Ebenstein - Mani-Pedi STAT: memoirs of a Jersey girl who almost lost everything

Memoirs of a Jersey Girl

Who Almost Lost Everything

A Vireo Book | Rare Bird Books

Los Angeles, Calif.

THIS IS A GENUINE VIREO BOOK

A Vireo Book | Rare Bird Books
453 South Spring Street, Suite 531
Los Angeles, CA 90013
rarebirdbooks.com

Copyright 2014 by Deb Ebenstein

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address:
A Vireo Book | Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 453 South Spring Street, Suite 531, Los Angeles, CA 90013.

Set in Myriad

Distributed in the US by Publishers Group West

Publishers Cataloging-in-Publication data
Ebenstein, Deb.
Mani-Pedi stat : memoirs of a Jersey girl who almost lost everything / by Deb Ebenstein.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-940207-12-4

1. Ebenstein, DebHealth. 2. CancerPatientsNew JerseyBiography. 3. Hodgkins diseasePatientsUnited StatesBiography. 4. BreastCancerPatientsUnited StatesBiography. 5. CancerPatientsUnited StatesFamily relationships. I. Title.

RC265.6.E24 A3 2014
362.19/6994/0092dc23

For Andrew, Matthew, and Chloe

Contents

Chapter 1

How Big is a Grapefruit?

S ummer, 1992. I was the quintessential Jersey girl entering my junior year of high schoolhairspray, lip gloss, dreams of driving around, windows down, in a shiny white Chevy Camaro blasting Blaze of Glory on the radio. The whole package. I stood 54 with a petite frame and a mass of long, curly brown hair. There were only a few days until the school doors opened. My phone rang. Hi, you around? Tina said with a curious giggle. Yeah, whats up? Party at the ball field. You in? she asked. Ummm, let me think. Yes. Great. Ill pick you up in fifteen minutes. See ya in a few. Love ya. I quickly shoved some essentials into my tote, grabbed a sweatshirt and applied a little extra lip gloss. I puckered my lips in front of the hallway mirror. Maybe Joey will be at the party . While Tina leaned on her horn, I rushed to the kitchen to leave a note for my mom. Went out with friends. Be back later. Youll probably be asleep. I love you.

Ten of us showed up at the field for our last hurrah before commencement. Tina and I hopped up onto the trunk of Erics car and settled in for what promised to be a fun night. Moments later, a figure in the darkness approached holding something that shimmered in the moonlight. Yeah! Go Greg! Joey yelled, once he realized Greg was dragging a keg behind him. Its a good thing one of these guys looks twenty-one. The boys spent the next several hours pounding their beers like it was an Olympic sport. I sipped my wine cooler, danced with my girlfriends, and flirted with Joey whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was a typical night in Bergen County, NJ.

Tina dropped me off in front of my house just before 5:00 a.m. I quietly closed the car door, walked up my front porch, and waved goodbye. I grabbed my pink rabbits foot keychain out of my pocket and slowly turned the key. Please dont be locked. Please dont be locked . It clicked. I turned the doorknob and CLANG. She put the chain on! Shit! My mother had a liberal parenting style that my brother and I interpreted as: I trust you. If you do stupid things, the trust is gone. So dont be stupid. I wasnt sure how tonights behavior would be categorized. I quickly ran down my list of defenses: I was responsible. I only had three wine coolers in eight hours. I didnt have sex with anyone. I didnt smoke any cigarettes. I didnt get in a car with anyone who was drinking. I didnt commit a crime. I think Im okay . What were my options? I could ring the doorbell and shed be really pissed that I woke her up. I could sit on the porch until seven when shed be in the kitchen reading The New York Times and having her Sunday morning coffee. I could see if the kitchen window was open and climb through it. Im so tired! I went around back and tried the den door. Please be open! Oh God. Please, just this once, answer my prayers. Please be unlocked . The knob turned. Thank you! I tiptoed upstairs, crawled under the covers and melted into my mattress where I slept until noon.

I awoke to a beautiful Sunday afternoon. In anticipation of my third year on the varsity volleyball team, I decided to start training before practice officially began. I knew Coach had come to expect a certain skill level from me and I didnt want to disappoint. I strapped on my sneakers and made my way to the high school track. After a mile warm up, I finally reached the bleachers that greeted me every weekend, and began to run up and down the steps with my stopwatch in hand. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Something was wrong. I was out of breath. Not just the regular out of breath, but something different. Something restrictive and strange. I was slow. Too slow. I shrugged it off and powered through. Chalking it up to a late night of partying with my friends, I went home, determined to try again the next day.

The season began and I stood on the very same court where I had stood so many times before. Our first three games were all miserable. My feet too slow, my arms too loose. I knew what I had to dopractice longer and harder. The best thing about sports is that hard work pays off. Practice makes you faster. Weights make you stronger. The recipe had never let me down.

Even as a little girl, I loved skipping, jumping, and running. It simply made me happy. I loved to race my brother down our street and play flag football in the park around the corner. As I got older, I realized organized sports were an opportunity to channel that energy into competition. My parents were athletes, and they constantly encouraged me to challenge myself. Even when they were going through their divorcea time when they couldnt agree on anythingthey still came together to support my brother and me in our athletic endeavors.

My mother told me about growing up on Long Island, shooting hoops in the backyard with her cousins while my grandparents watched with pride. Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Peoria, Illinois, my father worked as a caddy at the local golf course. When off duty, he collected as many golf balls as he could fit into the pockets of his chinos. The rule of the club was that if you could find it, fish it, or reach it, it was yours. If that meant crawling knee deep into the swampy lake while his fingers crept along the slimy bottom, he did it. The forest teeming with poison ivy?no problem. Every ball was another swing where he learned to be the golfer he is today.

So even though Id grown into a boy-obsessed fashion junkie, I was still an athlete. I was doing it allwarming up in practice, running the assigned miles and performing the drills. But my body wasnt responding. In fact, I was regressing. I was missing serves, getting slower on the court, and unable to set the ball for my teammates. I practiced more and more. I stayed late at the gym and worked on my setting. I worked on my spiking and digging. Over and over. But my work didnt translate onto the court. My body just wasnt listening to me.

It didnt make sense. I had grown aware of my strengths and weaknesses, and sports had always been a strength. The whole situation was just, well, odd. By midseason, one of my coaches pulled me aside to ask if everything was okay. Yes, I told her. Im working hard. Even after practice, Im practicing!