I stare at the table with the blue top. Will they put a tablecloth on it for the wedding? I try to focus by imagining what the round blue-topped table would look like covered with an immaculate white tablecloth. I try my hardest to avoid Dragoș's gaze, but I can feel him staring at me insistently. He is talking to me, but his words reach my ears as if through water, distorted and muffled.
– What did the doctor say?
I try to think of how to phrase it so it does not sound dramatic, but my mind is clearly not on my side. I answer flatly:
– That I have cancer.
The dining hall slowly starts spinning before my eyes. The girl from the hotel, who is helping us choose the wedding menu, has gone white in the face. This is exactly the kind of drama I wished never to live through. Not a third time.
When I got cancer in my left breast, at 24, I understood nothing of what was happening to me. I did not perceive the danger. Chemotherapy wore me down, I hated myself while I was bald – myself and everyone around me, for that matter. But I was not afraid.
When I got the second one, in my right breast, 12 years later, I already had a child, and that is when I learned fear. Total panic that I would be gone and I did not know what would happen to my child. Terror that she would be frightened of me while I was in treatment.
Now all the fear has come back; I feel it shrinking my stomach with a burning, nauseous sensation. I feel my surgery instantly starting to hurt. My double mastectomy is fresh, less than a month old. I stubbornly wanted to have it, to start my second chance at love in life the right way – so the man would know what he was taking for a wife.
But a third breast cancer was never part of the script. Dragoș looks at me, frozen. I pull myself together, straighten my back and tell the girl who is with us:
– No fish, but definitely with sarmale — there is no wedding without sarmale.
I can feel her pity when she asks me:
– With peppers and polenta?
I deeply appreciate that she agreed to play the game of "actually, nothing happened". I stand up and say:
– Then everything is agreed, you send us the quote and we pay the deposit within three days!
Dragoș follows me. I know he does not know what to say. I do not know what to say either. I get in the car and answer the unspoken question:
– To the hospital!
We get there in 10 minutes. I know the way with my eyes closed; I head for the long hallway that leads to the laboratory reception. I say my name and receive the paper. I sign, and as if with that signature I let all my strength drain out of me, I sit down.
I read it slowly. I do not understand absolutely everything, but I understand enough. Over the past 14 years, I have learned so much medicine that I could take it as a second degree. I take a photo and send it to my doctor on WhatsApp. She calls me right away — she knew the results were coming today. I skip the greetings and pleasantries and ask her directly:
– What are the chances?
She does not spare my feelings; we have never played that game between the two of us.
– 50/50. If you have metastases: two years. If not, we shall see!
I have never understood why doctors think "We shall see!" could ever reassure anyone. But I know nothing more is possible today; I have grown practiced at uncertainty. I ask her:
– And what do I do now?
– A PET-CT scan to see if you have metastases. Either way, you need to start chemo as soon as possible.
The pressure is too much and, on top of that, even if I just see an IV drip on television, nausea starts churning my stomach. I am almost certain I am going to throw up. I stand up and take a deep breath.
– Will you book the PET-CT appointment, or shall I?
– I will do it, since you need a file. I will call you tomorrow with the date.
I sit back down and let my tense shoulders drop. I become aware that Dragoș is there and I look at him. He takes me in his arms and, at last, tears start streaming from my eyes, accompanied by sobs. I stop abruptly and pull myself out of the embrace. I look him straight in the eye and ask him directly:
– What do we do about the wedding?
He does not hesitate for a second.
– We go ahead.
The tears keep running down my face. I do not want to go home and have my child see me like this.
Suddenly I remember I have a fitting for my wedding dress. I wanted so badly to get in with this seamstress, and fitting appointments are so hard to come by, that missing one would be a small disaster. I compose myself and say:
– Off to the dress!
He looks at me in astonishment but says nothing. He just gets up and we both walk to the car on autopilot. Mrs Gabi is, as always, busy. She hurries me to undress and pulls the work-in-progress wedding dress of lilac French lace over me. It is stunningly beautiful.
– Are we closing the back today? she asks me.
My strength has reached its limit. I burst out sobbing and shout between hiccups:
– No, because I have cancer again and I will be doing chemo and my belly will swell and I will not fit into it anymore!
Mrs Gabi remains professional and composed. She does not look at me or at the mascara running down my face in generous streaks. She puts a few pins in her mouth and starts basting.
Finally, she looks at me:
– No worries, we will fix it with lace! There is no belly that cannot be hidden with quality lace!
I do not know whether to laugh or cry. I stare at her dumbfounded, but she is serious to her fingertips. She takes all the measurements she needs and hands me the dress I came in. Only as I leave does she look into my eyes, and I hear the warmth in her voice:
– No worries! We will fix everything with lace!
Ten days later, I am sitting with my PET-CT file in the chair opposite the doctor there. I am treated to the delicious question:
– What is your medical history?
I hold back the answer sitting on the tip of my tongue – "How much time do you have?" – and start listing my cancers and their characteristics. I am much calmer. Not that I have made peace with the thought, but today, of all days, is my birthday.
I am turning 39 and I received a gorgeous cake, which I cannot taste until tonight, and yet I do not break down crying as I tell my story. I even give her extra explanations:
– My request is that you give me the results as quickly as possible. Whatever they are, I have to do chemo, and in exactly 15 days I will be a bride. I need to have chemo early enough not to feel sick at the wedding, but close enough to the event that I still get to throw the bouquet and not my hair bun.
I try to laugh through the trouble, but the woman in front of me does not much appreciate my humour. I am sure she knows as well as I do that after the first chemo session I have at most 10 days until I am bald as a lightbulb again. Her answer, however, leaves me open-mouthed:
– With this medical file, someone still turned up to marry you?
I choose to believe she is simply carrying on my joke, and I answer with a smile:
– I will introduce him to you on the way out; he is waiting in the hallway!
The PET-CT takes a whole day. It is not painful, but the contrast agent needs to stay in the body until it becomes visible. I wait calmly. It annoys me that I cannot answer calls, only messages. Many people close to me wish me "Happy birthday" — in Romanian, literally "many years" — and that is exactly the wish I need as often as possible today.
The hours pass one after another; other patients go by me. It is already close to closing time and I am the last one left. They scanned my body five hours ago, but they still have not let me go. And I am so hungry I could scream. The doctor appears with the file. She smiles at me.
– I have a present for your birthday! And for the wedding!
I look at her full of hope and see her nodding.
– Zero metastases!
Without thinking, I throw my arms around her neck:
– Thank you! Thank you so much!
I leave jumping for joy and find Dragoș in the waiting room. After I came out of the machine, he was no longer allowed to stay with me because I, and everyone around me, was heavily irradiated. I give him the good news and watch his face and eyes light up. He takes my hand and we walk out with the smiles of winners from the hospital that smells of illness and death.
I will not tell you about the chemo. I see no reason why anyone would ever want to experience such a thing, even just in their imagination. Nor do I want to write about the wedding. It was beautiful. I felt loved and happy beside the important people in my life. I drank tequila as if the end of the world were coming. I danced with abandon, tossing the lilac French lace train over my shoulder with a gesture more bear than princess, but not for one moment did I pretend this was some modern fairy tale.
It is four in the morning and I am sitting in the bathtub of the hotel room. Dragoș has fallen asleep in bed; he was dead tired. I am shivering, but I am glad the wedding ended well, that I had hair, that I did not faint, that I did not throw up. It is the warmest night of the year and my teeth are chattering at such a frantic pace that I fear they will shatter. For a moment I think of calling an ambulance, but it is hard for me to get out of the tub. I let some hot water run over me and, all of a sudden, I burst out laughing. I think to myself that I have gone from the ball to the hospital and back.
And with that laughter I gather my strength and tell myself that the ball is better after all, so I put on the thick bathrobe and go to bed.
Maybe my life will still mean journeys between the ball and the hospital, but as long as I can still laugh, I will always find the strength to return to the ball.
— Agatha Peptea, Dantelă vs Chimio 1-0