Part Six - The Proposal

I am back in Fells Point, Baltimore. This time with my daughter, Ling, the world's best son-in-law, Pete, and our two dogs. It is the beginning of spring. The sun is warm and the air is refreshingly crisp. It is easy to distract ourselves from the reason we are here, as we mindlessly meander uneven cobblestone streets brimming with hip restaurants, festive pubs, boutiques, and galleries.

It's been 10 years since I was treated for cancer at Johns Hopkins Hospital. So much has changed since then. Both dogs that accompanied me, and gave me so much love and emotional support, have died and I am down another husband (due to divorce, not death). The treatment I received then was humbling and humiliating - four consecutive days of internal, high-dose rectal radiation, three surgeries, and a battery of tests. I lost count of how many people had their fingers up my ass or how many times I was sodomized by the radiation "wand."

After the surgical placement of radioactive seeds around my tumor, a team of medical professionals inserted the wand, estimated the correct position, and then scurried out of the room to X-ray me. The X-ray showed the correlation between the seeds that surround the tumor and the placement of the wand. More often than not, they would get it wrong - too far in, too far out, too far left, too far right - which meant they needed to hustle back in, remove the wand, and reposition it. I don't know what bothered me more, the fact that they performed this abrupt pull-out and reinsertion without so much as a dinner invitation, or that they left me alone on a table, with a wand up my ass, during the X-ray process.

After day two I asked for lorazepam. A lot of it. And lubrication. Prior to this diagnosis, I wasn't accustomed to having objects shoved up my ass, so the process was... unpleasant.

This is now my reference point when considering ongoing cancer treatments or any diagnostic measures. "Do you have to shove anything up my ass?" I ask. If not, whatever they have in store for me doesn't seem so bad.

At the time, internal radiation therapy was new for rectal cancer. The research came from McGill University in Canada. I was the 16th person in the United States to receive it. I need to pause here to remember, with love and gratitude, Ricky, who found the trial and forwarded it to me. I met Ricky through my blog back in 2012. She too was diagnosed with breast cancer and like me, was disfigured by "Dick Dock," Memorial Sloan Kettering's chief plastic surgeon. Sadly, Ricky lost her battle with cancer in 2017.

The tumor was undetectable after the radiation but I elected to go ahead with the surgery so they could prove I had a complete pathological response. It also gave me peace of mind. But if I could do it all over, I would have elected not to have 18 inches of my large intestines, including the sigmoid section of my colon and rectum, removed.  It also meant I would be sporting a stoma (and the dreaded "bag") for 9 months until my chemotherapy treatment was complete. Once recovered, I'd be back for another surgery, this time they would use part of my colon to create a faux rectum. What they didn't focus on (or I blocked from my memory), was quality of life issues - a condition known as LARS (lower anterior resection syndrome) - that I would face for the rest of my life. For more information on LARS feel free to Google, but trust me when I tell you, I am a high-stakes gambler every time I pull on a pair of white pants.  

Because how we react to situations shows the true spirit and character of someone, this is one of those situations I am most proud of.  After tossing my husband (whom I loved very much) out of the house for his online fantasy infidelity, and after surgery left me with a stoma and an underlying, bulbous hernia that I called, "my baby head," I was one chemo treatment in when I traveled to New Orleans with my daughter, two of her friends, and my best monkey friend, to celebrate Halloween. I wore a black pleather, naughty nurse outfit with snaps down the front. Underneath, I spirit-glued grotesque, faux scars over my real mastectomy scars, and wore black Spanx boy shorts to cover my dreaded bag. All night long I ripped open my dress and watched people gawk at my mangled breasts. I was also pushing the arrest button, knowing it is illegal to expose your breasts in New Orleans if you are a woman and if (this is the important part) you have nipples. But my nipples are also faux, as is my areola, so I'm free to taunt my faux foobs up and down Bourbon Street. 

Mr. Jones continues to text and call during my time at Fells Point. Noticeably absent is Airport Man. 

"They postponed my PET scan," I text Airport Man. 

"It's back on for 3:00 pm," I update him hours later. 

When the procedure finally begins, I text him a picture of the radioactive vile of glucose being injected into my arm. 

Still no response. 

This is the first time I recognize a pattern. If things get heavy, he disappears - reappearing 24 to 48 hours later with an upbeat, obnoxiously positive text that avoids the situation altogether.

"How is the weather there?" He asks the following day.

As hard and illogical as it is for me to admit, I need him. I need him to distract me from my cancer. Even with the tenderness sent my way by Mr. Jones, it's Airport Man I want. 

"Listen, Sweetheart, you're going to marry me," Mr. Jones announces over the phone after the PET scan is over. "You're going to be fine. I'll make sure of it. You'll get the best treatment available and I'll never leave your side."

"I can't marry you," I tell him, "I'm dating someone." 

"He doesn't count," Mr. Jones counters, "He's already married!" I have been honest with Mr. Jones from the beginning, and he has been completely transparent with me. 

Ling and Pete do their best to keep me focused on having fun and I am grateful for the love, dedication, and support they show me. 

We have a long, liquid lunch at the outdoor bar at Sagamore Pendry - a luxurious, recently restored, 1914 building that is now a five-star hotel in the heart of downtown Baltimore's, Recreation Pier. 

"You don't need a man, Mama. You have us," Ling reminds me. 

"Mr. Jones asked me to marry him," I tell her. 

"You can't marry him!" she insists. 

Maybe we will get married here, I imagine, letting my Calgon Moment take me away.

To be continued...

Part Five - Me and Mr. Jones

  We have a thing..... going on. 

In the spring of 2019, I was hyper-focused on 3 days of Peace, Love & Music - the upcoming golden anniversary of Woodstock. As the date grew closer, plans for the event shifted, including the location and musicians that would perform. Eventually, everything was canceled. This worked out perfectly for me since I 'accidentally' bought a block of tickets, at an inflated price, from a third-party scalper, and cancelation of the event was my only shot at redemption. 

This left Bethel Woods Center for the Arts, the grounds of the original Woodstock when the land was owned by farmer Max Yasgur, the only ticket in town to host this once-in-a-lifetime, 50-year celebration. 

The three-day commemoration highlighted performances by Woodstock '69 artists including a hello from Melanie, and music by Arlo Guthrie, Edgar Winter, Santana, and John Fogerty. Other performers including, Ringo Starr, The Doobie Brothers, Blood Sweat and Tears, Grace Potter, and The Tedeschi Trucks Band played songs that were originally performed at Woodstock.

I arrived early Saturday, dressed to frolic with fellow Woodstock worshipers, in a faded t-shirt, tattered jeans, and a teal blue wig adorned with a crown of feathers, flowers, and horns.

When the evening grew closer and the rain set in, I found shelter in one of the craft tents. Here, a woman of similar age approached me and asked if I was single. Not knowing where this was going but inebriated to the point of being intrigued, I let her know my heart was wide open. 

"Don't move," she said. "I want you to meet my friend. He's going to love you," she assured me, "And," she added, "He's a great catch." 

Two sips of my drink later, she returned with a tall, trim, clean-cut, prominent-looking man that she clearly lionized. Dressed in pressed jeans and a crisp, new tie-dye shirt, he looked out of character and stiff.

He stood like a bull before me - his eyes focused, his breath strong and steady. Under a halo of fluorescent lighting meant to illuminate art, he leaned in and gently kissed me.

"Come with me," he said, taking me by the hand and leading me toward the main stage inside the amphitheater.

Noone challenged us as we weaved our way past checkpoints, ushers, and security, to fourth-row center seats. "You can sit on my lap," he prompted, then cradled me in his arms.

I stayed in his arms while Carlos Santana introduced his wife on drums - Cindy Blackman Santana. I stayed in his arms as they played Black Magic Woman. Like hippies from the 60's, we entangled ourselves in laughter and kisses while Carlo's guitar strings sang Europa.

We stayed until the start of the encore - until this big cat leaned in and said, "I have to go, Sweetheart. Call me sometime," then handed me his card. 

A game of cat and mouse pursued - he, too preoccupied with his life to hunt, and me, patiently waiting to pounce.

It would be several months before we met again, this time at a history New York City mid-town landmark - a former piano bar dating back to the 1930s, appropriately named the Monkey Bar. Rumor has it, the mirrored paneling mimicked the scandalous behavior of its prohibition patrons ("Monkey see, Monkey do"). In the 1950's the mirrors were replaced with spectacular hand-painted monkey murals by caricaturist Charlie Wala. This was also where, in my 40s, a man caught my heart and I knocked it out of his hands when I discovered, months later, that he was married (aka, Mr. Wonderful).

The plan was simple, drinks then dinner. He would stay at the adjoining hotel, Elysee, and I, like Cinderella, had a midnight car service scheduled. 

He paced outside the restaurant, engulfed in a plume of smoke as he sucked on a Marlboro red. I was 35 minutes late.

I caught his look of confusion when I stepped out of the town car - my hair now chestnut brown and short, my eyes shielded in tortuous shell glasses, my body conservatively dressed in a loose-fitting, tiger print cashmere sweater, cropped wide-legged black merino wool pants, and ankle-high black crocodile, stiletto-heal boots.

He greeted me pensively, tossed his lit cigarette on the ground, and ushered me inside. With a warmth I expected for me, he smiled at the maitre d', greeted him by name then pressed a one-hundred-dollar bill into his palm. "Booth in the back, Francisco," he said with a tight-lipped smile.

He drank bourbon straight through dinner. Then had a double for dessert.

When it was time for the check he told Francisco he wanted two, crisp menus as souvenirs. The flip side of the menu illustrated two, finely dressed monkeys gliding down 54th Street - tails raised high and proud. 

As the waiter handed him the menus, he leaned in and whispered, "Don't leave. You have your own room." When I hesitated he added, "I made reservations at Tavern on the Green for breakfast."

We never made it to breakfast. A tour of my room included a make-out session that ended abruptly when he offered too much information. 

"Last time I was with a woman..." he boasted.

Oh please stop, I thought, my disapproval punctuated by my furrowed brows. 

"I had a heart attack while she was giving me a blow job," he added. 

"Oh hell NO! Please stop," I insisted. This time out loud. 

"If she didn't give me mouth to mouth, I'd be dead," He elaborated. 

"Way too much information," I said. This time, even louder. 

"Guess I got my money's worth," he chuckled - suggesting this was a paid service.

"You're obviously wealthy enough but not healthy enough for sexual activity," I snapped. 

I spent the night alone in a crisp, king-sized bed. 

We shared complimentary coffee in the lobby the next morning. He left in his oversized red pickup truck before my driver arrived. Neither of us waved goodbye.

For the next four years, we would exchange random, meaningless, late-night texts. Without fail, the morning after, I would review our thread and delete it.

I was seated solo at the Monteleone's revolving carousel bar, located in the lobby of the same haunted hotel where I left Charlie just days before - enjoying one final drink in New Orleans before heading to the reality of home, when my phone buzzed.

"How you doing, Sweetheart?" he texted.

I briefly considered ignoring him but a mid-day text from Mr. Jones was out of character.

"I'm in New Orleans," I answered. 

"Good for you," he texted, then added, "I've been thinking about you."

I don't remember if I told him over a text or a call, but he attached himself to me the moment I released the words, "I have cancer, again."

Unlike Airport Man, Mr. Jones wanted to know everything about my illness. Unlike Good Time Charlie, distance did not deter him. And to my surprise, I let him in. 

At his urging, I sent him copies of my medical documents, names of doctors, and even my daughter's contact information. "If I can't get ahold of you I need to know you're alright," he insisted.

When I told him I was headed to Baltimore in two days for a PET scan at Johns Hopkins, he offered to take me. When I told him I was driving down with my daughter and son-in-law, he offered to meet me there and take us to dinner. When I checked into the hotel there was a large bouquet of flowers waiting for me at the front desk. The card read, "Thinking of you. Love always, Mr. Jones." When I texted him a picture of the flowers he was annoyed by the arrangement and sent a second. This time the card read, "With all my love. I hope you have a wonderful day today. Thinking of you always. Love, Jimmy Jones."

Jimmy Jones... it was a moment that felt as 'big' as when Big's name was revealed on Sex and the City. 

He must have told me before, right? I thought. I wouldn't have agreed to meet a man for dinner not knowing his first name? I wouldn't have stayed semi-connected to someone for four years not knowing his first name?

But I swear, if he told me before, I completely forgot.

To be continued...