by Helen Brown
‘This is the last time . . .’ I said, swinging the door open.
A tall male figure hovered in the evening shadows. It was Ned, hands in pockets, looking more dishevelled and wild eyed than usual.
‘Sorry, I thought you were Katharine,’ I said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in the dressing gown, though he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Have you heard from Lydia?’ he asked, distracted.
‘No,’ I replied, still resentful he’d kidnapped her and taken her to the airport. ‘She probably arrived at the monastery a few hours ago, I suppose. Have you?’
‘No,’ he said, examining his boots.
Clearly I wasn’t the only one hurt by her departure. Tying the dressing gown firmly around my waist I invited him inside and filled the kettle. We, the mutually rejected, could at least share a hot drink. I opened the fridge. He staggered and grasped the kitchen bench.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Not too good,’ he said. ‘I’ve stopped taking my medication.’
My grip tightened around the milk container. Lydia had always been vague about Ned’s condition. She disapproved of people being labelled. It was manageable providing he kept up with his pills. Otherwise, he lost touch with reality and heard voices again.
My only experience with people like him had been in a newsroom years earlier, interviewing a distraught mother whose son, after flushing his pills down the toilet, had jumped into the lion’s pit at the zoo.
A journalist’s training is handy in some ways, but it does make you catastrophise. The headline ‘Cancer Victim Stabbed to Death by Daughter’s Lover’ sprang to mind as I backed instinctively against the knife block on the kitchen bench. Dealing with Lydia’s spaced out – or, worse still, not spaced out and potentially voice-hearing – boyfriend, was the last thing I wanted just now.
I needn’t have worried. A dejected Ned hunched over his coffee mug at the table and, sounding for all the world like a pair of jilted wives, we shared stories of our disappointment in Lydia’s heartlessness in not having contacted either of us. Poor Lydia; for all we knew she hadn’t even got off the plane or made it to a place with mobile reception.
Apparently satisfied by the coffee, our conversation and the promise that whoever heard from her first would contact the other, Ned stumbled into the night. Rivals had become allies, temporarily at least.
That evening, every time the phone rang I leapt at it. There were calls from Rob and Mary, but nothing from Lydia.
In the days that followed, being a patient became a full-time job. In between going to various test appointments we had to make momentous decisions.
During this time, my surgeon announced she was going on holiday and I’d either have to wait a month for her return to have the operation (giving the cancer cells five more weeks to use my body as a fun park) or she could refer me to another surgeon. I chose the referral, though this meant adjusting to the more flamboyant style of her colleague.
The option of reconstructive surgery was another consideration. Even though the eight-year age gap between Philip and I felt less important these days, Philip was still a ‘younger man’. I wanted to reduce the shock of massive physical change – for both of us, frankly.
A silicone implant was the simplest choice. Alternatively, I could choose a more complicated process involving harvesting the roll of fat that sat companionably on my lap to make a new bosom. Flab into fab! I loved the sound of that.
A reconstructive surgeon showed us photos. She was proud of her work, which to the untrained eye resembled carnage from World War One. She could make nipples out of anything . . . toes, ears. She knew how to slice muscles off a back and bunch them up for a boob, except she preferred doing implant surgery.
I wanted to find a surgeon who preferred transforming stomach rolls into boobs. Across town we found our man. Greg had been to lots of international conferences and he specialised in flab to fab. His photos weren’t quite as brutal as the previous surgeon’s display – though maybe he was just a better photographer.
I was becoming an expert observer of surgeons’ hands. Greg’s were confidence-enhancing with their short fingers and freckles on the backs. A compact man, he was boyish and, for a surgeon, outgoing. With his pale complexion and reddish hair, he could’ve been a Highland piper in a previous life. I liked and trusted him almost immediately.
Mastectomy plus reconstruction – I was told – would involve three surgeons and several assistants, six to eight hours under the knife and a recovery period of three months (assuming the patient was a twenty-year-old Olympian with an incredibly high pain threshold, I thought later). Greg would leave a scar the shape of a smile stretching across my abdomen from one hip to the other, cut conveniently low so I could still wear a bikini. As if.
At the same time he planned to simultaneously perform a reduction on the left breast so the new pair would match. Scarring around the breasts would be artfully concealed.
My optimism wavered. What Greg was proposing wasn’t a renovation so much as a full body refit. Putting myself through all that would be the equivalent of simultaneously bungee jumping, climbing Everest and playing in the World Cup Rugby final.
‘We live in a breast-obsessed society,’ said Greg.
Rubbish, I thought. Driving home, I stopped at some traffic lights and saw a sculpture I’d never noticed before. It was constructed entirely of concrete breasts.
A DVD about breast reconstruction lay on the kitchen table. I wasn’t keen to examine its contents. Apparently the reconstructive surgery would take longer to recover from than the mastectomy itself. Still, even though I’m no Pamela Anderson I didn’t fancy running around like an Amazon for the rest of my days.
Watching the DVD with Philip, I emitted involuntary yelps. How could those women talk so brightly about the massive scarring on their bodies?
Maybe I’d give reconstruction the swerve. But then I remembered a friend describing how shattered she’d felt waking up after her mastectomy to see a vast empty space where her breast had been. Reconstruction might be a physical hurdle, but it could spare some psychological trauma.
Getting three surgeons to show up in the same operating theatre at the same time was like arranging for Lady Gaga, Angelina Jolie and Queen Elizabeth II to attend the same charity event. The medics shuffled their diaries around and found a date to suit them all in three weeks’ time. It felt like forever.
Preparation
It’s what’s inside that counts
Two nights after Ned’s visit, the phone rang close to midnight. Answering it, I was relieved to hear Lydia’s voice, though it was a bad line that made her sound as if she was in a submarine.
She apologised for the lack of contact, explaining that it was the rainy season and the phone line to the monastery had been down. The impersonal cheer I heard in her voice left me cold.
Like a wounded lover, I held back on information and waited for her to ask. Yes, I was fine, but not really. There were long silences. I told her about Ned’s visit. Oh yes, she said offhandedly. She’d email him some time.
A parrot squawked in the background. The monastery really was in some kind of jungle. With little enthusiasm I asked what she’d been up to.
Meditating, she said, then went on to tell me that the monk and nuns had conducted a ceremony for me in a cave. There’d been chanting. Special, she said.
It sounded like a touching scene, intriguing even, but anger quickly flared. ‘So they know I’m sick?’ I asked. ‘Don’t they think you should be here right now with your family?’
Silence again. ‘I don’t know what they think,’ she replied.
Though I wanted to understand, to be reasonable, I still felt too raw. ‘I’m sick and you’re not here,’ I said quietly. Silence.
If only she could say it once. The word I longed to hear – Mum.
‘You don’t love me!’ I wailed, sounding wretched and deranged.
The Sri Lankan parrot screeched. I couldn’t gauge her respo
nse. Was she impatient, resentful . . . or weeping?
‘I do. I really do,’ she said after interminable silence. The line crackled and went dead.
The phone rang often during the three weeks leading up to surgery. My sister Mary and Ginny in New Zealand. Julie my yoga teacher and numerous others phoned. Lydia’s calls were less frequent. Either the lines were down or she was too busy attending ceremonies.
I tried to concentrate on upbeat diversions, like helping Rob and Chantelle prepare for their wedding. The big day was just five months away.
They’d chosen a wonderful venue: an old convent in the country town of Daylesford, an hour and a half’s drive from Melbourne. The tiny chapel oozed a blend of romance and spirituality. A few steps away from the chapel, the reception area opened on to balconies with views of silver-green hills nudging a vast sky. Eucalyptus on the breeze added a touch of air freshener.
They’d also booked a photographer and band, and a celebrant had been found, though she kept forgetting their names. However, organising these things turned out to be just the first tier of sorting out the Modern Wedding.
I’d had no idea there was such a thing as wedding cake emporiums until I found myself wandering through a grotto of gateaux with Rob and Chantelle. For those who considered gilded flowers too restrained, there were cakes smothered in ostrich feathers and sequins. Rob announced it wasn’t how a cake looked but how it tasted that mattered. The shop assistant asked if he’d like a tasting and presented him with a plate of what looked like plastic cubes.
‘This isn’t cake!’ he muttered, munching one thoughtfully. ‘It’s not even made with real eggs. Let’s get out of here.’
I was impressed by Chantelle’s pragmatic approach to weddings. Instead of ordering a multi-thousand dollar gown from a boutique, she’d found a designer who worked from home. She’d then treated her mother and me to glimpses of tasteful fabric samples in subtle pink. Crystals and pearls were on the agenda. She had an aversion to veils. With her dark hair, peachy complexion and vivid blue eyes, she was going to look stunning.
Like every straight man alive, Rob was proving himself a shopping bore. In every wedding-related shop we’d dragged him into he acted as if we were holding him hostage. But I enjoyed the outings. Every mother wants her son to have a beautiful wedding, and nobody deserved one more than Rob.
In between times, I was preparing for the surgery physically and emotionally. Finding 100 per cent cotton nighties that didn’t resemble something a granny might expire in proved impossible. I ended up buying three in shades of blue, inappropriately frilly, and a pair of navy slippers decorated with dachshunds. The shop assistant asked if I was going away somewhere. Yes, hospital, I replied, getting evil pleasure out of watching her smile fade.
Appointments were made to see Jodie the hairdresser, the psychologist (why not?) and David, a friend blessed with exceptional flair in furnishings. Our bedroom was too stark to feel sick in. The bedside tables bore circular scars from thousands of morning cups of tea. If I was going to be incarcerated there for weeks, it might as well be jollied up.
Not that David was feeling particularly happy, his partner having traded him in for a younger model and run off to Perth.
‘I want to end it all!’ he moaned as he flicked through his curtain samples. ‘I’m going to jump off Westgate Bridge. But only if there’s media to cover it.’
Fortunately, a shattered heart had no effect on David’s taste – which was impeccable as ever. He found two bedside tables, one tall and pale, the other compact and deliberately distressed by some Asian workhouse slave, no doubt.
Beautifully mismatched, the tables made a perfect pair – like all the best relationships. With new lamps and semi translucent curtains (off white, fine Italian lawn) I kidded myself the bedroom was going to be stylish and new-smelling enough to make me look forward to the months ahead.
When David mentioned there was enough curtain fabric left over for the Marquis de Sade room, I said why not? Maybe off white curtains that only three people on earth would realise were breathtakingly expensive would reduce the gloom factor. I decided to have the stairs re-carpeted while we were at it. Pale, elegant carpet to match the pale, elegant life I had yet to begin.
I’ve no idea what men do when they’re preparing to go into hospital. A woman – well this one anyway – clears out her kitchen cupboards. Into the bin went sachets of satay sauce circa 2001, plastic barbecue knives (who bought them?), muesli bars nobody liked. Maybe seagulls at the local landfill would appreciate them. Surgical mishaps aside, I’d be coming home to pristine cupboards, more or less.
In the back of the fridge I checked out some stewed apples destined to fester. I examined them closely and reckoned they had only a day to go, even by my standards. I spooned the apples into tiny bowls, tossed in some dried fruit and sprinkled them with crumble topping. Delicious, they said that night, scraping the bowls so clean they hardly needed to go in the dishwasher. The fools.
A brochure encouraged me to spend the days leading up to surgery constructively, filling the freezer so the family would survive while I was in hospital and I wouldn’t have to start slaving the minute I returned (when my arms would be too weak to lift pots and plates).
No wonder women get cancer in their breasts, the great symbols of nurture. Heading home from the supermarket with three months’ worth of washing powder and toilet paper, my style behind the wheel was less aggressive than usual. Life, for all its imperfections, felt so very finite and precious. Immersed in thought, I missed a turn and found myself meandering through an unfamiliar neighbourhood.
Managing the reactions of others was sometimes harder than dealing with my own. The word ‘cancer’ had such an extraordinary effect I wondered if a name change couldn’t be considered. ‘Tulip’ perhaps (somebody kindly left a bunch on the doorstep). ‘I have Tulip and you needn’t worry.’ Because some friends reacted as though I’d told them they were dying. Once the news settled in, they arranged their faces in a slightly different expression that implied that they thought I was dying.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ has to be the most commonly heard question by anyone diagnosed with serious illness. It’s a safe ask, as the patient can be relied on not to say, ‘Well, yes, actually the upstairs loo is blocked and a wild animal’s scrabbling in our attic. Bring poison and a plunger.’
No, the air fills with a balloon of silence. The sufferer says, ‘Not just now thanks; you’re so kind. I’ll let you know.’ Irritated by the weakness of that response, I invented a new one: ‘Pray for me.’ I didn’t say it solely to make people feel awkward, as it sometimes clearly did. I was hardly in the gold medal department for praying myself, but I was open to the idea that prayers of the practised and sincere can pack a punch.
‘My life’s a mess, too,’ said an acquaintance, who by all accounts lived like a princess. ‘Our basement flooded and we’re having a hell of a time with the insurance company.’
‘You’ve just reminded me,’ said another. ‘I’m way overdue for a mammogram.’
Others were more upbeat, even though life wasn’t treating them kindly. Jodie the hairdresser had a tattoo for every failed love affair. There wasn’t much blank space left on her body. She planted a kiss on my cheek and wished me luck. She said, like me, her aunt had also had a vasectomy.
‘You not sick!’ shouted Sophie the wonderful cleaner who did her best to tidy our house up every two weeks. ‘My uncle is very important doctor in China for woman’s breast. He say stop drinking coffee. Drink more tea. And don’t think you are sick! When you think sick you get sick. After you get out of hospital I find you good Chinese doctor. Help you get strong. He will make your face red again.’
The house was much tidier and smelt faintly of lemons after she left. I felt momentarily cheerful.
I decided not to respond to earnest messages asking after my health on the answer phone. There was an edge of relief in some of the voices. They didn’t want to go through the awkward
business of talking to me. They felt safer leaving a recorded message . . . and so did I, just listening.
A few well-wishers deposited alternative therapy books on the doorstep. Having watched a dear friend die of breast cancer having refused all conventional treatment and dosing herself on mistletoe injections, I wasn’t tempted – or not just yet anyway. First I’d take whatever modern medicine had to offer. I did, however, start going to the old Chinese woman who did acupuncture around the corner.
My plot to escape the gym failed. Peter, my trainer, pointed out that I’d need strong arm and abdominal muscles to speed recovery. As an act of kindness, he started giving me lighter weights. He offered to visit the house twice-weekly when I felt strong enough after hospital. I said I’d think about it.
Sleep and more sleep. I couldn’t get enough. Shock, maybe. Katharine nestled beside me in bed some afternoons and read Kidnapped aloud. Once she’d wrapped her tongue around the wild old-fashioned language, Kidnapped was riveting. No wonder Samoans called Robert Louis Stevenson ‘Tusi tala’ – the Story-teller. He put Hollywood action writers to shame. It was a relief slipping away to a world of adventure and danger of a different kind.
‘All we need now is a cat,’ said Katharine one day, pausing between chapters.
I smiled back at her. Katharine sometimes has the ability to read my mind. A kitten curled up on the blanket would have completed the picture alright. An affectionate fur ball would calm my fears and be my constant companion through whatever lay ahead. A friend beside me even when the house was empty.
But the timing was all wrong for a new cat. I had enough on my plate.
The shrink had a tea bag string draped over a mug half filled with muddy fluid. It reminded her to drink, she explained. Otherwise she got migraines.
No wonder, I thought, listening to people moaning all day.