Let’s Call Her Barbie

They Got It All

They Got It All

Ruth grinds out her cigarette, tucks her hair into her shower cap and runs her hand under the water to test the temperature. She likes to shower in the evening before bed to help her relax from the stress, of which there’s no shortage.

Aside from all the ongoing tension with Rosenberg and Jack, for the past six months it’s been one upset after another. Last December, a fire broke out in their Mexicali factory, killing one of their assembly-line workers. Given the destruction and devastation, they were fortunate there weren’t other casualties. That facility was where all the bits and pieces—the arms and legs on Chatty Cathy, the musical scales on the xylophones, the tires on Hot Wheels, Bugs Bunny’s voice box, and other toys—come together. The entire building burned to the ground, destroying all their merchandise that was about to ship for Christmas. It’s June now and Ruth’s still dealing with the aftermath. Rebuilding has been slow and costly. Their insurance is only covering part of what they lost. They took a significant hit on last year’s Christmas sales and their first-quarter earnings were soft. Second quarter isn’t looking much better. Even their Hot Wheels sales have cooled down. But at least Barbara’s divorce is finalized. That’s the only good thing that’s happened so far this year.

The steamy water pelts down on her back and shoulders, which are knotted and tense, trying to release. Ruth’s sudsy fingers glide over her skin, under her arm and across her left breast, where they stop. She presses, rubs, rinses, presses again. Her breathing turns shallow. She moves to her right breast, scarred like the left one from previous needle biopsies. She goes back to her left breast. It’s there, all right. Another lump. But it feels different from the other ones. Her body is suddenly scalding. She sees little stars and feels like she’s about to pass out. She turns off the shower and gropes for a towel.

Dripping wet, she studies her breasts in the mirror, raising her arms above her head, turning from side to side. She can’t see the lump, but her fingertips confirm it’s there. She closes the toilet lid and drops down, unable to believe this is happening again. She’s never really been free of this fear, and there’s never a good time for cancer, but she’s not prepared for this. Not now. And heaven help her, she wants a cigarette.

She gets up, slips into her bathrobe, tightens the belt. Sitting in the chair, off in the corner of her bedroom, she smokes as she looks at Elliot. He’s asleep and she doesn’t wake him for this. She doesn’t want to face it; she wants to make it go away and reasons that it’s probably just another fibrous cyst, maybe scar tissue from a previous biopsy. The main thing is not to panic. She tells herself they’ll find nothing. And yet she’s terrified. Even with the cigarette in her hand, she swears she’ll quit smoking. She promises she’ll go back to the hypnotist. That is what she tells herself, and this time she means it, because even Ruth knows this lump feels different.

—

It all happens so fast. One day Ruth and Elliot are in the doctor’s office and the next, she’s having exploratory surgery. Afterward they tell her she’s lucky. “We got it all,” says the surgeon. All including her breast. And her lymph nodes. She won’t remember the doctor saying anything about the nerve and muscle damage because Ruth is still stuck on the fact that this was only supposed to be exploratory surgery. They weren’t supposed to take anything.

One week later, she leaves the hospital and recuperates at their Malibu beach house. At first, nurses come and go, arriving to change her dressing, check her surgical drains. Each day there’s a little less gauze, and that’s when the nightmare of what she’s left with sets in. She can see the stitches now, can see the red, angry, puckered flesh and how badly she’s been marred.

Ken and Suzie have flown in from New York for the week, bringing their three children with them. Barbara lives close by and is there every day with Cheryl and Todd. All of them act as if this is a family reunion. During the afternoons, Ruth sits on the back porch watching her grandchildren build sandcastles and jump the ocean waves. In the evenings, big meals are prepared. One night Elliot pulls out his projector and trays of slides followed by home movies. The next night he brings out his first toy, the Uke-A-Doodle, and they have a sing-along while Ken accompanies him on the piano. There’s laughter, there’s reminiscing and no one mentions the word cancer . It’s as if she had a hernia operation or an appendectomy.

Ken is the only one who comes close to acknowledging what she’s been through. One night she excuses herself from the table. She’s exhausted and needs to lie down. She has her arm propped up on a pile of pillows but can’t get comfortable. The endless throbbing that runs from her rib cage to her armpit is relentless, and her entire left side is tingling, like half her body has fallen asleep.

Moments later her son knocks on the door. “Can I come in?” Sitting on the side of the bed, he says, “You’re gonna be all right. They got it all.”

There it is again. They got it all . She smiles, but thinks, What if they missed even just one tiny speck? It could come back. It could be regenerating inside me right now. She’s terrified that the cancer is not done with her. The very thought is like a hot stove she can’t get too close to, so she backs away and changes the subject, asking him about life in New York.

“You’re so far away now. Do you think you’ll ever move back?”

He shakes his head. “I’m happier in New York.” He tells her about the screenplay he’s writing and the director he wants to work with, Roland something or other. Roland has a great idea for the main character. Roland wants me to consider changing the ending. Roland invited me out to his place in the Hamptons. Ken is still talking about Roland when Ruth—sensing there’s more between Ken and Roland than the screenplay—changes the subject again. “Before I forget, your father brought home some new Barbies for the girls. You can—”

“Ah, Mom.” Ken shakes his head. “The girls don’t play with Barbies anymore.”

“What do you mean, they don’t play with Barbies anymore?”

Ken makes a small gesture suggesting the reason should be obvious. “Stacey’s too old, and Sam—”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” she balks. “Your sister’s collected dolls all her life. Some people even think those Barbies will be worth some money one day. And Samantha’s certainly not too old for Barbie.”

“No, but Suzie and I—well, we want the girls to understand that there’s more to life than fancy clothes and pink cars.”

She knows he’s always thought Barbie was silly, but this feels different. Now Ruth feels she’s being judged by her son. Possibly even punished. “You’re not still upset about the Ken doll after all these years, are you?”

“It’s not about the Ken doll,” he says, though going through life as Barbie’s emasculated boyfriend has done him no favors. Or his children, whose friends all know their father is Ken, which has been met with mixed reviews. They may or may not realize that Barbie is also their friends’ aunt.

While Ken’s still talking, Ruth’s eyes grow heavy. She can’t fight the exhaustion anymore and drifts off to sleep.

Elliot wakes her several hours later. The sun has set, and he turns on the lamp on her nightstand. “Why don’t we get you ready for bed,” he says, helping her sit up. He starts to unbutton her blouse, but she stops him, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Ruthie,” he says gently, “I’m going to have to see sooner or later.”

But there’s no way to prepare him for what’s left of her. “No, no, I can get myself undressed.” But she can’t. Each time she moves her arm it sends a searing pain so fierce it makes her want to retch. She gives up and sleeps in her clothes that night.

The next day Barbara encourages her to take a walk on the beach. Other than her doctor and nurse, Barbara is the only person Ruth allows to see her naked, and that’s only because she’s so weak and needs help bathing and getting dressed.

“I’m sorry you have to do this,” she says later as Barbara helps her out of the tub because her body can’t handle the water pressure from the shower.

“How many times did you give me a bath when I was little, huh? It’s my turn now.” She gently towels her off and opens the dusting powder. “This’ll make you feel better,” she says, lightly brushing the floral-smelling powder across Ruth’s back and shoulders. “You’ve always been so tough,” Barbara says. “And don’t take this the wrong way—I mean, I’m not happy that you’re going through all this—but I do kinda like this vulnerable side of you. I’ve never seen you drop your guard for anyone. I never knew how to get close to you because you never needed me. And now, whether you like it or not, you do.”

I like it is what Ruth wants to say, but she can’t get the words past the lump in her throat. She reaches up with her good arm and squeezes Barbara’s hand. “I know I wasn’t a great mother when you kids were growing up, but I did the best I could. I did for you and Ken what Aunt Sarah did for me. I didn’t know any better. But now when I see you with Cheryl and Todd”—her voice begins to crack—“well, I see now what I missed out on. You’re wonderful with those kids. So kind and patient, so full of love for them. You’re much better at this than I ever was. I don’t know how you turned out to be so good at motherhood, because you certainly didn’t get it from me.” And with that, even though it sends a piercing blade of pain through her, she finds a way to press a kiss onto Barbara’s hand.

—

Another week goes by. Ken and his family are back in New York. Barbara is busy with the children now that school is out for the summer. Elliot is back at work and Ruth is struggling to fill her days. She doesn’t want anyone at Mattel to know about her breast cancer, so Elliot tells anyone who asks that she’s recovering from pneumonia. Breast cancer is taboo. There’s a stigma associated with it. Even in her doctor’s office, when she’s in the waiting room, surrounded by women who also have breast cancer, who could benefit from each other’s stories, comfort each other and give each other hope, they stay silent. They keep everything to themselves, barely even looking up from their magazines. But the anxiety and sadness in there, it’s palpable. Along with guilt and shame, like it’s their fault they got sick.

Ruth definitely blames herself. All those years of smoking. She did this to herself, a self-inflicted wound. And how can it be that after losing a breast, she’d still kill for a cigarette? The urge comes over her with an intensity as gripping as the pain. She has sessions with her hypnotist, who comes to the house twice a week. She eats celery and carrot sticks, slices of apples, and chewing gum, which she despises. Elliot has cleaned every ashtray and thrown out any cigarettes he’s found, even forcing her to reveal her hiding places: the bottom drawer in her bathroom and the back of the cedar closet. It’s a good thing, too, because she’s emotionally fragile and would surely cave if she could get her hands on a cigarette.

Time drags on. Except for her pregnancies, she’s always been in an office, surrounded by the business bustle—telephones ringing, typewriters clacking, people coming and going. This nothingness where she plans her days around what to eat for lunch is mind-numbing. She asks Elliot to bring her some paperwork from the office, but she hasn’t got the attention span to review W Reports or anything else. Instead, she passes each afternoon watching All My Children and General Hospital , trying to escape into the make-believe lands of Pine Valley and Port Charles. Five weeks into this, she’s about to lose her mind. After much pleading, her doctor says he’ll consider letting her return to Mattel in another month or so.

In anticipation of going back to work, the big question is what she’ll wear. She stands before her closet filled with racks of finely tailored dresses and business suits. She’s spent a fortune on her wardrobe, has favored designers like Pierre Cardin, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent. Her clothes are sleek, formfitting, and she can’t wear any of them now. The sight of them hanging there, mocking her, is too much. She drops to the side of the bed and begins to weep.

Barbara finds her like that, slumped over herself in a nightgown, face in her hands. When Ruth explains her predicament , Barbara suggests they go shopping. “We’ll go to Bullock’s,” she says. “They have a great lingerie department. They must have some sort of special bras there.”

Ruth resists. She hasn’t been out in public other than to walk along the beach. But Barbara insists with a force to rival Ruth’s own resolve.

—

“I can’t believe this is all they have,” says Ruth, holding a prosthetic breast, something akin to a beige teardrop. It doesn’t look like a breast. It doesn’t feel like one, either. “These are awful,” she says, rooting through a bin of stiff blobs in various sizes, ranging from #1, being the smallest, to #6, the largest. “I could design a better breast than this.” She thinks, I’d do it, too, if I had the energy . But she is depleted. It takes all she has just to make it through the day.

She and Barbara go to the fitting room, and she’s reminded of the time Sarah took her to buy her first bra. It hits her like a double whammy, and she can’t handle the loss of her sister along with the loss of her breast. If she’s going to get through this, she has to look to the future.

“Who invented this monstrosity?” Ruth asks, hoping to shift her mood. She’s holding up a thick white surgical bra, lined with built-in holders for the teardrops. “Frederick’s of Hollywood’s got nothing on these people.”

Barbara chuckles. “Try this one.” She hands Ruth a different size, but it fits no better.

“Now it looks like I stuck a sock in my bra.”

“You are a little lopsided,” Barbara agrees, laughing.

“A little?” Ruth raises an eyebrow, making Barbara laugh even harder. “This doesn’t look remotely natural. Hell, even Barbie’s breasts look more natural than these.” She starts laughing, too. “I should go into the boob business again.”

Barbara takes it up a notch higher. “These aren’t prosthetics, they’re pathetics .”

This cracks them both up.

“Oh God,” says Barbara, “I think I just peed myself.”

Ruth doubles over, practically howling now, clutching her sides. “Oh, stop, stop,” she begs. “Stop making me laugh. It hurts.” But it also feels good.