Most of Me Surviving My Medical Meltdown

The imaginative, hilarious, and moving memoir of a woman coping with both Parkinson's disease and breast cancer. At age forty-three, Robyn Levywas diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and, eight months later, with breast cancer. With irreverent and at times mordant humour, Most of Mechronicles Levy's early, mysterious symptoms of breast cancer (a dragging left foot, a frozen left hand, and a crash into "downward dead dog" position on the yoga mat), the devastating diagnosis, her discovery of two lumps in her breast, her mastectomy and oophorectomy (after which she discovers there is no ovary fairy), her continual struggle with Parkinson's, and her life since then dealing with her diverse disease portfolio. Levyis accompanied on her journey by a fantastic cast of characters, including her Cry Lady(who always makes appearances at inopportune times) and perky Dolores the Prosthesis, as well as her loyal dog and a convoy of health professionals, family members, friends, and neighbours. She makes the best of her visits to those health professionals. At an appointment with her neurologist, she participates in party games such as "try to move the patient's rigid left arm." After "make the patient lose her balance but catch her before she falls," Levyis sorry that the party is over, especially when she gets a prescription instead of a grab bag. Both heartbreaking and hilarious, Most of Meoffers a unique glimpse into a creative mind, an ailing body, and the restorative power of humour and fantasy.

Robyn Michele Levy is a visual artist, radio broadcaster, and writer. Her paintings can be found in private and public collections around the world. Her radio work includes documentaries, commentaries, poetry, and sketch comedy for CBC-Radio. Her writing has been published in the Vancouver Sun, the Georgia Straight, and the Vancouver Courier, among other publications, and she has also dabbled in stand-up comedy and slam poetry. She lives with her family and her remaining body parts in Vancouver, British Columbia.

The night before my appointment with the oncologist, I am wound up with worry and in desperate need of distraction. Bergen suggests we escape to the movies for some comic relief. "How about Woody Allen's new film, Vicky Christina Barcelona?" "That means I'd have to get out of these pajamas and put on some real clothes," I whine. "That's right. I'll help you," Bergen assures me. Soon I'm wearing what will become my post-mastectomy uniform--jeans and a loose-fitting blouse with a scarf strategically draped around my collar so that the fabric conceals my vacant lot. This is our first evening out since my surgery--just the two of us. Once we've bought our tickets, the mouthwatering aroma of popcorn lures us into the lobby--where I immediately have second thoughts. What am I doing here? This is crazy! People and popcorn stream by. I snuggle up close to Bergen, not because I'm feeling romantic, but because I'm feeling neurotic and self-conscious. What if someone accidentally elbows me in the chest? What if I bump into someone I know and my Cry Lady makes a scene? I don't tell Bergen what I'm thinking, but he knows that I'm nervous. "Don't worry," he says, "everything's going to be OK." I take a deep breath and while exhaling I spot Michelle and Honey. They're old friends of Bergen's and judging by the expressions on their faces, they are surprised to see me alive. There's a round of hugs and hellos and then Bergen says, "I'll be right back," and heads to the washroom, leaving us ladies alone to chat. Michelle stuffs her hands in her pockets, gives me a nervous smile, then bravely asks, "How are you? I heard about your diagnosis." "I'm doing OK," I say, glancing down at my chest, aware of a slight tingling sensation in my eyes. "When was your surgery?" Honey wants to know. "About a month and a half ago. The beginning of August," I say, determined not to cry. "Wow! You look great," Michelle says. "Thanks," I reply, strategizing how best to keep those unwanted tears at bay. Poke my eyes out? Pass. Let out a primal scream? Not in the mood. Play a practical joke? It's worth a try. I spot Bergen in the distance, "Here he comes," I say. We all turn our heads toward the rear of the lobby and watch him weave through the crowd, toward us. "Do me a favour," I whisper, keeping a straight face, "Please don't mention my mastectomy to Bergen. I haven't told him yet." Gobsmacked, Michelle and Honey freeze in place, their eyes bulging out at me, then at each other, then back at me. I can almost hear their voices inside their heads, wondering, "Why hasn't she told him?" "What kind of husband doesn't notice a missing breast?" These precious fleeting seconds of deception fill me with joy--it's comforting to know that my hoodwinking habit still works as well as it did when I had two tits. When Bergen rejoins our group there's an awkward silence. And then I start to laugh. "What's so funny?" he wants to know. "Robyn is," Michelle answers, laughing along with Honey, "but you probably already know that."***