Melody
"I’m committed to spreading the word about BRCA to anyone."
Still in the Game
Melody Breyer-Grell
“Hey,” I cried out to a young student and recent acquaintance, “could I have one of your sausages?”
Without waiting for his response, I swiped a patty off his plate and scarfed it down quickly, as if the inappropriate, intimate action would prevent the burning pain I inevitably experienced in my stomach.
My classmates were used to my occasionally eccentric behavior. Six months earlier, breaking in a new pair of shoes during my previous graduate residency (I was taking my post-menopausal MFA in Creative Writing), I tripped on the sidewalk, landing face down on the pavement and breaking my nose. Donning dark shades, I made it class the next morning, though there had been enough blood on the pavement to spark rumors of a wild shoot-out. I quickly became a legend.
Upon my return to school six months later, my wheezing lungs, dependence on Depends (suddenly having lost urinary continence), and inability to ingest a meal did not cause my colleagues much concern. Perhaps they thought it was due to my pharma-cocktail. Nor did my puffy body, pale skin, and slurred speech surprise anyone. I was merely a big, hot mess.
Despite my infirmities, I vowed to present my “scholarly” paper. Ostensibly unconcerned about my delivery, this was merely bravado that masked the insecurity shared by many “creatives.” Merely existing in survival mode, my ego flew away, disintegrating into the frozen Western Pennsylvanian air. I just needed to make it through. To abandon, at my age, yet another endeavor would brand me as a feckless dilettante.
The reading was held in the school’s historic mansion, the home of the university’s original founders. Ironically scheduled last to read, I took my place before the crowd and groped the podium. A long, billowing scarf served as my security blanket, and as if it by magic, my voice strengthened. In a flash, I realized that for once I truly didn’t care what the group thought of me—the controversial nature of my thesis buoyed me on. The embarrassment I had originally experienced when manically choosing my topic—“Obscenity and Humor in Memoir”—melted away as I enjoyed the sincere recognition of my colleagues.
The reality was that, although the residency had just begun with our readings, for me, with my failing body, it was finished. Although I doggedly followed my millennial buddy’ Angie across the elegant hallway to the days’ final event, I sat through it knowing I would not see another classroom anytime soon.
I quickly deflated akin to a Macy’s balloon--ready to pack it in--possibly to return to next year’s parade. All hopes of revisiting my youth with Angie and the new kids evaporated. My premonition of three years earlier was going to catch up with me at last. I was no longer immortal.
That night the class and staff assembled in the hotel bar. I won’t say the student body was encouraged to drink, as we were NOT, but as we were writers, there was no dissuasion of such activity. Always more interested in chocolate and Klonopin than drink, the bar was not my natural habitat, but it certainly was everyone else’s. I was wearing my heaviest sweater and my winter faux-down, full-length coat with the aforementioned scarf tied around my neck. I found my mentor standing by the bar, his eyes welcoming as I sidled by his coterie. Although weak, I was almost floating--maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain, for the white light seemed too been charging up in the heavens.
“I am out of here, Jack. Sorry, I am toast. I can’t breathe or eat…
I felt the love of my teacher, a handful of my colleagues, and my equivalent sentiment toward them, minus the often desperate narcissism which haunted my much of my life. There was life beyond my reckless individualism and I could have both friendship and a creative existence.
Swept home by my overly attentive husband, I attempted to heal on my own, but following two sips of some old-fashioned, savory chicken soup, my lungs burned and closed up, rendering me momentarily terrified. I screamed and choked the very few blocks toward the hospital, hoping my husband would not find me completely histrionic. He grabbed a cab to make it the last hundred yards to the emergency room, as I was almost finished.
The young doctor reported the results of a couple of scans and then made her pronouncement.
“I have good news and bad news,” she began. “Your lungs don’t seem to have an embolism, but your abdomen, your pelvic area, has a very large mass.”
“Benign?” I said, knowing the answer was not that. My fear, the premonition of the big C, came to pass. Cancer. I was tentatively diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer, a condition that’s almost impossible to diagnose in an early stage. In my case, it tricked me into believing that I was suffering from other organic difficulties. Instead, the hungry tumors feeding off my body’s resources were the cause of all my respiratory and digestive dysfunction. Dreading any type of treatment, I asked the doctor if I could just take painkillers and fade away. Shocked by my request, she warned that if I did not shrink the tumors with chemo, my passing would be anything but peaceful, as I would drown in the liquid that caused my recent distress.
So much for becoming resigned to my disease. Following genetic testing, I was found to carry BRCA — a genetic flaw that appears mostly (but not exclusively) in the Ashkenazi Jewish population, affecting both men and women
While I’m still in an early stage of treatment, I seem to be improving, thanks to the extensive research geared toward BRCA. I’m committed to spreading the word about BRCA to anyone. Once again, I have found something else to make noise about, and I will continue to do so, hoping to serve others as I continue to orate, true to my inborn vocation.
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