Part Four - Button Down Blues

With champagne on ice, Charlie reaches into his backpack and pulls out an XXL, slim fit, navy blue, dress shirt with pearl-white buttons. Like him, it is timeless.

"Try this on," he says. "It's my favorite."

The room is the perfect balance of old and new. Crown molding and high ceilings accented by sweeping silk curtains and king-sized, luxurious bedding in hushed tones of French blue.

I step into the bathroom and set off low, ambiance lighting. Door shut, I undress slowly and stare at my tempered reflection in the mirror. His shirt feels like home on my skin. 

He stands tall and proud - undressed at the foot of the bed. His hair is tousled. It is my first glance at his tanned, tight body. I pause to watch his chest slowly heave. He smiles and I blush.

This southern California surfer boy left the beach long enough to obtain a law degree and a master's in literature.

"Where have you been all my life," he asks. "East Coast baby," I tell him. "Ah... Biggie territory," he says.

Like me, Good Time Charlie worships music and his taste is as vast and as varied as mine. 

He pours two glasses of champagne, sets them on the side table, then climbs onto the bed - positioning himself upright, in the center of a mound of down pillows.

"You wear my shirt well," he says, then pulls me towards him. And I believe him.

He runs his hands through my hair, pausing to lift the collar of the shirt. It brushes against my neck and I quiver.

We toast to us, two coasts colliding, and as I lift the crystal-fluted glass to my lips, I mutter, "I have cancer." 

He wipes my tears away, but my fear consumes me. He wraps his body around me, but my fear consumes me.

He cradles me until his breath deepens, and his mouth parts. He sleeps peacefully beside me but I am unable to rest. My fear consumes me. 

I stay until the sun slowly rises. 

"I have to go," I whisper, kissing him gently.

"Don't," he pleads. But I am already gone. My fear consumes me.

"Was it the ghost?" he asks. 

Throughout the night, while we lay motionless in bed, censor-controlled lights flicker from inside the closet, from low corners of the room, from under the bed, and from inside the bathroom. At one point, classic, concerto music could be heard coming from a ceiling-mounted speaker in the shower. 

This paranormal activity does not frighten me. Will death silence me, I wonder.

He insists I take his shirt. I hold it like a prize I didn't earn. And leave.

I walk the four blocks down Royal Street to my hotel - careful to stay out of the spray and step over the puddles from ongoing street washing. The room I share with Robin and Jeanie is darkened by blackout curtains when I quietly step in. 

Here, I do not struggle. I am not undone by my fear. I am free to let my angst settle. Here, I am softened and soothed, loved and accepted.

I am not used to high-quality men, I remind them. But they know my dating patterns better than I do. 

After the divorce of my third husband - ending a 20-year relationship, 13 of those in marriage - I gave myself the time and space to learn how to love myself and adjust to living without a man for the first time in my life. Then I dove, head first, into familiar, shallow waters.

One man, a devout catholic and lover of the arts, particularly ballet, recently revealed that he is gay. This explains why that "spark" was missing. Another was not willing or able to communicate emotions - an avoidance trait my ex-husband mastered. 

The rest never evolved past a date or two, but they certainly were memorable. 

Lou, a brawny man who had 10 drinks during our first date, became overly concerned when I stood on a two-foot tall stone wall that bordered the parking lot as we exited the restaurant. Against my wishes, he picked me up to remove me from the dangers of a two-foot tall stone wall, dropped me onto the pavement, and fell on top of me - fracturing my sacrum in two places. 

Randy was in the music business. After a few dates where things didn't progress past a quick kiss goodnight, I invited him to my house for a homecooked meal. Halfway through the beef bourguignon, he vanished. Later, I discovered $311.00 cash on my bedside table. I never heard from Randy again but days later realized I was missing multiple pairs of my Wolford panties. I am uncertain if they were clean or dirty but I no longer buy expensive panties, instead, like everyone else I shop on Amazon. 

On my first date with Richard, he insisted I call him Dick. This didn't fit. His profile name was Richard and everything about Richard was refined and proper. There was a picture of Richard in a double-breasted navy blazer and paisley bow tie, one in a seersucker suit, and one in pajamas sipping coffee. Not sexy jammies, showing off six-pack abs - this was a pajama set with matching top and bottoms in navy with white piping.

Richard's plan was for me to meet him on his turf, in a neighboring New York village, but after reviewing this idea with a close friend, and cofounder of our, "How to Pick the Wrong Man," club, I changed course and asked him to meet me in town and I would drive us to a private beach in Old Greenwich to watch the sunset.

"I'll pick up a guest pass," I told Richard. 

"I'll bring the wine," he offered. "What do you like to drink?" he asked. 

"Oaky, California Chardonnay," I say.

He showed up wearing a circa 1990, faded pink polo shirt and loose-fitting, Nantucket red shorts - a color combination that instantly made me nauseous.

We set up chairs along the rocky, eastern shoreline and he opened his bottle of wine. 

"No chardonnay grapes in this," he boasted, then poured two glasses of a fruity, Sauvenign Blanc.

Richard talked about his work. I asked how his wife died, as his profile stated he was a widower. 

"Lung cancer, 4 years ago. I am raising our daughter on my own. She is 20 and an amazing student...(more about the daughter and her accomplishments)." 

When he finally took a breath I asked, "What kind of lung cancer?" 

"Oh, I don't know," Richard said, annoyed by my questioning. 

"Did she suffer long?" I asked. 

"No, it was quick," he answered. 

Halfway through the bottle, and with a hazy overcast that removed any chance of catching a fiery sunset, Richard felt compelled to discuss one of his sexual escapades.

"The first woman I brought to my bed after my wife died (as though there is a line of women waiting), opened my wife's bedside table (who does that?), and saw hundreds of sticky notes with little sayings she wrote over the years."

Finally, Richard had something interesting to say.

"What were they about?" I questioned. 

"Nothing important," he said. 

"What did you do with them?" I asked. "I'm sure your daughter would love to read them." 

"I put them all in a garbage bag and tossed them," he said. 

For the rest of the date, I remained mostly silent as he elaborated on the women he dated, how important he is, and the responsibilities of his job. 

How could he throw the sticky notes away, I thought. And how does he not know what kind of lung cancer his wife died from?

As we headed down the home stretch to his car, Richard turned in my direction to say, "You are very negative, Shannon."  

I am so floored by his statement that I pull my car over and ask him to repeat it, convinced I heard him wrong. When he repeats the same words, I give him the direction he clearly needs,

"Get out of the car, DICK!" 

"What?" he asks. 

"You heard me. GET... OUT... OF... THE CAR, DICK!!!!" Repeat. 

Pulling away, I glance at the rearview mirror and see a pathetic man, in poorly matched clothing, holding an empty bottle of subpar wine.

Now I get it. Dick suits him well.

There was the personal injury lawyer who showed me pictures of dead things on his phone during our first date. This included a dead woman whose face had been eaten off by her shih tzu. He showed me this after oysters and before the halibut. These were pictures he stored in his iPhone. I have pictures of myself, concerts, flowers, friends and family. Everything in my phone is alive.

Booty Call lives dangerously close - on the other side of the river. I initially thought this was a great idea until he started showing up unannounced. Once he showed up drunk, playing air guitar and singing Elton John songs at the top of his lungs. Another time he showed up in bike shorts. This ruined it for me. I think it was the ass padding or the way his shorts hugged his crotch. Or maybe it was his helmet. I also learned that everyone knew him in our sleepy little neighborhood and no one liked him. Not even the waiters and bartenders from our neighboring restaurant. Once, we were having drinks at a local pub when the bartender leaned over and said, "He's a total asshole."

Mr. Basketball was the exception. Polite, attentive, generous, engaging, and nice. Too nice. The kind of man I could destroy if given the chance and I was in the middle of a string of losses and couldn't process this new game strategy. 

And then, there is Mr. Jones. 

To Be Continued...

Part Three - Good Time Charlie

                                                                                

We are curbside, car idling. We are early. Abbey, my sweet Cavalier, hangs halfway out the front, passenger side window, wagging her tail at everyone who walks by. "That's not him, that's not him," I say, convinced she has no idea why we are here.

She knows exactly why we are here. We are waiting for the man who throws the ball, inside the house, over and over again. The man who gets down on the floor and crawls under the furniture to retrieve her ball. The man, who I suspect, gives her a sampling of our food when I'm not looking. She knows exactly why we are here. We are waiting for HER man to arrive.

She sees him first. He greets her first and I'm jealous. 

The next four days move quickly. Before, we set the pace. Before, we were able to slow time down enough to fit our needs. Our mornings in bed lingered. Our nights stretched from moonlight til dawn. 

Before, we were social. He met people who were important to me. Before, we cooked - he the chef, me his sous-chef. This time, I don't remember what we ate. 

Midway through his stay we take Abbey for a hike at a nature preserve and get lost. I blame the boy scouts for poor trail marking. He blames our sense of direction. Abbey doesn't care which way we go.  She is in woodlands full of fresh scents. She is with her man. 

We don't talk about cancer, or treatment, or doctors, or tests. I don't tell him how I met with my accountant and lawyer. How I am trying to transfer my security license to my daughter. I don't tell him about the playlist and photo album I made in preparation for my funeral. I don't tell him how I won't buy another jar of expensive face cream - how I'm using up all the old, expired bottles. I don't tell him how frightened I am. 

And just like that, we are curbside again. His bright blue luggage is by his side. Abbey hangs halfway out the front passenger side window and I stand curbside, arms wrapped around him. Our gaze is locked. 

An elderly woman in a wheelchair is ushered towards us. The soft locks of her silver-gray hair bounce in the breeze.  In unison, we step aside to make room for her to pass and she cackles, "Hope your wife doesn't find out." 

He stiffens. I drop my arms and step back.

How does she know?

The following day I am curbside again, this time headed to New Orleans. Robin is flying in from Philadelphia and Jeanie from California. Together, with my cousin Janie, who resides in New Orleans, we plan a party in the French Quarter. We will be silly and sassy - eat rich, spicy food, and drink tequila and absinthe. 

On the plane, a distinguished-looking man sits beside me - greeting me with a smile. We strike up a conversation and somewhere over Atlanta, he asks for my number. I tell him I'm seeing someone. "That does not deter me," he says. "I have cancer," I say. He responds the same way. We exchange numbers with the intention of meeting up for dinner when I return. 

Airport Man is married, I remind myself. And I am running out of time.

I don't know the type of sarcoma I have - the biopsy is not ample enough to determine this - and I won't know if it's spread until I have a PET scan, but I do know this is not curable. I want to live as big as I can until I can't. I cough with the fear that the cancer has spread to my lungs. I lift my arms to ease the heat from under them, convinced the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes. A friend, who is a medical professional, explains palliative care. 

We work our way down Bourbon Street, to Lafitee's Blacksmith House - the oldest bar in the country. I am seated in an open window when a tall man with white, flowing hair walks by. "Now there is a woman I'd like to get to know," he says to his friend and points at me. "Then ask for my number," I say. I'm bolder now that I have cancer again. I'm not used to this much male attention and wonder if cancer has a pheromone. 

On a napkin, Janie writes lyrics to what will certainly be a hit song...

4.27.2023 Shannon, Robin, Jeanie & Me

ABBY

She stumbled down the hallway of my mind.

Hips swaying from side to side. 

She's all hair

All boops and all hips

And she doesn't believe she is beautiful... 

We hang a hard left out of Lafitee's, then a right down Royal Street to FiFi Mahony's - a fabulous wig boutique. I've had enough tequila to make the mint green, whimsical wig with horns work but instead, settle on a playful, strawberry blonde wispy bob and dress it up a bit.

I text my daughter a picture of me in my new wig. "You've been wearing the same shirt for 3 days," she says. "Are you alright?"

The young woman who was once obsessed with her split ends is now hyper-focused on me. She is my primary caregiver, my emergency contact, and my main reason to live.

Later that evening, Charlie sends a text asking if we can get together for dinner.

"Remind me what you look like," I ask. 

He sends a picture. It's an artsy, black-and-white professional headshot. Serial dater, I think. "Handsome," I text.

I agree to meet him for a nightcap. "I'm incognito," I tell him. "I'd spot you anywhere," he says - not knowing I'm wearing a wig. 

We meet at a courtyard in the French Quarter by a flaming fountain. He tells me he has a gift for me and hands me a penny. "It's a lucky penny," he tells me. "I found it today, then dropped it. It rolled under a table but I got it back for you."

Charlie doesn't know that I have cancer and that good luck is exactly what I need. Charlie doesn't know that pennies are all about my son, Kerry - his way of letting me know that he is near. Charlie doesn't understand the coincidence of today's date - the 27th  - and how 27's are all about Kerry. 

I sit on his lap and run my fingers through his hair. It is soft and sexy. After several cocktails, he walks me back to my hotel and we make plans to meet up at the Jazz Fest the following day. He is polite. I am prudent.

At the Jazz Fest, my crew intertwines with his crew - we are three, they are two. He towers over me, beside me, beneath me - on the lawn he is my chair, in the blaze of the sun he is my shade. He never leaves my side.

There is so much I like about Charlie. His mind clicks fast and his moves are steady. He is a welcome distraction from my angst.

And Airport Man is married. And I am running out of time. 

"Meet me after dinner?" he asks the following day.

"Reserve a suite at the Hotel Monteleone, " I boldly say. "Bring something for me to wear and champagne."

Charlie doesn't know that my torso is carved up more than a Thanksgiving turkey, that my breasts are reconstructed and have no sensation, that my nipples are masterly molded from pig cadaver skin (or human, I can't remember), that I have a chemo port scar off-set by the long stretch of a melanoma scar, that what looks like areolas are faded, 3D tattoos, that my upper inner thigh has an impressive wound from a dog attack, that I am on my third bellybutton and have no rectum, that I had 18 inches of my large intestines removed - the rest are sandwiched together with mesh. And that I am shy.

He stands proudly in the center of the lobby, poised below two massive chandeliers and overshadowing a grand, grandfather clock. He is cradling a bottle of Crytal. There is a small backpack at his feet and I have no luggage. We greet each other ardently before heading to the elevator. "Our suite is newly renovated," he tells me.

We enter the elevator - a warm belly of mahogany with well-polished marble floors and brass, art deco fixtures. He presses the button for the 15th floor but the doors only close halfway. And then open. And then close. And then open again.

"The hotel is haunted," I say. 

The 14th floor, (really the 13th floor), is known for being haunted. During the late 1800s, the Begere family - regular guests at the Hotel Monteleone - were attending the opera when their toddler son passed away from a fever while in his Nanny's care. Throughout the years guests have reported seeing a friendly ghost on the 14th floor - the same floor that the International Society for Paranormal Research determined to be a hotbed of paranormal activity. 

"But we are on the 15th floor," I tell him. "We will be fine."

To be continued ...

Part Two - Blue Suitcase

As Airport Man begins his journey home, I begin a journey of my own.                                                        

I book an appointment with a local orthopedic and after examing the small lump on my left, upper arm - just below my shoulder - he orders an MRI. Two days later the MRI shows two masses. One is labeled a "benign or malignant mesenchymal tumor," and the other a benign vascular tumor. Tissue sampling is recommended and an excisional biopsy is scheduled at my local hospital the following week.

A PET scan is also ordered. During a PET scan (positron emission tomography), radioactive glucose is injected into a vein. Because cancer cells take up more glucose than normal cells, a scanner is used to take pictures of areas where glucose is absorbed - highlighting cancer cells in the body. 

In between all this, I continue my connection with Airport Man, determined not to discuss anything about my health concerns. But there is more in play than just another cancer scare. After listening to my angst around dating again, a friend recommends I read the New York Times bestselling book, Attached - the science behind adult attachment. The book breaks it down into three categories - anxious, avoidant, and secure. I devour the chapters dedicated to anxious attachment, and for the first time in my adult life, realize I am not "boy crazy," obsessed, or insecure,  I am simply acting out patterns I learned as a child. 

During one of our many lengthy conversations, I confess my new self-awareness to Airport Man and everything about "us" feels lighter. I also have a skill set to work from and recognize my heightened anxiety before I react. Previously, I would often end a relationship the minute I felt I was losing control.  

When I finally find the courage to confess my health concerns,  Airport Man states with the perfect balance of empathy and conviction, "Try not to worry, we are in this together."

We.

"We" are strangers who met a month ago and have spent only four whimsical days enamored with the nuances of each other. 

Airport Man likes to read an actual newspaper and do crossword puzzles. I am obsessed with Tiktok. He likes socks. Socks are practical and fashionable. He has a large collection of socks. I like to mix colors together when getting a pedicure. His speech is reserved and proper. I am boisterous and outspoken. He keeps his personal life private. I live mine out loud. Music is important to Airport Man. This is where we click. And cooking. He likes to cook. We cook well together. He prides himself on being the fittest man in the room. He is by far the fittest man I have ever had the pleasure of undressing. His hair is thick. His rich, olive skin is tan - highlighted by my fair complexion. Our differences are vast but what draws me in is so subtle. His scent. His laugh. The touch of his hand. The stride of his step. He pauses before he speaks and he means what he says. And when he pulls me close, then tenderly bites my bottom lip, I am sweetened and electrified.

The morning of the procedure, Airport Man wishes me well. 

During the biopsy, I am given a mild dose of sedation known as twilight anesthesia and am surprised to hear the thump and feel the pressure of 5 punctures. The radiologist's nurse explained that I would have an excisional biopsy - which removes the entire mass. Instead, I am given a core needle biopsy, where a hollow needle removes only samples of the tumor.

After the biopsy, I text Airport Man, 

All done. about to be discharged.

How are you feeling? he asks.

Ok...sleepy. mild pain.

And then Airport Man goes silent. From the beginning, we develop a pattern of texting each other goodnight and good morning. Both my good morning and goodnight texts go unanswered, It is almost 48 hours before I hear from him again. 

This is incredibly triggering. At first, I worry he is dead, then I worry it was too much for him, then I worry how to respond. Everything I learned in the book, Attached, goes out the window. 

In a late-night call, with the courage of a well-poured glass of wine, I tell him how his lack of contact after my biopsy triggers me. He is compassionate and apologetic. I am confused.

I discuss the situation with anyone who will listen. No one has a logical explanation for his disconnect. My daughter tells me to stop relying on him and reminds me that I don't even know him.

The day before my PET scan appointment, the oncologist's office calls to tell me my insurance denied the scan and when I push for more information the nurse unwillingly tells me I have cancer. 

I have cancer. AGAIN. 

I march straight to the hospital records department and obtain a copy of my biopsy report. To my disbelief, it reads, sarcomatoid malignant neoplasm. By definition, sarcomatoid carcinoma is a rare, aggressive cancer that spreads fast and is difficult to treat.

For those of you not keeping score, this is my 7th primary cancer. Primary means each cancer is its own, not one cancer that has spread to other parts of my body. In order, I have been diagnosed with melanoma (left side of upper back), breast cancer (right), breast cancer (left), melanoma (left side of lower neck), rectal cancer, (low-level tumor) melanoma (left side of chest), and now, a soft tissue sarcoma. Soft tissue includes muscle, fat, blood vessels, nerves, tendons, and the lining of the joints.

With pathology in hand, I begin the laboring task of shopping out my cancer. As bizarre as this sounds, when dealing with cancer, especially something as rare as a sarcoma, you have to find the best of the best and you have to find them fast. Until I have a plan in place, knowing where and what treatment will take place, I am consumed with fear. Simple tasks are laboring and focusing on anything other than cancer is impossible. 

I research soft tissue sarcoma specialists and reach out to Johns Hopkins, Dana Farber, Memorial Sloan-Kettering and Mayo Clinic. I schedule a PET scan at Johns Hopkins. It is a hospital I trust and know well. This is where I received cutting-edge treatment for my rectal cancer. I also schedule a meeting with a sarcoma surgeon at Memorial Sloan-Kettering. 

Before either of these appointments, I have a scheduled trip to New Orleans to attend the first week of Jazz Festival with my must-haves, the women I cling to in times of sorrow or joy.  

Days before I leave for NOLA, Airport Man arrives for our second playdate. This time he arrives knowing I have cancer, again.

**********

Part One - Hello, My Name Is Shannon and I Have Cancer

                                                                    PART ONE

Hello, my name is Shannon and I have cancer, again.

*******

I am convinced the uncanny events that wiggle their way into my life happen so I have something scandalous to write about. This is one of those situations.

I am in Austin, Texas, visiting a close-knit circle of friends - the type of friends where the answer to how are you, is never a one-word answer. We dive deep and we see through all the bullshit.

Before returning home, I linger solo in Austin. There are two events I want to attend - an oyster festival and a vampire festival.

The oyster festival is much smaller than I envisioned. It is held in downtown Austin's, Republic Square - which for practical purposes, is fenced in. This makes me feel like I am in an adult playpen. At each corner, just outside the playpen, are anti-abortion demonstrators packing plastic embryos, graphic signs, and shouting conflict-provoking propaganda.  

There is one stage for music which is mostly unoccupied. The crowd is primarily couples - couples holding hands, couples sharing oysters, couples standing in long lines drenched in the glory of mid-day sun. I stay for less than an hour, find refuge at a neighboring rooftop restaurant and have a late lunch of lollipop lambchops and chardonnay before heading back to my hotel. 

In contrast, the vampire festival is more than I bargained for. The attendees are not just dressed to impress the costume culture, they appear to have an awakened affinity to blood.  A thick, deep red elixir flows from carafes, caldrons, and goblets and no one wipes their mouth.

I arrive cloaked in a past-my-prime, bellowing floral shirt and too-tight, straight-legged white jeans, making it visibly impossible for me to blend in.  I leave 15 minutes into the garlic-eating competition where willing contestants are chained to the wall.

After two days and two festivals, I am ready for Dorothy to ruby-slipper me home. I leave my hotel early and head to the airport. I check my luggage with ease but when I get to the security gates I am told my ticket does not match my identification and am curtly sent back to the starting line to "reconfirm" my identity. My second attempt also fails but when I returned for a third time with a Delta manager, I am given the green light. When I question what caused the confusion I am told, "These ticket scanners are tricky." 

I seek refuge at the Delta Skyclub lounge to unwind amongst frequent flyers.

My first stop is the buffet where I help myself to a generous amount of short ribs, butter biscuits, and mac and cheese served on a ceramic plate with stainless steel utensils. It tastes like home but without the guilt, because I am, after all, still on vacation. I am perfectly content consuming calories and watching planes take off until an "urgent announcement" comes over the PA system warning everyone to stay in place until further instructions are given. I have never heard a warning like this in an airport or anywhere for that matter. I immediately abandon my meal and rush to the only safe place I know - the bar. 

It is early afternoon and the bar is more than half empty, so it is easy to catch the bartender's attention. "I think the announcement is about me," I state as I mount a worn, leather barstool. "I was at a vampire convention yesterday and maybe I lost my reflection." This bizarre statement catches the attention of more than just the bartender and by the time I take my first sip of wine, a handsome gentleman who is within earshot approaches and politely asks if he can occupy the seat beside me. We ramble on for 20 or 30 minutes, he sipping his blood-red cabernet and me, lost in his smile. 

He talks about what he does for a living while I focus on his casual confidence - how the collar of his shirt hugs his neck, the curve of his lips, and the dance of his hands.  After establishing that we live more than 13000 miles apart, we exchanged numbers. The backdrop of an airport makes our distance feel closer - staying in touch feels doable. When it is time for me to board my plane, I hop off my barstool resisting an all-consuming urge to wrap my arms around him and kiss him goodbye. 

We text and talk for the next few weeks until we settle on a date for him to visit. I inform him that sex is off the table and that he would need to find a place to stay. To my surprise, this does not deter him. Our texts are polite and formal, but our conversations are warm, insightful, and effortless. During one of these conversations, I learn that he is married with two adult children. He explains that the divorce is pending and that they have been living apart for 4 years - he in the home where they raised their children, and she in a different state.

As much as I try to justify our attraction, his marriage clouds everything. I have never knowingly dated a married man, and I'm not the type of woman who settles on second place. I put my P.I. cap on and confirm their living situation and the timeline he presented to me. I also uncover enough about his wife that I believe she loves him, still. 

I am late to pick him up at the airport. It is a small airport so he should be easy to spot, but it has been a month since I sat next to him on an airport bar stool. I am taken by surprise when he texts me curbside details that include the color of his luggage, his attire, and his height.

"I'm wearing a black coat, black shirt and black jeans (mysterious, sexy). And my luggage is bright blue (only navy will do) and I'm 5'5" (remembering only that our gaze was on the same, level plane) 

While en route, I urgently call my daughter. "Bright blue luggage," I tell her, "He has bright blue luggage. Do you think he might be gay?" I question. 

She assures me that nothing about bright blue luggage suggests gay. 

"He's short," I add. 

"How short?" she asks. 

"5"5'" I tell her. 

"Does that bother you?" she questions. 

"No, it calms me." 

My son was 5"6'. My grandson is 5"6'. My third x-husband is 5"7'. I am 5"3'. I know short. I am comfortable with short. 

Our first stop is lunch at a downtown restaurant. We are once again, seated side by side at a bar. In the corner is an employee of mine, who, out of character, is highly intoxicated. Intoxicated Man interrogates Airport Man. Airport Man handles his inappropriate questioning and underlying hostility beautifully. I lean back and let him steer the conversation. This is not something I am used to. I typically hold my own. But Airport Man holds his own, and Intoxicated Man chugs his drink and leaves chewing the bottom layer of ice. 

From there, we go to the Airbnb Airport Man has booked. It is centrally located and less than 2 miles from my house. After several miscommunications with the owner, which include her giving the wrong address, we meet up with the homeowner who is frazzled and disheveled and the apartment mirrors her mental and physical state.

She apologizes for the mess and explains that construction is ongoing and they are moving.  She justifies the condition of the rental on her busy lifestyle and at the same time blames Airport Man for paying in advance and showing up. 

My turn to drive. I give Airport Man an all-knowing smile, and he nods in approval. I disarm her by offering to help her make his bed, reposition a few out-of-place items, and sympathize with her self-imposed stress.

We leave Airport Man's luggage on the freshly made bed and continue our day.  This is where I know, without question, he will never rest his head on this bed. He is resting beside me.

Everything about our time together is fun. Our long, thought-provoking conversations are fun. Cooking together is fun. Wandering the cool wind and sand of an almost spring beach is fun. Introducing him to my inner circle of family and friends is fun. Even sex is fun.

Towards the end of our visit, as we lie in bed and hold each other's gaze, he questions where we stand in the relationship and asks if I will see other men. I tell him something so corny, so ridiculous, that I cringe as the words leave my lips, "The odds of me getting another cancer are greater than me finding someone more entertaining." Then I add, "But there is this small lump on my arm." And I show him. 

To be continued...

You Go First

 

I am back in the loft, a sliver of space tucked above my resting place. I am cradled in memories - some close, some faded, most tragic, all haunting and begging to be sketched into the landscape of my life. 

I am three days shy of completing my first-ever Dry January. I have a lot more time on my hands now that drinking is not something I do. I have filled this time with online MasterClasses from authors I admire, and by writing. I am especially inspired by David Sedaris's class. His wit and humility motivate me. 

It is too soon to write about my dead cat, and I'm not feeling bold enough to write about the advances of a stranger in an adjacent New Orleans hotel room, or about Dick - a Match date that ended curtly. 

Today, I leave behind days of grey skies and rewind to the blaze of summer. 

YOU GO FIRST

A friend suggested I attend a weeklong, personal growth retreat aimed at identifying negative behaviors learned in childhood. "You go first," she urged.

Based on the limited information I found online, I was extremely apprehensive. There were assignments that needed to be completed before arrival - endless questions about the structure of my childhood. I found this daunting and pointless. "This question is STUPID!" I answered repeatedly, like a defiant teenager.

We were instructed to give up alcohol one month prior (I arrived with a slight hangover), abstain from sexual stimulation (I packed lube), and agree to eat three meals a day. This was challenging because I conditioned myself to eat only during a 4-hour period of time, typically at the end of the day. During our stay here, we would have no contact with the outside world - no WIFI, cell phone, music, TV, or communication with family, friends, or work. There would be no sleep aids and no reading material other than the propaganda they provided. This concerned me as I relied heavily on audiobooks to turn off my brain and knock me unconscious.

Even the title of this process was triggering. Without identifying the institution, it is named after a man whose last name is the same as my estranged mother. It is the same name as the stepbrother who molested me as a child, and it is the same as a man who ghosted me - uncovering a sea of insecurity one frivolous summer at Burning Man. It was written on the binders, in big bold letters, that we would reference and carry during the week. It was on the top of every page of reading material we were given. It was on the pens we gripped, and the lanyards we wore around our necks. It was EVERYWHERE.

There were twenty-four of us at this rustic, Connecticut retreat - nine men and fifteen women. We were identified by our childhood nicknames. When I volunteered this information during the pre-processing, I had no idea they would identify me as such. Molly was what my father called me but hearing strangers call me this was unsettling. I quickly colored over my nametag and insist I be called by my birth name, Shannon.

Last names and occupations were off limits, but I sensed most of us, if not all, were emotionally depleted, Type A personalities, driven by our careers. I would later learn the youngest in attendance was 23, and the oldest was 83. I was the second oldest at 63. I immediately felt inferior when I was unable to hold a cross-legged position seated on the floor, and I assessed everyone by the ease they could get off the floor. I took the longest but from her scars, I could tell the 83-year-old had two new knees.

There were those who liked the sound of their voice - eager to raise their hands and volunteer, and others who hid in their shadows. I found it difficult to focus on anything that was said or taught and doodled feverishly to stay awake.

At times, they broke us into three teams of eight, with an assigned teacher. My teacher was a tall, thin, artsy-looking, age-appropriate-by-dating-standards man from Canada, who matched his shoes and glasses to his brightly patterned, button-down collared shirts. With him was a soft-spoken male assistant who was in training. During our first two-on-one, I let them know I didn't take direction well from men and loathed the idea of someone practicing on me.

When we were not in session, we were eating cafeteria-style meals or acting out assignments. Most of the time, especially early in the week, everything was done in silence. At one point we were called together with a sense of urgency. Seated in a large circle, we were reminded that sexual activity was strictly prohibited. "Who's having sex?!?" I cried out in a harsh, demanding tone. It wasn't that I was appalled, rather, I was jealous as there were many fuckable men in this group of high achievers.

As the week progressed there was nowhere to hide. Our resistance was broken. By witnessing the heart-wrenching release of our trauma we developed deep-seated, soul connections and valued friendships.

To my surprise, I walked away with a deeper understanding of my mother after completing an assignment instructing us to script a dialogue with our parents as children. I wrote from the eyes of a 12-year-old, the age my mother was when her mother died. Bits of information I was told or overheard growing up came to mind as I focused on her turbulent upbringing.

My grandmother died of a brain tumor at the age of 36 and my mother became the primary caregiver to her 3 younger brothers. My mother blamed her father for the tumor, stating that he would often beat her.

My parents divorced when I was only two. My mother said my father had a terrible temper and that he made us kids nervous. After their divorce, we moved to Northeastern, PA to be raised near her brothers and their families. As adults, my sisters moved to Vermont and my mother followed. I, always a Daddy's girl, moved back to Connecticut to be near my father.

The breakdown in the relationship with my mother began shortly after my double breast cancer diagnosis which correlated with the death of my father. The estate was divided evenly between both of his daughters but the business, which I had taken over back in the late 1990's, and my sister had no involvement in, was left to me. In the immediate aftermath, my sister hired a forensic accountant to review his estate. Everything was in order.

When I informed my mother of the double gene mutation I inherited that caused my cancers - an inability to suppress tumor growth - she refused to validate the medical science and to the best of my knowledge, none of my remaining siblings or relatives on my mother's side, have been tested as recommended.

The last memory I have of my mother is hearing her warm, engaging "hello" when I called her home, followed by the abrupt click of the phone when she realized it was me. She died 5 days later. If there was a funeral, I was not invited.

What I uncovered in the aftermath of this intense therapy, is that my mother would have had to forgive her father if she were to accept the science behind my cancer. The tumor that grew inside her mother's skull was most likely due to the same genetic mutation I have.

She carried her truth, including resistance to male authority, with her for her entire life. She was loyal to her family but saw my alliance with my father as a betrayal. She was not evil but she was bitter. Her angst was her shield. She did the best she could with the skills she had.

I went first. I ended the story we tell ourselves when we cast blame. I forgave and I healed. I did this not only for myself but for future generations. There is no need to punish or perpetuate the pains of our youth. We are free to live our lives as best as we know how. To walk in love and gratitude. 

*************** 

                                                                                                                                   

Once Upon a Wednesday

Halfway through my morning, I tried a meditation practice aimed at being present with my true self. It's a technic called, The Mirror Exercise. Here is what you do... 

Sit six inches away from a mirror and focus on one eye. After 3 to 5 minutes, smile big and say, "You're okay with me." This, according to the author, will prompt a rush of joy AND you will be introduced to someone you are destined to meet.

 
This was appealing to me on many levels so I grabbed a vanity makeup mirror and positioned myself on a comfy chair beside a bright, sunny window. After intense overthinking, I chose my right eye. My gaze fixated on the hollowness of my pupil, then the burst of brown and globe of seafoam blue that orbited it. I envisioned my pupil as the moon and my iris, its galaxy. 

And then my gaze shifted to my nose. On it was a mass of blackheads. I thought blackheads were part of my 20's and had no idea it was hormonally possible to develop this post-menopause. 

I pushed the mirror aside and made an appointment for a facial. 

Later that day, I stopped at a trendy eyewear shop enquiring about my need for bifocals. Somewhere in my 50's, glasses became my favorite accessory but since corrective Lasik surgery, my only need for eyewear is sunglasses or blue light filtering glasses. The optometrist reassured me that my vision was excellent (for a woman my age) then showed me their youthful-looking frames.

Next door is Anne Fontaine - a stiff, frilly Parisian fashion boutique I am oddly attracted to. 
I grabbed a stark white, slim-cut, unforgiving blouse and headed towards the dressing room. From the inventory supply room emerged a little girl of three, a sales associate's daughter, who was entertaining herself stacking shoe boxes - one on top of the other - and then knocking them down.

I pulled the dressing room curtain closed and stripped off my top and bra. Before I had a chance to try on the suggested camisole and blouse, the little girl peaked in from under the curtain and asked, "what happened to your arm?"

My arm? I questioned, nothing happened to my arm. It's not toned, I won't wear sleeveless shirts anymore, but my arm is fine.

Somehow, this child glazed over my massive, double mastectomy scars, my three melanoma scars, my circular, bellybutton-number-three scar, my chemo port scar, my abdominal surgery scars - one stretching horizontally across the entire length of my stomach and the other vertically from the center peak of my ribcage to the tip of my pubic bone. 

"Nothing is wrong with my arm," I snapped.

 
"Was it bugs?" she asked. "Was it bugs that did that to your arm?"

Frayed and annoyed I answered, "YES, bugs. Big bugs - lots of them. They got me good. They got me when I was sleeping... in my bed. Bed bugs. BIG bed bugs. I hope they don't get you!"

I dismissed the latest collection of Parisian wear, stained by a little girls screams, and left empty-handed.

Back in the comforts of home, I poured a bowl of wine and looked over my phone messages. There was a text from an unknown sender. I clicked on the number and there he was... 

The person I was destined to meet. My morning meditation came true. 

Mark Ruffalo, it's YOU!  

xo, MonkeyME

Font made larger to accommodate those of us who don't know we have blackheads.

The End of My Innocence

I have no memory of my parents living together. They divorced when I was 2 years old. 

Mom moved us kids out of an affluent, coastal community in New England to Northeastern, PA so we could be near her brothers, their wives and children. But we never fit in.  

One summer we lived in a house nicknamed "The Wonders of the World" because it had four levels - each painted a different color. My mother went to work in a cigar factory while my sister Norie, twelve years my senior, cared for us.

Next we lived in the shell of a house my mothers brother was constructing. Here, my memories increase. I remember my sister Colleen, 15 months my senior, climbing onto the kitchen counter and eating an entire stick of butter, my mother administering caster oil anytime we sneezed and watching Hatchy Milatchy on a black and white TV. We had a german shepherd dog named King that we chained to a tree in the front yard. When I was 4 years old I snuck on the school bus wearing my red and white striped clown pajamas so I could attend Colleen's kindergarten Halloween party.

My mother was a stickler for good manners. If you didn’t sit up straight during dinner she'd stand behind you and shove her thumb in the center of your back. And if you didn't finish your dinner, she'd put it in the refrigerator and serve it to you for breakfast, cold. "We're poor," she'd tell us, "we can't afford to waste food."

Somewhere between working in the cigar factory and caring for us kids, my mother met a man named Mert and we moved to Mentor, Ohio.

Mert was tall and thin with slick, jet black hair.

His teenage son David, from his first marriage, moved in with us. David was about the same age as my sister Norie. David was tall, and thin with the same black hair as his father. David had a guitar but I don't remember him playing it.

In Ohio, we lived in a house that had a screened-in front porch. This is where we'd wait for the ice cream truck and the Charles Chips truck to come.

Across the street was a large house with lots of kids - girls mostly. 

To the right of us was a house full of boys. During hot summer nights we would camp outside in small green tents. We'd carry flashlights and tell ghost stories. Between our houses is where I'd find an endless supply of fireflies.  

On blustery days, small swirling tornados would form in and around our backyard. Here, tucked behind the tool shed, was our garden. There were carrots in the garden. When I was hungry, I'd pull one from the ground and eat it, never bothering to wash it.

Beyond the garden was a large parking lot. In the winter, plowed mounds of snow were perfect for making igloo forts. 

I walked or rode my bike to school. I had two boyfriends. Their names were Michael Pope and Jimmy Griffin. I gave them each a key to my bike lock and I'd watch them race each other down the corridor, out the side door, to the rack where my red Schwinn was parked. Whoever got there first unlocked my bike and walked me half way home. I knew not to tell mom about Michael or Jimmy. When my sister Colleen threatened to tell her, I hit her with my hairbrush. 

I fell off the monkey bars during recess one day and got a bloody nose. Mom was angry because I ruined my pretty pink dress.

I sang, "I Want To Be Free" by the Monkee's as I held onto the metal fence railing that bordered the schools playground. I sang at the top of my lungs. I sang while the other kids merrily slipped and slid on sheets of snow that transformed the basketball court into a skating rink. I was too afraid of falling to let go of the railing.

I spent a long, steamy summer digging holes in a dirt road that lead to a large gray house I was convinced belong to a witch. I'd filling the holes with rotten food and dog poop - then covered it with leaves and twigs, hoping the witch would get stuck in it. 

My stepfather Mert wore white collared, button down shirts to work. My mother would wash them, put them in the freezer wet, then iron them. In time, his crisp white shirts where replaced with blue collared shirts. My mother did not iron these. One day, Mert no longer went to work, instead he walked the house wearing white, V-necked, t-shirts. 

As the story goes, Mert was once a low level executive but I knew him only as a raging alcoholic who eventually died from cirrhosis of the liver and malnutrition. 

My mother and Mert had a child together - a boy they named Mark. Mark slept in the bedroom with mom and Mert. Norie slept in a second bed room and Colleen and I shared the third. 

My sister Colleen was coined early on as the pretty one. The one with the golden curls and a sunny disposition. I was the loud one.

Because Colleen was 15 months older, she was, in her words, “the boss of me." She got to stay up 30 minutes later than me and she got everything new.

And she got Davy, and I got Micky. They were the best part of the Monkee’s. The Monkee’s were bigger than Elvis and better than Lassie. And we were just sisters, and I was little and she was big. They were the reason we raced each other down our staircase, around the corner, to our black and white TV every Monday night at 8:00 pm.

I was convinced that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have everything I ever wanted. I’d have her side of the room. Davy’s picture would hang right next to my bed. Davy’s face would be the first thing I’d see every morning and the last thing I’d see before Mom made us turn out the lights.

If it weren’t for her I’d have the bigger pillow, the better blanket, and I’d have her “Bummy,” her best friend, Bummy.  Her NOT REAL stuffed bunny rabbit. But I wouldn’t have sucked him till he turned gray. She hugged the pretty pink padding out of him, pulled the tickle of his fur from the tip of his tail.

Everyone knew she loved Bummy more than me.

Just outside our bedroom door, in the open hallway at the top of the stairs, is where David slept. He got to stay up as late as he wanted but instead David waited for me in his bed. He kept a flashlight and a red rubber ball under his blanket. He called it his fort. We played games in David’s fort while mom and Mert watched TV downstairs.

When we were in the fort, David would tell me to find the red rubber ball hidden in his underpants. He kept a bat and baseballs hidden there too. He wanted me to play with his toys but I had to be quiet or I'd get in trouble. We'd both get in trouble.

We didn't stay in Ohio very long. We were back in Pennsylvania in time for me to attend third grade at a co-ed catholic school. But I got in trouble when I brought a green gardener snake to school and was told I couldn't return. Both David and Norie moved away. I don't know where David went but Norie married and moved to Cleveland. 

After graduating from high school, I moved back to Greenwich, Connecticut where my father lived and built a business.

My son was born when I was just 19. His father was 12 years older than me. We never married. His drinking reminded me of Mert. My daughter was born 12 years later. Her father was gentle, soft spoken and hard working. Nothing like Mert. Our marriage lasted 7 years.

Shortly after the birth of my daughter, I was at home caring for her when an episode of Oprah came on the TV. She was talking about an uncle who molested her when she was a child. It was the first time I had ever heard anyone speak openly about child molestation. Images started to form, one slow motion frame after another. Memories I had suppressed for more than two decades. I cried for a very long time and then I called my mother. I was certain she would comfort me. I was wrong.

"That's impossible," she said, "It never happened."  It was just part of my overactive imagination.

Later, my sister Colleen called and scolded me for upsetting Mom. She told me never to speak about it to anyone but her. She told me I was not alone in David’s fort. Mostly we were together, sometimes it was just her. More memories to process. More tears. 

I listened to my sister and kept our secret until 2011, when I published a blog post titled “1961 to 1966.”

Most of my family stopped speaking to me after that because “you never air your dirty laundry in public” but my readers were supportive. One of them was Marilyn. She told me she dated David in high school and that they remained friends. She told me she reached out to David and that he confirmed the abuse. He also told her he was sorry. He was young and he was troubled. 

My mother continued to welcome David into her home. I have not confronted or spoken to David Hoffman since memories of his sexual abuse first surfaced. 

I had no idea what happened to David until Sunday night when I saw Marilyn’s post on facebook.

"Friends for life are always there when you need them. House is finally getting painted. With awesome Dave Hoffman."

When someone asked how she got him to paint her house she replied, “God is good!”

I don’t know how to describe the pain I felt when seeing David Hoffman’s pictures but it was just as fresh and as cutting as it was 30 years ago. On top of that, I feel betrayed by Marilyn, a woman I know as kind, compassionate, and caring. A woman I considered a friend.

I don’t understand how anyone welcomes an admitted child molester into their home. I know I would not.

I contacted the police department where Marilyn lives, and was told I need to contact the police department in the town where the crime took place. When I called the police department in Mentor, Ohio, I was told I need to know the address where we lived. That, I don’t have. All I have are photos of the house we lived in.  I have contacted several real estate agents in the area hoping they can help me identify the neighborhood. The police also have copies of the photo’s along with the photo’s Marilyn posted on facebook. The police assured me they will do all they can to help me. I have also reached out to several advocacy group including RAINN (National Resources for Sexual Assault Survivors and their Loved Ones).

David Hoffman robbed me of my innocence and left me with wounds that range from guilt and shame to insecurity and self-loathing.  He should be punished. He needs to be registered as a sexual predator. It doesn’t matter how long ago the abuse happened. There may be other victims.  I hope to God there are not.

According to statistics…

1 in 10 children will be sexually abuse before their 18^th birthday.

Of children that are sexually abused 20% will be abused before the age of 8.

60% of sexual abuse victims never tell anyone.

If you or someone you know has been sexually abused, there are resources that can help. Speak out and begin the process of recovery and healing. It is never too late.

Love, Light, Peace, MonkeyME

June 5, 2009 

Oh Shannon,

David called again!... I reminded him of why we broke up, and he finally apologized.  I told him that he owes you one, too.

He said that all he remembers is waking up one morning to find he had a new family, and they were all strangers... his father was never around, and he was angry.  So, he would leave and go to his mother's until she would try to rein him in, then he would come back to his father's.  Whenever he couldn't get his way, he would just find somewhere else to stay...  He said, again, that he was very sorry, that he was out of control, and that he wished his parents would have been a bit tougher on him.  He was apparently really acting out when he hurt you...

xoxoxo
Marilyn

Wed 7/24/2019 3:52 PM

...Dave has always had his own deep struggles, which he has apparently been working on for decades.  Abandonment and emotional issues can be draining for us all.  As we near 70, his heart health has really deteriorated.  He had to stop driving, which he loved, started classical house painting five years ago, and called me for the first time since as he was doing a house in PA... He offered to take a look at my place, which was perfect timing as I am tied up with so many other projects...  If you remember,  Dave was sent to a military academy in VA as a teen by his mother.  He learned much, is currently married, and has many children/grandchildren of his own who he tries his best to help.  He is a workaholic, and is so thin you would not even recognize him. His work here is simply work, and I have been impressed.  He has helped me much, and we have remained friends...

Wishing You Well.

Marilyn