She was plugging in the vacuum cleaner when Norma came across the street and stuck her head in the front door.
She said, “Joan?” and her face had a look of great sadness. “How are you doing, Joan?”
Joan began to cry. “Norma, oh God, Norma I’m so scared.”
“I know, honey. I know, I know.” She put her arms around Joan and patted her and Joan cried against her as she hadn’t since she’d found the lump.
They sat on the couch in the living room. “I’m sorry,” Joan said. “I’m sorry I’m crying, but I’m so scared.”
“I knew from the mammogram,” Norma said. “I knew you’d be upset.”
“Norma, what the hell is happening to me?”
“What’s the next step?” Norma said. “What happens now?”
“I go in tomorrow and they do some tests. Wednesday they do a biopsy and if it’s bad they do a mastectomy right then.”
Norma nodded. Joan had the crying under control now. She could talk. “But I need to know what it means, Norma. I need to know what the hell it’s like, what really happens, you know? I mean they are all nice as hell. Eliopoulos, Barry, everybody, but what’s it going to be like? How bad will it hurt? What’s it like without one? Will I be all right? Jesus, Norma, it’s so scary.”
“I’ll put you in touch with a woman I know,” Norma said. “She had it done about a year and half ago.”
“Who?”
“Gretchen Benjamin. She would be terrific for you to talk with, because she took it really well. Like nothing. It really didn’t seem to bother her that much.”
“Oh, Norma. My God, where did she get the courage?”
“She may have been putting on a wonderful show, but it didn’t seem to bother her. And she made a good recovery.”
“Is she all right now?” Joan said.
“Fine. She’s a little tired sometimes, but otherwise she’s doing fine,” Norma said.
A little tired. That’s not bad. They say Betty Ford’s a little tired. If I have to feel a little tired that won’t he so bad. Gretchen Benjamin actually had a mastectomy and survived and is walking around leading a normal life.
“How long did you say it was?” Joan asked.
“About a year and a half ago,” Norma said. “And then later, of course, she had a hysterectomy.”
Joan said, “What do you mean? She had a hysterectomy as a result of her mastectomy?”
“Well, yes, in a sense,” Norma said. “They do that quite routinely. It’s the hormones. They don’t want the ovaries pumping out hormones, so they have to remove the ovaries. It’s quite common.”
Joan began to cry again. “Oh, my God, Norma. I don’t want a hysterectomy.”
For reasons she never understood, abdominal surgery had always seemed particularly fearsome. Dan’s appendectomy had frightened her badly. But it was more than the terror of abdominal surgery. My God, am I going to have a mastectomy, then a hysterectomy? What are they going to do to me? Are they going to chop away at my body? Is there cancer everywhere? I don’t want to live by being chopped into little pieces. One year we’ll take this, and another year we’ll take that.
But in the middle of the despair was the inevitable counterpoise. Gretchen Benjamin had handled it well. If she can, I can. She could feel the competitive flush in her. She can’t be a better person than I am. How come I’m not handling it well?
“Have you told Judy yet?” Norma said.
“Jude? I can’t tell Jude. I didn’t want to tell you, Norma. I don’t want anybody to know what happened to me.”
“Oh, Joan, you’re insane.” Norma said. “Judy would be the perfect person to tell. She’s your close friend. She’s a nurse. She works at the hospital you’re going to be in. She can special you on the surgery day. Wouldn’t you like to have Judy Marsh there when you wake up. Wouldn’t you want to talk to her?”
“Of course,” Joan said. “But I don’t want to burden anyone else with this knowledge. If I survive this I don’t want anyone to perceive me as deformed. To walk into the room and see me and think There’s One-Tit Tillie over there. Now which side was it? Which one is the fake?’ Norma, do you know how much of our humor is involved in boobs? I mean, Christ, it is a subject that comes up all the time. I don’t want people walking around saying, ‘We better not use boob humor, we better get off the subject of boobs.’ I don’t want people starting to joke and then smothering it and trying to cover it up by misdirection because it might make me uncomfortable. We are a boob society and everybody will have to watch their mouths because of me and cancer, and, you know, I’ll be a drag to have around.”
Norma was shaking her head. Joan plunged on. Elaborating an argument she’d had with Ace. “If nobody knows then nobody will have to feel that way. They can feel the same way about me. If nobody knows they don’t have to worry and I don’t have to worry. Gretchen’s walking around and no one would know, right, Norma? I mean she’s got full use of her arms?”
Norma said, “No, of course you wouldn’t know to look at her.”
And Joan said, “That’s it. That’s what I mean. Nobody is going to know. That’s the way I want it. Particularly the men. John Marsh, or Billy Ganem. I don’t want them to know. I don’t want them to perceive me as any less of a sexy person. Assuming they think I’m sexy now. I can’t bear to have people sorry for me, to limit their conversation when I’m in the room. And I can’t bear to be the kind of person that when they see me reminds them of cancer and dying. I can’t do it.”
Norma nodded. “Sure. I understand that, but look at it from this point of view. If you don’t tell Judy she’s going to find out. You’re going to Union Hospital. She works in Union Hospital every other weekend. There’s no way that she won’t find out. It’s inconceivable. One way or another she’ll know, and why not tell her now so she can help you?”
“Why does she have to know?” Joan said. “She’s not working this weekend, and maybe next weekend I’ll be home.”
“What about Grace down the street? Grace works in the operating room. What if Grace says to Judy, ‘How’s Joan recovering from her surgery?’ And Judy didn’t know. How will she feel?”
Joan said, “She’ll feel bad.”
Norma said, “That’s right. She’ll feel excluded, or whatever, that you haven’t told her, of all people. This is a very meaningful piece of information. Sharing it with her is a testimony to your friendship.”
“Maybe, Norma, maybe you’re right. I just don’t know. But I will think about it.”
Norma left to call Gretchen Benjamin and have her get in touch.
Joan walked around the house, crying again. Now that she had begun it was easier. She hadn’t cried before. Now I’m making up for it, she thought. Across the street was Judy’s house. As it had been for ten years. She’s in there and I’ve got to tell her.
Chapter 11
She walked across the street and into the Marshes weathered-shingle Cape and said, “Jude, I need to talk with you alone.”
Judy sent the kids to another room looking befuddled. In ten years Joan had never said, “I must speak to you alone.”
I wonder if she knows, Joan thought. She worked last night. I wonder if she knows, and is having the good taste not to mention it until I do.
“Jude,” she said, “do you know what’s wrong with me?”
“No. Is something wrong with you?”
“A week ago—” My God, only a week ago — “I discovered a lump in my left breast and, Jude, they tell me it is malignant, that it’s cancer and I’m walking around with breast cancer.” As she spoke she began to cry again. Judy didn’t cry. She held together. She’s not a crier. Joan thought. I don’t usually cry in front of people. She doesn’t cry, period. But her face seemed to pinch in and get smaller. She was very fair with blond hair and blue eyes. As Joan talked her skin got paler and the eyes seemed to occupy more and more of her face. But she didn’t cry.