The Cookie Cure Read online

  I stiffened. “No.”

  Still pressing her fingers along the base of my neck, she asked, “Have you noticed anything unusual?”

  Again, I answered, “No.” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Okay,” she responded. “I’d like to get the doctor to take a second look. I’ll be right back.”

  Once the door had closed behind her, I too began to do the finger dance across my neck. As my fingertips reached a hard, round protrusion sticking out behind the top of my collarbone, I gasped. She was right. There is something. It felt like the top of an apricot was stuck under the surface of my skin. How did I not notice this? I notice everything down to each new freckle I get, so how did I not feel this?

  In a matter of minutes, our family doctor, Dr. Seyfried, came into the room and moved his fingers thoroughly along my neck. I was starting to get upset, but I was trying with all my might to stay calm. I simply sat there, watching his every facial expression, waiting for any indication of what might be going on. “Have you been sick or tired or noticed any weight gain or loss?” he asked. “Have you felt this?”

  “No,” I said again, reluctantly.

  I began second-guessing myself as my mind kept racing, wondering how I hadn’t noticed this thing first and what it could possibly be.

  Finally, Dr. Seyfried said, “I believe there may be an issue with your thyroid.”

  All I could think was, My thyroid? Doesn’t that mean weight gain?

  “Let’s run some blood work, get you in for an ultrasound,” he said.

  I was still stuck on I don’t want to blow up. Keeping my absurd thoughts to myself, I timidly mustered, “What does this mean?”

  He answered assuredly, “Thyroid problems are common and easily managed. Don’t get ahead of yourself. If there is an issue, we can treat it.”

  Tears were building behind my eyes. That was easy for him to say. He was a health-conscious, fit, middle-aged, married man with three kids. I was a twenty-two-year-old girl. He could afford to gain pounds; I couldn’t, or so I thought.

  Dr. Seyfried didn’t have clear answers, and that left me uneasy. By the time I came out to the waiting room, I was flustered. Randy’s not one to rehash things, so once he’d said, “Don’t worry. You’re fine,” we didn’t talk about it anymore. We went off to lunch, although I didn’t feel much like eating, and spent the afternoon out and about. But I couldn’t keep myself from constantly reaching up and touching my neck. Now that I knew the lump was there, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  When we got home, my parents were doing some gardening in the backyard. Without hesitating, I walked over to Mom and blurted out, “There’s something wrong with me.”

  She set her rake aside and turned to me. “All right. What’s wrong?”

  “I need your hand,” I said. “Give me your hand.”

  After she yanked off her gardening glove, I pressed Mom’s left hand to the bulge in my neck. I waited to see her initial reaction. A forced smile broke across her face as her nostrils flared and her eyes got big. It was her classic “I’m staying calm, but I’m concerned” look.

  Mom called out, “Ken, can you come here?” I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but it was too late. Dad put down his shovel, walked around the pool, and met us on the patio.

  “Did Dr. Seyfried feel this?” Mom asked. “What did he say? Should I call him?”

  Frustrated and confused, I pulled away. “He thinks I have some kind of thyroid problem or something. I don’t know. I have to go for an ultrasound next week.”

  As Mom continued to examine my neck, I tried to tell her again what the doctor had said, but she wasn’t listening. She stood there looking unsure while she attempted to calm me down. “Okay, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sure it’s nothing. You’re fine, Susan.”

  That was exactly what I wanted to hear and what I knew she would say. I knew she would listen to me. I knew she would care, and I knew she’d tell me to not worry. But, looking back now, I realize how insensitive I was. I wanted Mom to comfort me about the lump, but I didn’t even think about how she would feel when I put her fingers to my throat. I temporarily forgot that she is terrified of hearing anyone say, “Can you feel this?” I can’t blame her. After all, Mom’s sister, one of her favorite people, died from lumps in her throat, neck, and chest. I also knew the more recent story of how Mom woke up one morning to find Dad rubbing his throat. Lying in bed with his head tilted back on the pillow, he took Mom’s hand and asked, “What is this?” as he rubbed her fingers along a golf ball–size lump under his chin. At first his doctor thought it was part of a persistent cold, but it too turned out to be cancer. So, no. Mom doesn’t like lumps.

  Mom and Dad were forty-one when Dad’s “bad cold” was diagnosed as non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I was thirteen at the time and didn’t understand a whole lot about the disease, which is how my parents wanted it. They told my brothers, my sister, and me at dinner one night. They carefully played it off as if they were saying, Dad has brown hair and wears glasses, but they were actually saying, “Dad has cancer. It’s called non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It’s a type of blood cancer that affects the lymph nodes and immune system. He has a very good doctor, and all will be well.” I later learned that at his first appointment, his oncologist, Dr. Weens, told my parents that Dad’s cancer was incurable.

  As I stood on the patio with my parents staring at my throat, all I wanted was for the random thing in my neck to disappear. We didn’t need it. Not me and especially not my parents. Dad was home during the week looking for a new finance position and gardening, and Mom had bakery equipment being installed in the garage, of all places, in a couple of weeks. None of that was normal. I was also concerned because our health insurance through Dad’s former employer was about to run out. Is an ultrasound necessary? How much will it cost? No. I just wanted the stupid lump to go away. Couldn’t I even do a simple checkup “right”?

  Dear Sue,

  Less than an hour after you died, Mother turned to me and said, “I hope, if you have a daughter one day, you’ll name her Susan.” In that moment, I didn’t think she was giving me permission to use your name; I thought she meant it more as, Where one life ends, maybe another will carry on. In her anguish, somehow, she saw hope. I certainly wouldn’t have needed any prompting to use your name, but four years later, when Ken and I had our first daughter, it was nice to know I already had Mother’s blessing. It would be no surprise for Dad and her to hear that we’d named our baby girl for you.

  2

  Oh, To Be Tested

  Spring break was over, classes had resumed, and I was lying flat on my back on a vinyl examination table in the middle of a dark room waiting for my ultrasound to begin. While two technicians hovered over me, setting up the equipment, I quietly settled in. In a matter of minutes, their metal wand would produce some images on a screen, giving us the answer to what lay beneath my skin, and the waiting and wondering would be over. I felt calmer than I had in days.

  The technicians were whispering softly to each other as they got the computer situated. Finally, one of the women went to her desk in the corner while the other said, “I’m sorry for the wait.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I’m good.”

  She squeezed some clear, thick jelly on the end of the metal wand. “This will be cold.” She placed the gooey end of the wand under my chin and began slowly sliding it down my neck, then, little by little, inching it back up.

  I turned my head to watch the monitor. It showed gray, white, and black blurry images that meant nothing to me. I have no idea what I thought I was going to see or decipher, but I still looked. I wanted to see. I wanted to know.

  The technician continued to massage my neck with the wand, and the test seemed to be going smoothly. Earlier, in the waiting room, Mom had told me, “Be thinking about what you’d like for lunch. When you’re done, we
’ll go wherever you’d like.” So, I was thinking, Should we order cheese dip or guacamole?

  My thoughts came to a halt when the tech lifted the wand and said, “Can you tell me exactly what is wrong?”

  Politely, but quizzically, I said, “I was told there is something wrong with my thyroid?” What I really wanted to say was, What have you been looking at for the last five minutes?

  She seemed to be getting flustered as she went from pushing keys on the keyboard to staring at the monitor, flipping through my chart, and moving the wand left and right and around and around over my neck. Then she called to the other woman working at her desk. “Can you come over here?”

  Something wasn’t right. Is there something wrong with the machine? Or is she new to this? They kept their voices low, so I couldn’t hear everything, but my technician seemed to be asking the other if the equipment was working properly. Then they started double-checking all the cords. I couldn’t help but ask, “Is something wrong?”

  They did not respond.

  While they were occupied with the machine, I lifted my hand off the side of the examination table and moved it to my throat. Under my fingertips, I could still feel the lump. I wanted to believe it was gone, but of course, it wasn’t, and I didn’t want to have to come back for another ultrasound if this one didn’t go right. Reluctantly, I spoke up.

  “Excuse me, it’s right here.”

  The technician opened my gown a bit more and applied more jelly to the wand, running it up and down my neck again in the place I had indicated. Hoping to get another look, I stretched to try to see the images, but she had turned the monitor away from my view. Then I heard a rapid tap, tap, tap on the keyboard accompanied by a clicking sound from the monitor. Was that the sound of a successful ultrasound?

  I knew that technicians aren’t allowed to diagnose or say anything about the images, but that didn’t stop me from asking, “Do you see something?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  Just as I expected, she simply stated, “I am not allowed to say.”

  Does she have to be so by the book? I knew she was only doing her job, but it was my throat, after all. But when she said, “Please wait here while I get the radiologist. I need him to take a look,” I thought, What is going on?

  Soon, the radiologist, wearing a very official-looking white coat, hurried in with his resident in tow. “Do you mind if I take a look?” he said and placed the wand directly on the bump. The whole appointment had been such an odd experience that I didn’t mind them bringing in the doctor, but once he was in the room, his air of authority startled me. What did they see that made them call him in?

  He looked at the monitor and asked, “Will you please sit up?” Next thing I know, he began doing the all-too-familiar finger dance across my neck and collarbone. Then he asked his resident to feel it as well. Without a word, I sat there, hoping it would end soon. I knew Mom would be terribly worried I had been in there so long, for a scan we’d been told would take five minutes. At least inside the exam room I knew what was going on. But Mom was in the waiting room, oblivious, and I knew this wouldn’t sit well with her. I thought the doctor would be at liberty to tell me what he was seeing, so I asked again. “What is it?”

  “I have to further review the images from your scan, then I will let your doctor know.”

  By then, I didn’t know what to think. I just said, “Okay, thank you,” as he left the room.

  • • •

  Later that afternoon I dozed off watching TV and awoke to my sister, Carey, yelling out, “Hey, Susan, the phone’s for you.”

  As I went downstairs to grab the phone, I mouthed, “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Seyfried,” she answered.

  Immediately, I thought, It’s 5:45. It’s after hours. I quickly picked up. “Hello, this is Susan.”

  “Hi, Susan. This is Dr. Seyfried.” Not waiting for a response, he continued, “I have the results from your testing. Are your parents home? Can you put one of them on the phone?”

  My heart began to race. I dropped the phone and yelled down the hallway, “Mom. Mom! Pick up the phone. It’s Dr. Seyfried.” With the phone back at my ear, I heard Mom on the other end.

  “Hi, Laura. The results are in. Susan, the ultrasound indicated there is nothing wrong with your thyroid.” That was great. I’d been preparing to hear how we were going to fix my thyroid, and it turned out it was nothing. But Dr. Seyfried wasn’t finished. He said slowly and clearly, “But we are dealing with an enlarged lymph node.”

  A lymph node?

  I clenched the phone and stood there, frozen. Oh no—Dad and Aunt Sue. They had lymph node problems, and it was cancer. Quiet tears streamed down my face. It felt like the air had been sucked out of me. I quickly collected myself to ask, “What do we do now?”

  Dr. Seyfried’s voice went muffled, as if he were talking to me underwater. It didn’t matter. I knew Mom would listen carefully. He said something about needing more testing, meeting with a specialist, and possibly surgery. I hung up the phone with the words lymph node ringing in my ears.

  I stood there stunned, confused, and overwhelmed. Mom must have sprinted down the hallway because by the time I walked out of the room, she was right there. With her arms around me in a steadfast grip, Mom whispered, “I am so sorry. So, so sorry.”

  I was too.

  With slumped shoulders and my head down, I went to my room, still stunned. I’d been waiting for an answer, and the one we got only presented more questions. I was sitting on my bed when my parents came into the room. Mom looked the way I felt. Her face was crestfallen, and she wasn’t saying a word. Not wanting to rehash the call, I asked, “What about school? I have a twenty-page paper due and a final presentation in Communications Strategy. I have to go back—”

  “We knew that was going to be your main concern,” Dad said, cutting me off. “Write down your teachers’ names and email addresses, and I will contact them. You need to get in for a CAT scan as soon as possible.”

  As Dad was talking, I couldn’t help but notice Mom’s look of distress. Selfishly, I was happy Mom had been on the other end of the phone with me, but I was sorry too. I wished I could have spared her from hearing what Dr. Seyfried had to say. She seemed trapped in her own thoughts, although I’m pretty sure we were thinking the same thing: Dad has lymph node problems, and it’s cancer. Aunt Sue had lymph node problems, and she died.

  Two days later, I had a CAT scan. While I should have been out drinking margaritas and beer with my friends at school, I was sitting between Mom and Dad drinking contrast, this gloppy, gross white stuff, for the scan. The contrast was a kind of dye that would highlight the places the doctor needed to see.

  The test didn’t hurt, but the endless possibilities of what it might reveal were painful in a way I’d never known before. Dad’s lymphoma had been known to show up throughout his body. I worried, What if I’m like Dad? What if I have more than one spot? I lay staring at the white hospital ceiling and, so I wouldn’t let my heavy breathing get the best of me, began praying the Hail Mary over and over in my head. I had never really understood what my dad had gone through during his cancer treatment. I was concerned when Dad went for scans, of course, but I didn’t really know what he went through up until that day, and I was upset with myself for never fully realizing how scary the process must have been for him. It was certainly terrifying for me.

  We waited for the results. I went back and forth between school and home and the hospital for more tests, trying to keep things as routine as possible. I’d find myself sitting in class, absentmindedly running my fingers along the bump on my throat. The question What is it? was constantly lurking in the back of my mind. It was exhausting. Weeks went by, with tests every week and long weekends in between, and still no end in sight. Finally, Dr. Jackson, an ear, nose, and throat specialist, recommended surgery. I was reliev
ed to have a plan to move forward, but as my mom worked with the doctor to schedule the procedure, I felt my life spiraling out of control.

  No one asked me what I wanted or what I thought. I wanted to say, What about me? But I just kept showing up and politely following along without any protest. What else was there to do?

  • • •

  Once Dr. Jackson had decided surgery was the right course of action, I was supposed to have the procedure right away, but Mom bargained with him to let me go back to school for a week, which she knew was important to me. At home, things felt unsettled and out of place. At school, I could keep things normal and routine. I didn’t tell anyone about my testing. I’m not totally sure why I kept it to myself, but I did. Maybe just because I could—it was one small way of staying in control.

  Besides, canceling plans was not something I liked to do. I had a term paper to work on, a group presentation, upcoming finals, and a résumé to write—remember that black suit. The Relay For Life charity event I had signed up for in the fall also happened to be that weekend. I wasn’t going to be known as Susan Carver Stachler, the Girl Who Quits. I had planned on being at this event all year, and right then, I needed something to go as I had planned. I welcomed this distraction and figured it would keep my mind off things. So, back to school I went.

  Sponsored by the American Cancer Society, Relay For Life is a well-known, twenty-four-hour outdoor event that raises money for cancer research. I was in charge of the luminaria event, raising money by selling personalized paper bags with candles inside, which would be lined up around the track that participants would be walking during the relay and lit at nightfall as a glowing tribute to those affected by the disease. All I knew was that I’d better sell the bejeebers out of those bags, or else we were going to have one sorry, unlit track, and it would be all my fault. All spring I had been writing letters to faculty and staff, setting up a card table in the middle of campus to solicit donations, and providing donation forms to all the local pizza places around town, which taped them to the top of their delivery boxes.