I’m not sure why, but she’s flitting around and running to the kitchen to grab me a beer, or to throw something away, or get a drink of water.

The buzzer on the washing machine sounds and the dryer goes off. She runs to pull clothes from the dryer and put the last load in. I’d asked her if I could bring my stuff to wash, so I could spend time with her instead of in my building’s laundry room.

She insisted on doing my clothes, but it makes uncomfortable. I’ve been washing my clothes since high school. Mom insisted we do it to learn “valuable life skills.” I ended up washing Liam’s too. His pile of sweaty socks and uniform pants from football practice would molder in our shared room in the old house, emitting a pungent, funky odor.