Forged with Flames

by Ann Fogarty

  When I picked up the phone later in the week I couldn’t have been less prepared for what was coming. It was the radiologist. She’d held the meeting and there was one hundred per cent agreement that no radiation should be done. Fabulous! Now I could really get on with my life, I thought. But Marie’s next sentence hit me for six.

  ‘We were also all in agreement that you should have a mastectomy,’ she said, quietly.

  I could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Not once, even for a second, had this eventuality entered my head. The final decision was, of course, up to me, and I was to return to my breast surgeon, to let him know what I had decided. I knew Marie was thorough but I still wanted to think it through.

  As I emerged from the initial shock of Marie’s news I was astounded by how furious I became: angrier than I’d ever been in my life. Explodingly angry with life’s apparent cruelty. Bewildered too, at how this could happen after all I’d endured. My breasts were the only reasonably unscathed bit of my body left; I couldn’t bear the thought of losing one of them. There was some scarring there, but not a lot compared to the rest of me; and most importantly, the skin there was still good sweating skin. When one well-meaning friend told me I mustn’t be so vain, she was lucky I didn’t give her a good whack.

  I talked to Professor Masterton whose judgement in these matters I knew I should trust. He agreed with their recommendation. I rang Pat, the sister from Hampton Rehab, and she told me to try to be sensible and think long term. There wasn’t a rational reason not to have the surgery but still I fought with the idea. I don’t think any woman wants to lose a breast, and the thought of losing my precious skin too… I was probably more open with Pat than with anybody else. She understood my struggle from the early days at Hampton and was a safe person to share concerns with. I poured out my anguish over the phone to her: how difficult it was to even contemplate losing a breast, having more scars, and looking stranger than ever.

  ‘This isn’t fair,’ I exclaimed. ‘None of it’s fair!’

  Much of the anger that raged through me, of course, belonged to what had happened in 1983 and afterwards. I’d always kept such a tight lid on it—except for that one scream—because I didn’t know what to do with it all. Now it was taking over and threatened to go out of control. I realised I needed help when, a day or so later, I was standing in the queue at our local supermarket. The line at the checkout was moving irritatingly slowly. Why are we just standing here like this? How on earth could this be taking so long? Just get a move on, you people. Hurry up! The longer I stood in the queue, the more disturbed I got. Soon I was seething. Just as it was almost my turn, I knew that if I didn’t get out of there right away, I was going to scream and scream. I was shaking with the effort to keep control. I dumped my basket and took off outside, bumping into a man I knew from church as I came out who wanted to talk.

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ I managed to get out, and pushed on.

  I’d been so close to losing my usual self-control that I had shocked myself. I went home and immediately made an appointment to see Wes, my GP. I’d developed a lot of trust in him during the difficulties of the previous summer and felt confident turning to him for help. Wes was good at coming up with ideas to deal practically with problems, suggesting ways of channelling my emotions into positive outcomes. I always left his surgery buoyed by a sense of hope that I could manage.

  One of his suggestions on a pre-mastectomy visit was that I convert the anger into energy, organising everything to run smoothly both before and after my surgery, by making lists. Being an avid list-maker, I found this idea very appealing and had soon covered my kitchen table with pieces of paper. I’d made lists since my teenage years—neat, numbered lists. I might scribble ideas out at first, but I always go back later and make them neat, very neat, with dots and commas in all the right places in my tidy handwriting, often underlined in red. Beautiful, really! I worked my way through the lists as the surgery approached, with an energy that would not normally have been available.

  Despite Wes’s help, I badly wanted to talk to someone professionally who would know where I was coming from as a woman, someone I could talk to about my distress with losing this part of my body. The Anti-Cancer Council had been helpful on the phone and one of its staff had suggested that because of my unique circumstances I could benefit from more specialised counselling. They gave me the name of someone suitable who, to my great relief, was able to give me an appointment to see her right away. When I arrived, the counsellor made us a cup of tea. Always a good start. A small, friendly woman, she had experienced breast cancer herself, which I hoped would mean she’d be able to empathise. I tried hard to tell her the reason I had come, but she kept steering the conversation back to practical matters, like where to buy the most comfortable bras and other such things, which I wasn’t at all concerned about at the time. As the session drew to a close, the counsellor acknowledged that we hadn’t really talked about the emotional issues I’d raised. No, not at all, I thought. She offered to move around her appointments and give me another session in three days’ time. I thanked her but declined the offer; the connection just wasn’t there. Travelling home I thought ruefully how much worse I felt after the counselling than before it.

  With only five days to go before the operation, I remembered a woman in New South Wales called Petrea, who counselled on cancer. When the cancer was first diagnosed, my sister-in-law, Marilyn, had given me a book and some cassette tapes produced by Petrea who had had leukaemia and now offered, among other things, a telephone counselling service. The telephone session with Petrea turned out to be exactly what I needed. She sounded warm and compassionate, and was on the same wavelength as me from the beginning. Within minutes I could feel the heaviness lifting, and by the end of the call, I even felt light-hearted and at peace. Someone had really responded to the sorrow I felt with losing my breast, coupled with the sadness for my poor body having to bear yet another blow. Somehow that made everything alright again; I knew I could now face the operation.

  Early on the day before my surgery, as I went outside to put some rubbish in the bin, I glanced up at the sky and saw a rainbow emerging from the clouds. Rainbows have always felt like a special sign from God to me, so it was a very reassuring sight at the time; God’s way of telling me that He was with me.

  I didn’t need to be at the hospital for surgery until eleventhirty the next day, which left plenty of time to feel apprehensive. Today I will say goodbye to a part of myself, I thought. I worried about how I’d manage any pain, whether it would set off flashbacks to the fires and whether I’d be able to communicate these concerns to the hospital staff. I was aware that people had lofty expectations of me after the fires but I knew I could no longer live up to them. As I stood at the kitchen sink washing the dishes, and worrying, I looked out of the window. There, stretching right across the sky was another rainbow. It was perfect—bold with a second, fainter rainbow underneath it. I ran outside and stood there marvelling, drinking it in. God really knew how much I needed this message. ‘I can do this,’ I told myself. ‘Yes, now I can do this!’

  After that, time moved quickly. Audrey arrived to take me to the hospital, scooping up my overnight bag and bundling me into her car. The anaesthetist who came to see me before the surgery was encouraging. She seemed to grasp my concerns about pain and what it might set off, and said she’d ensure I could administer my own pain relief after the operation at the press of a button. I’d never heard about this option and it set my mind at ease considerably. Not long after the anaesthetist’s visit, the orderly came to take me down to theatre. I said goodbye to Audrey and concentrated on dealing with what lay ahead. I had come to dread that journey down the corridors to theatre. Waiting inside the little curtained cubicle just outside, I couldn’t help but think sadly that this was the last time I would have two breasts. Soon afterwards, the anaesthetic was administered and I lost consciousness.

  I came back to the ward, to my good friend Shelley, waiting there,
and with the comforting recollection that I could dispense my own pain relief. It was a surprise to find that the pain was actually quite bearable without the extra relief—I’d been bracing myself for an intensity similar to that of my burns. Flowers started arriving on my second day in hospital, some from relatives in England, others from nearer home. There was even a beautiful single red rose from the surgeon. Soon the room was like a florist’s, harlequin rows of bouquets and bunches in vases lining the shelves, smaller posies on my tray table. Looking around me I felt an overwhelming sense of being surrounded by love.

  Later that day, however, I went into the bathroom and allowed myself to look at my wound for the first time. The joy dissipated. I saw stitches, a curved scar, ugliness and disfiguration—again. I simply couldn’t bear to look for too long. Hurting for my body and the latest assault waged on it, I climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets tightly around me. When one of the nurses asked me if I was alright I told her that I just wanted the world to go away for a while.

  About a month after the operation, I came to a completely new acceptance of my battered and scarred body. During one of my visits to my GP, when he was taking my blood pressure and checking that everything else was all normal, I suddenly realised that this body of mine was fabulous. It just keeps plugging on despite the ravages. This was a whole different perspective on the situation for me and I was filled with a kind of awe. After twenty-one years of hating the look of my body, I did a turnabout and embraced it with tremendous admiration. This was such a freeing notion and one that wouldn’t have occurred to me had it not been for the breast cancer.

  Although there had been grief, it turned out to be a time of healing and growth. I’d discovered that I could reach out and let people in rather than isolate myself during hard times. The whole incident drove home too, that sooner or later, everything works itself out in a good way, depending on how you look at it. That was the best lesson of survival for me. I vowed to keep this in mind for times when the going got tough again. But really, what else could happen to me, I wondered.

  38

  WHO AM I NOW?

  One afternoon back in 1998, I had been standing in the Post Office when the man next to me in the queue had turned and said ‘hello’ in a warm, almost familiar way. It made me wonder whether I should have known him from somewhere. Snappily dressed, he had a wonderful head of wavy hair, dark with some flourishes of grey, and a fluid, expressive face. Soon he was telling me proudly about his family real estate business. Talk about a character! I knew that we’d never met, though I wondered whether I’d seen his face on a real estate board. But Les knew who I was and spoke a little about the fires.

  ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for you,’ he said, which surprised me.

  I filed the experience away and, a few months before my encounter with breast cancer, remembered it. I’d never really grown attached to the house at Ambleside Crescent and for some reason never felt truly safe living in Berwick either—perhaps it was still too close to Upper Beaconsfield. I’d started to think about moving again. Now, with the girls gone, I could look for a smaller home that would be better to manage, both physically and financially; a new home that would be truly mine.

  Les had struck me as someone who’d help, and he did—beyond my expectations. He sold the house quickly and for more than I’d anticipated. That was thrilling. The speedy sale filled me with new hope which was important as having the house on the market occurred around the same time I was diagnosed and treated for the cancer. It was a good distraction and promised a new beginning. Life was racing along. Les promptly found a unit in nearby Narre Warren that was me to a tee—cosy, with a small lawn and neat garden. He became a wonderful friend during this time, overseeing matters such as renovations and generally going well beyond his role as a real estate agent. Gary, the man selling the unit, was unexpectedly generous too, painting the house throughout and replacing taps with new ones that I could turn on easily. He offered to pay my moving expenses, too, and arranged for the lawns to be mowed for a while after I’d moved in. I was so moved I wanted to cry. Hennie, my conveyancer, reduced her bill and Leigh, the removalist, gave me a special quote—all organised behind the scenes by Les. I was on a high, overwhelmed; it was hard to sleep, and for the first time in a long time, for all the right reasons.

  My last six weeks in Berwick passed quickly. I’d just recovered from the mastectomy when I moved into the unit. After the last of the boxes was unloaded, I sat in my new lounge-room marvelling at how it had all come together, and taking delight in arranging things just as I wanted them. I lashed out and bought a brand new armchair and two-seater settee—the first time I’d ever owned a new lounge suite. Terry helped with arrangements for two airconditioners while I ordered outside blinds. I wasn’t a gardener at all but I dug three little beds in front of the windows and planted some cheery flowering plants. Funnily enough, without conscious planning, it all looked a bit like an English cottage!

  Now, I live only a couple of minutes’ walk from Les’ office and often see him in passing when I do my shopping. He never fails to toot and wave, a reminder of how fortunate I was the day I stood next to him in the Post Office queue.

  When the excitement of the big move subsided, I stopped and looked around. At fifty-three, I was as alone as I was ever going to be. I no longer lived in a family home; my youth, dependent children and marriage were all behind me. Solitude was something I’d always craved in my life—a necessary salve and time to retreat into my thoughts—but only into parts of my life. It felt as if I’d hauled myself up a jagged peak, reached the top and saw life stretching before me, like a vast plain. When the girls had left Ambleside Crescent I knew I had to come to terms with living alone, so had set about working out a few strategies. After all, many people lived like that and seemed to manage quite well, I told myself. I used the little extra energy I had once the girls were self-sufficient, to be more sociable—to have people over and to get out more—but in spite of these conscious efforts, the emptiness that had haunted my life after the fires continued.

  Having breast cancer, while harrowing, was unexpectedly a time of deep connection with people. My friends and family surrounded me in the most heart-warming way and, from this perspective at least, it was almost a happy period. When I moved house I was on an emotional high—renovating and showing around the first wave of visitors—and any loneliness I might have experienced was submerged in the activity and excitement. But I couldn’t sustain that level of physical energy for very long. As life returned to its normal even pace, I found myself reflecting one evening and, without warning, a few curly questions hit me. I was sitting in my new lounge chair looking out the window at dusk, idly watching the evening traffic as cars and their headlights streamed past and people headed for home.

  ‘Well, what’s next then?’ I thought. ‘What am I doing here?’

  I caught sight of my reflection in the glass.

  ‘Who am I now?’

  Since the fires, I’d become accustomed to being seen as the ‘Fire Lady’. I had allowed Ash Wednesday and all that came after it to rule my life and define my existence. I saw now that I had unknowingly refined suffering to a great art. It had become my identity. But what was at the core of me? Soon after that evening, I took up meditating, joining evening classes taken by a woman who held them in her home. I learned to breathe in a calm, controlled way, gradually learning to still my thoughts and listen to my heart, which led to a feeling of contentment. I didn’t need to fill the holes in my life with anything from outside. I started to find joy in small things. The cheerful little faces of pansies I had planted brought on a wave of happiness. A breeze with a hint of warmth lifted my spirits as I closed my eyes to it. I had begun to learn how to be alone and happy. The emptiness receded. I realised that my ongoing peace and contentment depended on me, and that I no longer had to reach outside myself. I realised a vital shift had seamlessly occurred in my being.

  39

  THE GIRL IN
THE CORNER REVEALED

  For all the long weeks in 1983 when I lay so ill in Intensive Care, I always had the feeling that there was someone sitting in the corner of my room. As I’ve mentioned, when my friends Liz and Jane used to come in to visit me, I’d ask them if they could please get this woman a cup of tea. I was concerned that she never seemed to eat or drink but just sat there watching over me.

  At the time, I accepted her presence without much thought. Later, when I was well, I rarely talked about it in case people would think I’d been hallucinating and had just imagined it all. I knew I hadn’t though, and held close the memory of the darkhaired guardian.

  In 2003, after moving house and dealing with the strain of breast cancer, she appeared again. A friend of mine living in Canada had sent me a Christmas card with a reproduction on the front of one of the stained-glass windows in Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford. From the moment I opened the envelope and saw the card, I was completely fascinated by it. Before me was the image of an angel, sitting calmly, looking down at something or someone; her whole attention completely focused. I didn’t put it with the rest of my cards, but stood it on the little table next to the place where I often sat during the day. I found myself picking it up and peering at it, wondering why it was so compelling.

  Then one day out of the blue, it clicked: it looked exactly like the woman who had sat so patiently in the corner of my hospital room in 1983. It was my angel. I believed this absolutely, even though it seemed so bizarre. That same day I went out and bought a frame to put the card in so I could remember her. As I cut the card ready to insert into the frame I turned it over and looked at the back, for the first time noticing the caption. A shiver went through me and tears sprang to my eyes. It read: ‘The Angel of Suffering’.