The Call

          As a writer seeking to sell a long work, I’ve heard these words repeatedly: “Keep going because someday you’ll get a call that will change your life.” Believing this has sustained me in the dozen years since I eased away from business writing and started writing for myself. 

The universe has spoken. Over spring break, I got the call that will change my life. I was with my family at Disneyland, the happiest place on earth.

Let me paraphrase what the caller said: “You have breast cancer.”

          I feel anger. Not about the cancer, but about the writing. After the initial shock of the diagnoses, my emotions have puddled in that tender spot. What the hell am I doing, spending years of my life waiting for someone to acknowledge me? I’m weary of sending out my novel and screenplays to agents and editors and competitions and getting “no,” “not at this time” or “sorry, but we’re unable to use.” I’m tired of people who request my work and don't bother to read it -- or to read it in its entirety. I’m tired of powers-that-be unable to see what I’m made of and unwilling to partner in publishing. Most of all, I’m tired of no audience.

So accept my apologies, but I can’t go and listen to your book reading tonight or tomorrow or next week. I’m tired of being overlooked. I’m scared that when all is said and done, my life’s work will amount to a file cabinet of ad copy, catalog blurbs and workplace stories along with a sad assortment of journals, some published short pieces and a sheath of jottings and scribbles.     

Here’s my truth: my novel and my screenplays are worthy of being published or optioned. Here’s my other truth: I don’t feel bitter about the cancer.

I’ve been healthy for 57 years. I was healthy when neighbors around the corner lost their little boy. I was healthy when a parent my age (whom I had planned to get to know better) succumbed to a rare cancer in a little over a month’s time. I was healthy when one of my best friend’s sons was diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma at age 18 and another friend’s daughter with pancreatic cancer about the same time. I’ve been healthy while my sister-in-law struggled with colon cancer and another with digestive disease. I’ve been healthy while people around me have soldiered through one health challenge after another. I’ve been lucky in all ways health.

It appears it’s simply my turn to face this challenge.    

So far my prognosis is good. My annual mammogram caught the spots early and thus far, they’re limited to one side. The oncologist says, “I will cure you, but the next year will be a test.”  There’s chemo, starting this week, followed by a mastectomy and then radiation. I look at it as The Hero’s Journey, the mythological structure inherent in stories since the start of time. 

I got the Call to Adventure at Disney after waiting an hour for the pre-scheduled call on a sunny bench in a relatively quiet corner of Frontier land. I’ve Refused the Call a number of times since, starting the night I nuzzled close to my husband and whispered in his ear, “I’m scared.” I've met kindly and capable Mentors at Good Samaritan Hospital and Oregon Health Science University (OHSU) in Portland. They include a surgeon, an oncologist, a nurse coordinator and a deep soul who drew my blood and said she’d pray for me. I’ve had chest x-rays and in-depth nuclear imaging; the cat scan and bone scan come tomorrow.

I’m prepping to Cross the Threshold into a new place. I’ve been concerned about the Threshold Guardians, a.k.a. the insurance company. They’re big scary beings, especially when you’re self-employed, access medical care infrequently and have high deductible insurance. I’ve been working at containing my worry.

My greatest fear is they'll say: "sorry, Gail, you don’t get the chemo. You don’t get to live." I can’t bear to hear another “no” or “not at this time” or “sorry, but we’re unable to…” and I’m shocked how desperately I want that chemo. I’m shocked how quickly I’ve got my head around the C word. How easy it is to agree to fill one's body with chemicals, having a body part lopped off and to radiate one's flesh.  All I want is to get on with the journey. 

I couldn't bear to make the insurance authorization call so my husband made it for me.   

For now at least, we got a ‘yes.’ Thursday, I enter the Special World of chemo.

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