Immersed in wedding plans, and then cancer

By Diane Singer

updated 12:26 p.m. ET Jan. 25, 2009

It started innocently with a pair of Christian Dior sunglasses in the window of a Madison Avenue boutique. They were ideal for my vacation, so I ran in, put them on and glanced in the mirror. Sexy yet subtle. I pulled out my credit card.

Two weeks later, my fiancé, Peter, and I lazed on a North Carolina beach. Everything was wonderful, except the Diors didn’t fit; my eyelashes kept hitting the right lens. Otherwise, the trip was fabulous, especially at night, when I didn’t need the glasses. On our last day, I stuffed the specs into my bag, trying not to think about the money I’d wasted. On the drive back, my right eye began to itch. I rubbed it through Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey, all the way home to Manhattan.

Soon after, I saw my ophthalmologist. He took one look and called in his assistant, which I knew couldn’t be good. They stood close together and spoke in hushed tones.

“What’s going on?” I asked, panicked.

“We’ll need to do an MRI,” my doctor said. “There’s a problem with your optic nerve. It’s not quite right.” He paused. “It could be a thyroid condition or something else, maybe a tumor.”

My heart started racing as I pulled the sunglasses out of my bag. “No, it’s these new glasses, see?” I said, holding them up.

“It’s not the glasses,” he replied, shaking his head.

If the frames weren’t the problem, I told myself, it had to be something minor, certainly not a tumor. True, I hadn’t been seeing as well the past few months, but I attributed it to age (I was 42 at the time) and put off getting my eyes checked. In my defense, I was focused on planning my upcoming New Year’s Eve wedding. I’ve always been an optimist, existing on unwavering hope and the belief that everything works out in time. After all, I’d managed to rebuild my life after surviving a physically abusive first marriage: I’d landed a job as a fashion designer and regained my emotional health. Whatever the challenge, whether finding the right lipstick shade or maintaining hope that my mom would receive a donor kidney despite the mile-long waiting list, I’d chant to myself, How hard could it be? How long could it take? The mantra worked for me. Eventually, I managed to hit upon my new favorite lipcolor (Chanel Soft Mink), and my mother got her kidney in less than a year.

So while the ophthalmologist’s assistant booked my MRI appointment, I didn’t let my mind stray to scary possibilities. Instead, I thought about dress fittings and the apartment we were renovating. The next day, all the way through my MRI, I chanted to myself, How hard could it be? How long could it take?

One day later, Peter and I waited for Dr. Robert Della Rocca, a reconstructive eye surgeon. Suddenly, we were plunged into semidarkness, then a nurse called my name and ushered us in.

“We’ve had a power failure,” Dr. Della Rocca said wryly, “but the generator will kick in. For now, I’ll read your MRI this way.” He held the films to the window, the sun his only tool.

I stared at the black and gray shadows, a Rorschach inkblot of my head. Then the doctor startled me with his diagnosis.

“It’s a tumor,” he said.

“What kind of tumor?” Peter asked, braver than I.

“It’s a meningioma, a benign tumor that’s irreparably damaged the vision in your right eye. You’ll need surgery ASAP.”

“Wait, if it’s benign, why race into surgery?” Peter asked.

“Look,” the doctor said. “You can see that her right eye is jutting out. The tumor is pushing it forward. While the technical definition may be benign, there’s nothing benign about it.”

“Surgery?” I asked, not sure I’d heard right. How could we not have noticed my eye bulging out of my head? Maybe love truly was blind, which would explain Peter’s obliviousness; as for me, all my thoughts had been trained toward our big day, which I hoped would erase my past hurt forever.

“Yes, surgery,” said the doctor. “To get to the tumor, they’ll go in through your skull, so they will have to shave your head. But don’t worry. Your hair will grow back.”

“But our wedding is in four months!” I flashed forward to an image of me in a wedding gown with a shaved head. Just what every groom wants, I thought. Vanity, perhaps, but it was easier to focus on my appearance than on the fact that I might die. I’d spent my life in the fashion world, where looking the part was key to success, and I was quite sure bald wasn’t in this season.

The doctor scribbled a name, saying, “Go see him. He’s the best with these cases.” Then we were back on the sidewalk, me clutching my MRI films. Everywhere, people spilled out onto the street.

“It’s a major blackout; the entire Eastern corridor’s dark,” a cop told us when we asked him about all the chaos.

“Great,” I said to Peter. “Isn’t a tumor enough?” I squeezed his hand, thinking that by now he must have no circulation left. We walked uptown as everyone scrambled for home before dark. I was grateful for the distraction. I didn’t want to think about my own possible vision loss and the darkness it could bring.

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