Dr. Osbourne sat us down in his office and very seriously asked, “If during surgery we discover that the cancer has spread deeper into your face do you want us to remove your nose completely or save your face and opt for intense rounds of radiation risking a 50% recurrence rate?”

It was past midnight and my fiancé and I lay awake staring at the stucco ceiling above our brand new California King mattress. It’s possible to sleep in this bed without even realizing that you’re sharing it. But tonight we lay in the middle, side by side, holding tightly to each other’s hands.

Really? Was I really being asked to cut off my nose to spite my face? We knew we wanted kids and I was young; so if losing my nose could save my life, our lives, then I guess OK. Bring on the magnetic nose. Make it cute and buttony, like Halle Berry’s. They have those you know. Up until this night I had been dealing only with the moment to moment. The pet-scans, the biopsies, the pain-killers, the waiting rooms. Suddenly I was confronted with the future and for the first time in over two months and seven surgeries we realized the gravity of our situation.

It’s simply fight or flight. You either face your fear or you run from it. Or maybe you grab it by the balls and drag it alongside of you hoping it wears itself out. I had all but forgotten about the fear that I had been dragging behind me like an IV on wheels. We had faced head on the fact that my particular squamous cell carcinoma had dug itself so deep into my facial tissue that it was threatening the bone, something that only occurs in 1 in 700,000 woman under 35. Hmmm, we thought, with this kind of luck, maybe we should play the lottery. I had already been under anesthesia seven times and lay awake for one Mohs surgery. By the way, if you ever have to have Mohs and they offer to put you to sleep, take it. During mine, a miniscule nerve was lightly brushed causing my entire forehead to turn white and a hot dog sized vein to bulge. Ouch! I had a fairly significant 1″ x 1″ hole in my face showing a clear, albeit bloody, passage to my half removed septum and I think my brain and yet I still wasn’t rattled. Not until this exact moment. Suddenly my positive attitude filled with hope was tail spinning into fear. The little bitty bump on my nose had turned into a gigantic hungry monster.

I sat straight up in bed and burst into my first round of tears. Oh my GOD! What is happening to us? I don’t have cancer. People with cancer feel sick and lose their hair. They have breasts removed and are prescribed “cocktails.” I’ve witnessed friends and family suffer through real cancer, even die. I felt like a phony. This isn’t real cancer. It can’t be. You can’t just one day die from a little bump on your nose. Can you?

And just like that my fear jumped into my lap and gave me a huge slap iacross my bandaged face. “I’m back,” it screamed. “Did you miss me?”

Last night I went over to my friend Kerry’s house. I used to go to Kerry’s house to hang out, maybe have a cocktail or catch up on an episode of Oprah. But this time I was at Kerry’s house for a very different reason. I was there to pick up some pee sticks. That’s right people, pee sticks. It never occurred to me when I was 12 and in pigtails mapping out my dreams on a piece of purple construction paper and hosting a tea party for my dollies that one day I would be at a friend’s house to pick up a half used box of ovulation testers. I thought I’d at least be in an enchanted forest somewhere. But alas, there I was, standing in Kerry’s newly painted baby’s room with a 16-fold tri-language instruction sheet explaining how to determine if my LH levels were surging. The mere fact that the word surge is involved makes me uncomfortable. I get it. I mean I understand that this is technically what is happening. But can we ease off on the pressure please? Surge is used in sentences that involve electrical currents and solar flares, troop levels and politics. I looked it up.

I spent the first 34 years of my life praying I wasn’t pregnant. I sat on many a fast food restaurant toilet begging God to only reveal one pink line. I punched my stomach, swallowed pills, stretched rubber and screamed, “pull out!” more times than I watched Grease 2 and that’s a lot. These days I lay with my ass elevated on three pillows and my legs lifted up in the air for 25 minutes after sex with my husband. I used to have sex on the kitchen counter, in the shower on all fours or anywhere else with a 4X4 opening, now it’s missionary this, missionary that. I pee on a stick every morning at 7and shove a thermometer up my vajayjay at 8. I take baby aspirin, drink Robitussin and pop evening primrose oil 3X a day all in an effort to thicken my mucus. Have you ever wanted your mucus thickened?

Suddenly I hate sex. My poor husband has to practically rape me to get some. I feel bad for him. I feel bad for me. I feel bad for the world. Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. Between us we have 15 nieces and nephews and I love ‘em all. But if my sister in law gives me one more pregnancy ‘tip’; I’m gonna slit my wrist.

I am more than a baby maker; I am a woman with a nice ass and supple breasts. I’m witty. I’m romantic. Good God I have skinny dipped in the Mediterranean, hitchhiked across England and drank wine with the Arabs. I have ridden naked, bareback through the Bundarrah Valley. OK maybe I haven’t done that but I would like to. Call me selfish, call me bitter, call me woman and hear me roar. I don’t care. I miss liking sex. I miss the shiver that used to tingle my spine when my husband would run his finger down the side of my arm. I miss having to change our bed sheets because they were soaked. I miss feeling sexy. Oh yeah, “Buy some new lingerie.” “Try something different.” Yada, yada, yada. Whatever I try, at the end of the day I still have to keep my labia squeezed tight so that the sperm doesn’t fall out. Woohoo sounds like a sex party to me.

Listen people. I’m all for having kids. But there is nothing even remotely hot about a basal thermometer. This obsession with calendars and temperatures has got to stop. Ovulation nation is killing the ovulator in me.

Sally works for a non-profit company. For the most part, people that work for non-profits are kind and charitable. But not always. Sometimes people who look nice and shiny are actually dirty and rough, almost evil. Such is the case with Mr. Cake, a CEO at Sally’s non-profit.

Mr. Cake came to the company after being fired from his previous non-profit. Not many people in the current company know that information and those that do never ever talk about it. He has been in a leadership position for ten years. In those ten years he has had over 5 assistants.

One of his assistants, Rita, worked for him for four years until she was “let go”. Mr. Cake claimed that they were dissolving Rita’s position and that he would no longer need an assistant. That seemed funny to Sally because as soon as Rita was dismissed Mr. Cake brought in a 19 year-old Hooters girl to cover his phones. Three months later a new, full-time, male assistant was hired into the position that was to be dissolved. It happened to be his nephew. That seemed unfair to Sally so she started thinking, why did Mr. Cake let Rita go? She was on time, professional, competent, confident, and loyal.

And then Sally remembered some very important tasks Mr. Cake had asked Rita to complete. One was making photo copies of a fictitious map he had created. A map that you might create if you were 12 and in the boy scouts, complete with rivers, mountains, and fantasy towns. The only thing different about these towns and waterways was that their names were somewhat disturbing. Blow Job Way, Cunnilingus Mountain, Fuck that Whore Village and Nigger Road. Rita made copies for him because that was her job. One time he asked her to scan a naked picture of his ex-girlfriend and then Photoshop it onto a bicycle so that he could send it around to his buddies for a laugh. Rita did that too because her paycheck depended on it and she needed to keep her health insurance.

It occurred to Sally that Mr. Cake had let Rita go because she knew too much. He had let her in and she was becoming disgruntled, so she had to go.

Sally has seen Mr. Cake get away with things that no one should get away with. The above are just a couple of fireable incidents among many lesser and greater ones, depending on how you look at it or what you know about the law:

• Drinking 3-4 dirty martinis during lunches
• Back stabbing co-workers and slandering innocent executives
• Staring at women’s breasts while pretending to talk to them
• Firing (or not hiring) women that don’t please him aesthetically
• Blaming everyone but himself for poor decision making
• Making maps on company paper that have bolded words like: Cunnilingus and Nigger.

Sally hates Mr. Cake and thinks he has a lot of nerve to walk around in this world pretending to be a nice guy. She despises the injustice of it all. And yet she continues to work for a company that supports this terrible behavior. Is Sally almost evil too? She thinks of herself as a decent person. She is a college graduate. She has protested for less. She is not alone.

Sally is confused. So confused that she doesn’t even like to tell this story. What if her boss found out? Would she be let go, too? Would she lose her health insurance for telling the truth? Or would justice be served? Would the victim win and the bad guy go down? Would the little guy at last triumph? Would goodness take evil to the battlefield and win? She can’t answer these questions. Neither can I.

I understand what Sally must feel every morning as she looks herself in the mirror while blow-drying her hair. I can hear her thoughts over the hum of her ConAir: Someday we will live in a world where people don’t abuse their power. Someday we will have the guts to stand up for what we know to be right. Someday we will not fear choosing our souls over our paychecks.

Working for the Producer of the Academy Awards is exciting.Today I took a call from a very enraged gentleman who wanted to ‘register a complaint.’It went something like this:

Enraged Gentleman: Yeah, is Gil there?

Me: May I ask who’s calling please?

EG: Listen here, this is ridiculous.Why in the world would you have a category for the Oscars if there was nothing worth putting in that category?

Me: I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to.

EG: Well, obviously I’m referring to the Best Song nominees. I mean Christ, you should just take the category out if the songs are terrible like they are this year. All the good writers and composers died years ago so I don’t know why they keep trying to sell the public on some stupid song that they know themselves is ridiculous and makes me want to put corn cobs in my ears. Its embarrassing really and you should be ashamed of yourself for letting it happen in the first place, the show would be better and about an hour shorter if all the dumb categories were cut out and only the movies and people and songs worthy of my attention were allowed in and another …

Me: I hear you sir and I will let him know.

EG: You’ll let who know?

Me: Gil Cates, the man you called to register a complaint with.

EG: Well dear, you don’t have to get all hussy about it.

CLICK

I think he said ‘hussy.’ Maybe he said ‘huffy’ I’m not really sure. It would be weird for him to call me a hussy, having never actually met me. But then I have a feeling he might fit into the weird category. Regardless, at least he called me dear. Somebody taught him right. In the FIFTIES!

The lake tasted of worms and I felt something slimy sliver across my left leg. I’d never been afraid of snakes before and I sure wasn’t going to start now. It felt too incredibly scandalous to be naked so I doggy paddled backwards not wanting to miss his de-clothing ritual: one button, two buttons, look to see if anyone is watching, coast clear, 3 more buttons. “Come on” I yelled, “You’re not getting any younger.” That stung him. He secretly hated that he was 18 years older than me and yet would have it no other way. I wasn’t his first summer fling and I wouldn’t be his last.

The sun was setting behind the Green Mountains of Vermont. Like a sleepy orange beach ball it began to turn in for the evening, to rest up for another full day tomorrow. There was no rest for Michael and me; being in love keeps you awake. For days we couldn’t sleep, we were too interested in what our hearts were saying to each other. The night before we’d spent 12 tender hours staring at the limitless Vermont sky. Nestled under an ancient Cedar tree, a bottle of Strawberry crush and a half smoked joint, we sang songs that we had written for each other the night before. We read poetry, we discussed philosophy. We didn’t worry about tomorrow or bills or reputation or babies or aging parents or health. From the sky, Orion and Cassiopeia smiled down on us, they were in on our affair. Cassie winked at me, assuring me that our secret was safe with her and warning me that if I didn’t follow my heart, it would go off on its own. It would leave me behind and never look back. So follow my heart I did and now I was naked, swimming in a secret lake, watching a man that I had fallen in love with years ago in a dream take off his final piece of clothing, slowly and quietly, teasing me with every move. He dove in and his long, slender arms wrapped themselves around my adolescent body and we kissed, pretending the summer had just begun.

That was 12 years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday. I was just on the brink of womanhood, only an inch away from youth. My freedom and fear danced together seamlessly. I wasn’t wishing I was younger or dying to be older. I was almost a woman and I knew it.

By 10am the next morning my pain had subsided, my uterus had been “cleaned” and I was released from the hospital with a prescription for Darvocet.

By 6pm I had gone over everything that I could have possibly done wrong. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to be a mommy, perhaps my marriage wasn’t right, perhaps I’m not worthy. I apologized again and again to my husband for taking away his babies.

By 9pm I was exhausted.

I’ve lost a lot of things in my life. Keys, jobs, games, earrings, loved ones. But never have I experienced this kind of loss. I have talked to girlfriends, parents, doctors and Google. I have listened to devastating stories of infertility, multiple miscarriages and still-births. My husband and I have been angry, sad, and acceptant. We’ve repeated these feelings often. I’ve cried, over eaten, exercised, and avoided. I’ve been over every minute of my 13 weeks of pregnancy to see why this had to happen. WHAT DID I DO WRONG?

“Nothing,” my gynecologist assured me, “you did absolutely nothing. This is a chromosomal problem and your body is taking care of it naturally. You could have jumped off of this building and your babies could have still been fine.”

Really? That doesn’t seem right. Am I supposed to simply believe you? To merely keep the faith?

The weeks following my miscarriage were extraordinary. I discovered that almost everyone I know has had or knows someone who has had a miscarriage. There’s an entire community of women who has suffered through this painful life event. It’s as if having a miscarriage is some sort of rite of passage.

The first days are hardest.

Feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness consume you. No matter how many times you are told otherwise, hopelessness prevails. The hurt persists as you must re-tell your story to loved ones. Friends that haven’t heard rub your belly and ask how far along you are. You try not to cry as you let them in.

You bleed a little each time you use the restroom. You know you shouldn’t look but you have to.

You withdraw from your husband just when you need him most. You fear you will never feel romantic again.

You pretend you’re doing fine as you go through your workday. As you walk to your car your eyes fill with tears.

You forget who you were before because you know that you can never go back. You take stock of your life.

You wish you hadn’t already named them.

You accept hugs from women that understand. You share stories and you cry.

You begin to recognize that although medical science is amazing not all things in life are measurable. You see patterns and randomness in nature and somehow understand. You pray that you give this over to a greater power. You try hard to believe in blessings in disguise.

You tuck away the ultrasound photo and the knitted blanket your Mom sent.

You go to bed early knowing that one day you’ll wake up feeling better.

Contact Almost Hot. at almosthot@madashellclub.net

I don’t remember the first time I met my dad’s ex-wife, the woman who gave birth to my three half brothers. Maybe she came into our kitchen for a minute when she drove them over for the weekends. Undoubtedly she was at Martin’s funeral. He was, after all, her son. But I don’t remember anything about Martin’s funeral except the open casket, a single Iris I placed on his way-too-made-up face and wondering who would pick me up from school tomorrow if he wasn’t going be here. The time I remember meeting Dad’s ex-wife was when I was 17, and my friends and I were waiting in line at TicketMaster for tickets to the Rolling Stones’ concert. We didn’t even know that we would for sure get them; it was a lottery. But we had arrived at 4 a.m. to secure our luck.The line behind us snaked around the mini-mall, past the Chick Filet, and behind H&R Block. By 8 word was, “we were definitely getting in.” I couldn’t wait to see Mick Jagger’s lips up close. I had to run back to my car to grab some sunscreen. I think I was singing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” when I almost knocked her down.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s O.K. Shannon?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Catherine, Jon and Tommy’s mom.”

Jon and Tommy are my half brothers. And so was Martin, before he died.

“Hi,” I think I stammered, but I could not believe that the woman standing in front of me had been married to my dad. She was dressed in tight black pants and a low-cut shirt. Except for her exotic dark hair, she looked like Olivia Newton John at the end of Grease.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, almost accusatory.

“Getting my tickets for the show. Did you get one?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

I was dazed and confused, and I didn’t even know what that phrase meant. And then I said something I will never forget.

“I’m sorry about Martin.”

Nine years earlier my brother Martin, her son, had jumped out of a hotel window in Hawaii and landed head first on the sidewalk. In that moment on the sidewalk outside Ticketmaster the only thing that came to my mind was how incredibly painful this must have been for her. I was only eight when it happened, but I was devastated, and slowly to the tragedy began to rip apart my family. I couldn’t fathom the ripping apart this beautiful, sexy, mother of my brother must have had to endure. I wanted to crawl inside her arms and weep. I wanted to tell her how much I missed him. I wanted her to know that her son was my hero and that for the rest of my life I would compare every man I met to Martin. But I didn’t know that then. I only knew that suddenly I felt extremely awkward, and I wanted to cry. She smiled and said, “Have fun at the concert.”

I dropped my SPF 45 on the pavement and walked back to my car. I crawled into the tiny back seat of my 1980 Rabbit, curled into a ball and cried.

It has been 18 years since that day in the parking lot. I’ve seen Katherine only one other time, last year at my grandmother’s funeral. Again I wanted to crawl inside her arms and tell her how much I had loved her son. But I couldn’t. The words stuck in my throat and all I could say was, “Hi, it’s nice to see you.”

The next time I see her will be at my wedding in one month. My dad asked that she be on the guest list, and not only did she RSVP “yes,” but she has already sent us a set of our selected silverware.

I believe a power greater than me guides me to where I am meant to be. When I walk slowly enough I recognize that power and reap the benefits of synchronicity. The power keeps trying until I take its hint. I am convinced that Katherine will be with us on our wedding day because that is the day I will pledge my love to the only man who has ever compared to my brother, Martin. It’s a day I will finally celebrate love instead of mourning its loss. And as I count the days down from 30, I am Almost Ready to look this beautiful woman in the eyes and tell her how much I loved her son, how much I miss him and how very sorry I am for her loss. I think I’ll also ask her if she liked the concert.

Our plan was flawless. Dee and I both told our parents we’d spend the night with Lisa. Lisa told her parents she’d spend the night with me. We’d meet at Hurricane O’Malley’s where the bouncer never noticed that the 34-year-old woman on your ID looked nothing like you. It was the summer before college and we were invincible. We could get into bars and party with college kids while we high school seniors. We couldn’t wait for our freedom so we were trying it on for size.Kurt had his own apartment and suggested we spend the night. We stayed up late, playing pool, laughing and trying not to vomit.

The phone rang.

“Hello,” Kurt mumbled. “Oh, hi Mrs. Noel.”

“It’s your Mom,” he mouthed.

In one second I went from invincible, headed-to-college super-chic to 17 year old, petrified, freaked out spaz. I scrambled for my keys. If I made it home before they hung up, everything would be fine.

“Your Mom says you should call her at home. Now,” he said hanging his head in shame.

I had messed up big time. I knew that I was headed for a very long engagement with my bedroom. Being grounded wouldn’t be the worst of it. The real punishment would be the guilt for lying. As I drove towards my doom the anticipation of what was to come overcame me and I began to cry. You know the feeling. You’re sad, confused, trying to think positive but there’s just nothing good to think. You’re ruined, miserable. You feel hopeless and it’s possible your life will end. Not a rational feeling, simply one that you never want to have again.

Today the picture on my ID is still of a 34-year-old. However, it is not a fake. I am the perfect 34 year old: confident, in charge, great at my job, happy with life, on top of the world. I’m the assistant to a big time producer; I’m planning my wedding, rolling calls, writing letters, doing laundry, feeding dogs. I am once again, invincible.

Until today. Today my boss, the big time producer, had a lunch meeting downtown at 1:30. Before he left we discussed how odd it was to have such a late lunch meeting. I bid him farewell and he left for his hour-long drive.

When he is away I am free. Free to leave the cage that is my headset. I took my time today, knowing he’d be gone a while. When I returned, the phone rang immediately. It was the private line. My boss.

“Hello?”

“Guess what happened?”

“What?”

“Well, I get all the way down here and the receptionist tells me that the meeting just ended, it started at noon.”

“Noon? But it says 1:30. Why would they change it and not tell us?”

“No, Shannon, actually it says NOON, you even have it highlighted.”

“What? But -”

“We really have to keep up. We’ll discuss it later.”

“I’m Sorry.”

And there it was - that feeling of hopelessness. I knew for sure I was fired. I looked for boxes to pack my belongings.

In that split second I turned from Martha Stewart-super-planning- executive assistant-extraordinaire into petrified 34-year-old girl. It felt as if I was waiting for my parents to come home after I’d been busted. The doom. The misery. I could feel the tears coming. I frantically instant messaged every other assistant I knew. Was I doomed? Had anyone else ever committed such a gaffe? Was it too late to become a beautician?

An hour later my boss walked in.

“Stand up,” he said.

He was going to punish me. I was on the verge, so close, just about, nearly, Almost Fired.

And then he hugged me.

“That was just silly of both of us. But, things happen. Any calls?”

That was it? No firing? No reprimand?

The anticipation of something is ALMOST always greater than what actually happens. All the fear, the anxiety, the doom that builds in my head; what is it for? Why do I insist on putting myself through it every single time I goof? My parents never stopped loving me; my boss didn’t fire me. Maybe it’s time to accept that we all err, that no one is perfect, and that even though I am invincible I am still human.