Gail Thomas is an LA-based lawyer-turned-writer and actor. She has always been busy at work, so when a casual situationship formed with a handsome man, she figured the arrangement gave her freedom. It’s only after she was diagnosed with cancer that a certain clarity set in. Interview by Sophie Wilkinson
I was in my forties when I met Wes* through a dating app. He was smart, funny and looked like a nerdy Hugh Jackman. He was also in his forties but we acted like students. We had a similar sardonic sense of humour and spent weekends biking, hiking, and being generally silly.
After a few months of dating, Wes said he wanted to just be friends, which didn’t bother me much, because he still called several times a day, slept over twice a week, and helped around the house. Sometimes, he’d just call to ask me which coffee shop to go to, which felt oddly flattering. He needed me.
He could be vague about coming over, yet would always turn up, so I called him Mr Maybe. I tolerated and guided his indecision. I was good for him, and I was falling in love.
To protect my heart, I stayed on the dating apps, and occasionally hooking up with an ex. It became a routine which I labeled freedom.
I overlooked his insensitive, even mean, comments, about the other women he was dating. He’d say they were “too young”, “too old” or “too overweight”. I convinced myself that I was his “favourite”. Occasionally, I would try to break things off, to which Wes would say: “You can’t break up with me, we’re not going out”, and charm his way back.
Just before we hit three years of this situationship, a biopsy revealed irregular cells on my uterus and my doctor recommended a partial hysterectomy to remove them “just in case” they were precancerous cells. When I woke up from the surgery, the surgeon informed me he’d found cancer on my uterus and my ovaries, so he’d had to do a complete hysterectomy. He also removed 26 lymph nodes. The new biopsy reports were divided on the prognosis and treatment. It was either one cancer that had spread or two early stage cancers.
There was a lot of back and forth on my treatment plan, and my surgeon was a bully. He insisted I start aggressive treatment immediately: 30 sessions of radiotherapy followed by nine sessions of chemotherapy over eight months. But a second opinion meant I ended up doing just three chemos.
During all this, Mr Maybe’s inconsistent behaviour began to dig more deeply into my psyche, starting with the moment the doctor called with the news that I’d need surgery. Me and Wes were out together, and when I hung up, he said: “Did you have to take that call now?” As much as that hurt, I wasn’t prepared to let him go – I needed his support, however small.
Mr Maybe went with me to my first chemo session, a doctor’s appointment, and helped around the house. But when my hair started to fall out, he wouldn’t put his arm around me for a photo. Still, I enjoyed our sillyness, even if he was coming over less.
Despite being bald and tired from chemo, I desperately wanted to be “normal”. And I wanted an ego boost. So, one night I put a “Bald Girl Seeking Romance” personal ad on a dating site. Within 24 hours, 85 guys responded. This was a valuable validation; it got me closer to letting go of Mr Maybe.
It took a couple more months to end things for good with him – paradoxically, after the best sex we had ever had. It was my sexual grand reopening after the hysterectomy. While still high from the euphoria of it, I suddenly felt nauseous, dizzy, and started vomiting. I rushed, with Wes, to the hospital, where a doctor told me that the stitches from my hysterectomy hadn’t held up to our wonderful sexcapade. I was having a prolapse. My bladder was literally coming out through my vagina.
As they wheeled me into surgery, Mr Maybe was having his own freak-out, waving my wallet and keys as he lamented: “Where do I put these? I have a photography job later.” I went into surgery wondering if he would even be there when I got out. He was, but that was the last straw. My love for Wes was gone. Mr Maybe wasn’t enough anymore.
As soon as I was fully out of treatment, working again and settling into my new/old life, I just stopped taking Mr Maybe’s calls. It wasn’t easy, it’s not my style to ghost. But it was the only way. We’d been through this before, he would manipulate his way back in. Thoughts of him continued, but I never answered his calls again. I call it the clarity of cancer.
I read somewhere that you show people how to treat you. And after all of those doctors and all those decisions, I learned to treat myself pretty well. If a person’s not willing to commit, full on, especially after all the second chances, move on.
I had always wanted sex to be attached to love, but I’d settled. Not anymore. That “relationship” was unnecessarily complicated and time-consuming. And it kept me from giving someone else a chance.
Fast forward to today, 14 years on, and I would like to fall in love, but I don’t date much. I probably still have trust issues, but I hope I’ll be open should the “right” person come along.
I enjoy my own company now more than ever. I may be one of those old souls that’s just fine on their own. I used to feel like I had to justify to my own generation why I’m not married and don’t have children, but I’ve noticed an interesting shift in today’s world. Younger women seem impressed that I haven’t settled. I’ve gone from being an old maid to being a role model.
If I can’t get “amazing” in a relationship, then I can be with my amazing self and my amazing friends. I do my amazing activities. The cancer experience forced me to put myself ahead of everyone, to become number one in my own life. I’m far more selective about who I spend time with. The criteria now is: “Are they good for me?” Rather than the other way around.
*Name changed
Patient 13 shows at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe from 7-30 August
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