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"Strawberries" from the Cancer Monologues by Sylvia

 When the surgeon introduced himself and told me I had ovarian cancer I was surprised, but not particularly frightened. I was so sick, I was already pretty sure I was dying. The doctor was telling me he had a plan. He could fix me up and send me home. My operation would be in six days. I was pleased to know he thought I'd live that long.

I didn't cry. My husband, Tony didn't cry and neither did my two sisters, who waited outside my hospital room for the reading of the verdict. Nobody cried. We just talked about what was next and anything any of us knew about cancer, which wasn't very much. None of our family or any of our close friends had gotten it.

The only cancer story I could think of was Brian Piccolo, played by James Caan on TV.  I remembered a horrid scene where he's in a bathtub screaming in pain. I wasn't in a screaming kind of pain... yet.

My first symptom of the disease appeared in the Highlands of New Guinea at the annual Sing Sing. Hundreds of dancers on an open field dressed in outrageous tribal regalia. It was hot and humid and I was fighting a cold, but having the absolute time of my life, running around the field shooting photos.

After six or eight rolls of film, I left the field and watched from a shaded area. When the performance ended and I got up to leave, I felt a horrendous pain in my thighs. When I tried to walk my legs didn't want to move. It was like I had lead in my shoes. Every step was slow and deliberate and excruciating.

When I met up with Tony at the van, I didn't say anything about my crippled legs. I'd deduced they were a symptom of dropping out of yoga class and turning 50. Apparently, I no longer had  the muscle tone to squat for 7 hours taking photographs. But only I had to know that. And the next day they were fine.

We spent another week in New Guinea and then flew to the Philippines to do some buying for our antique business. It was nighttime and raining when we got to our hotel, but having never been there before, I couldn't wait to go out and experience life on the streets in Manila.

We strolled out of the hotel under a yellow umbrella the doorman lent us. We'd only gone a block or two when my legs began to punk out again. They didn't really hurt this time. It was more like I'd lost some motor skills. I couldn't keep up with Tony, and I couldn't explain why. The next day it was the same thing.

Then my belly began to swell. I had no appetite and wasn't eating, but every day, for no reason at all, it got bigger and more uncomfortable. Something was very wrong and when the Philippine doctor couldn't help me, it was time to go home. The first flight we could get back to the states was two days later. While waiting, my belly continued to swell and I grew sicker and weaker. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw images of Jesus, which didn't exactly comfort me.

By the time we crossed the Pacific and entered the emergency room in LA, I looked like a worn out middle aged woman about to deliver a pony.

After a battery of tests, I was admitted to a room and the next day was when I met the surgeon. I'd already had plenty of time to contemplate the worst. I even rehearsed a couple of farewell speeches on the plane.

I wasn't afraid of dying.  At 50, I was pretty satisfied with my life. I'd had more privileges, opportunities and comfort than most of the human race. Had made my contributions to society and had no unfinished business I could think of. My daughter was grown and out on her own. And I had no future plans that might change the course of history. If this was it for me, it was a great ride, a little hairball at the end, but all in all I'd gotten a pretty good seat in this life.

After surgery, and before starting chemo, I spent an afternoon working on creative visualization with a Tao healer. She was amazing. Before we got started, I told her that I had reconciled with god and death and that I was okay it. I was sincere and thought she'd appreciate how spiritually together and stoic I was. But no. She pursed her lips and in her rich German accent said, "I think you might do a little better if you think more about why you want to live."

I also met with an acupuncturist, who as luck would have it, was also a licensed therapist. She too, thought I might stand a fighting chance if I'd embrace life a little more and death a little less.

It was beginning to register. If I was going to leave this world with any respect at all, I had to abandon my peace with death and determine I was going to live. That's when it got hard. When you don't want something so badly, it's less painful when you don't get it. I never tried out for cheerleader in high school. I new my odds of making it and was smart enough to know I'd be investing a lot of time and effort just to get my heart broken. Instead, I tried out for drill team, where I thought my chances were pretty good, but I still didn't make the team. And my heart did break.

Now, with a 20% chance of winning, I was committed to a contest I never signed up for. The first step was to let go of the hand of the angel of death and forget I ever saw her sorry face. I did a pretty good job of it too, especially with the progress I was making with chemotherapy. The more wretched I felt after treatment, the more I knew it was working. If it made a big girl like me puke and gag, imagine what it was doing to those puissant little cancer cells. My finest hours of optimism were spent with my head in the toilet.

The angel of death continued to hover, we just weren't friends anymore. Now that we were on different teams, I demoted her to the angel of doubt.  And for the sake of my loved ones, kept her a secret.

I was three months into treatment when she got me at the Wallmart store. I broke down while pondering the purchase of a Christmas tree skirt. I'd never actually owned one. I always thought that for less money, I could make a nicer one myself, but never did. The one I held in my hand was just lovely, as nice as any I could make. And cheap. I was at Wallmart. I could tell it wanted to go home with me. But, thinking this could very well be my last Christmas, I put it down. I knew Tony wouldn't put up a tree when I'm gone.

It's me who loves the tacky tinsel and glitter. I love everything about Christmas, the mailbox stuffed with greetings; the homemade cookies, the parties, the presents, the same old carols everyone knows by heart. I even like fruitcake. Not Tony.

A Christmas tree skirt would be just another useless thing for him to trip over. But then, that's never really bothered him before. I picked it up again to examined it more closely. Made in China. The matter settled, I put it down and suddenly burst into tears. Oblivious to the crowd of passing shoppers, I stood in the middle of Wallmart and cried like a two year old. They weren't tears over China and they weren't poor me tears either. Tenable as it may be, my life wasn't so terrible. I was mourning the loss of Christmas.

I told Behty, my acupuncturist slash therapist about the incident. I was sorry I had to admit to these feelings, but I could tell her things I couldn't tell my family. On occasion I got her to cry with me, but never once did she say, "Don't talk like that."

My best friend, Jano and her husband drove out from California to spend the holidays with us. Jano and I have been best friends for more than 30 years. She's more like a sister to me. We tell each other everything and keep no secrets. So when she commented on the Balinese sarong wrapped around the tree stand, I went ahead told her about making a jackass out of myself at Wallmart. By the stricken look on her face, I knew immediately I'd made a mistake. She didn't want to hear any talk about this being my last Christmas.

What was I thinking? Maybe that she wouldn't have driven 900 miles on icy roads to spend our first Christmas together in ten years without a reason.   Clearly I was wrong. I felt terrible. I wanted to tell her I was sorry for talking foolishly and that the angel of doubt really doesn't pester me very often, but instead let it go.

Christmas day we had a houseful of guests, and while I was busy attending to my duties as hostess, Jano was taking pictures. I didn't know she'd been desperately trying to get my attention until she strong armed me and dragged me to the Christmas tree. "Now stand there so I can get a picture of your last Christmas."  We both howled while I adjusted my turban and posed.

I'm out of treatment now, four months in remission. Everything is looking great with the exception to my pathetically slow growing hair. When I tell my sister how much I hate it, she's surprised. "I thought you'd risen above that kind of vanity by now."

Well I had risen above it. I rose above a lot of things while walking with angels, and for that I'll be forever thankful for the experience of cancer. But with every familiar human feeling that returns, the more I know I'm back and I'm going to fight like a mad dog to stay.

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