Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  Here we go again. Clothing sizes are taboo. We do not discuss the size of things unless they say medium. I look over her head at the curtain and silently will her to ask me a different question.

  Bev is waiting for my reply.

  “I think that might be my cue to go and get us a coffee,” says Brendan, disappearing faster than the White Rabbit down a hole.

  “He’s a funny one, isn’t he?” Bev remarks, watching Brendan speed out the door.

  Before I can answer she’s pulled a soft cotton bra that looks like something my grandmother would wear, from the bag. There’s no underwire, no frills or lace but there is an abundance of beige and some extremely sturdy looking straps, the kind that could be used as a bungee rope. It reminds me of the underwear you see in movies from the fifties. But uglier.

  Bev holds the bra against me. “This should be a perfect fit,” she says, trying to be jovial. “You’ll wear this when you go home. It’s very soft. Perfect for post-surgery and until you’re ready for a regular prosthetic bra.”

  She hands me a stuffed beige triangle and I dutifully give it a squeeze. It’s a cushion. A bloody cushion. Nobody said I’d be substituting my boob for a cushion after surgery. I’ll look like an idiot but at least if someone punches me in the chest I’ll have built in protection.

  “It’s temporary,” Bev explains, as if to excuse the utter hideousness of the thing. “After six weeks or so you can be measured for a proper prosthesis.”

  I stare in disgust as she takes the cushion from me and slides it into a hidden pocket in the bra, showing me the finished product. She’s doing her best to talk it up but it still looks like a cushion. It’s a cushion shaped like a boob.

  Then Bev shows me the DVD and books they like to give for free to cancer patients. She tells me about the information inside and how I should use this as my ‘go to’ book if I want to know something. I like that idea. I like to broaden my knowledge without having to ask questions. And if I lend it to Lani, it’ll keep her off the Breast Cancer website.

  Next, Bev says, “Whip off your shirt and we’ll test this baby out.”

  I do as she asks and before I know it, my white Bendon bra has been replaced by something from the nunnery. (Albeit without the cushion or I would have three breasts.) I look down at my chest and think to myself it would make a perfect form of contraception because no woman seen wearing one of ‘these babies’ would get sex. Ever.

  Bev adjusts the straps and stands back to admire her own skill in judging women’s bust sizes. “Lovely.”

  That’s a matter of opinion.

  Bev gives the straps a final tweak here and there. “See?”

  I stare in horror at the reflection before me in the mirror. I think I might cry. Seriously, do women view this as acceptable post-mastectomy underwear? Because I don’t and I will not be wearing it. I’d rather look as lopsided as a three-legged dog. More to the point I won’t be paying for it either, if there’s a charge. I swallow and turn back to Bev. I can’t hurt her feelings. It’s not her fault. She didn’t design the bra. Mother Teresa did.

  “Yes. Lovely,” I reply. I take the bra off and put it back in the bag hoping it might magically turn into something pretty by the next time I see it.

  “So, I’ll see you tomorrow after your surgery,” Bev says, heading for the door. “Is there anything you need?”

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  Unless you can give me my boob back without the cancer.

  “Great. Well, ring the bell if you do.”

  And she leaves me alone. As alone as I can be with that woman in the next bed muttering to her imaginary friends.

  Chapter 9

  One journey along a narrow corridor and up a few floors and I’m lying on a narrow examination table in a cubicle in the Nuclear Medicine Department. The room is quiet and darkened. Neat rows of holes punctuate the pre-fab ceiling like so many other ceilings I’ve seen lately. The curtain to the cubicle moves back and forth in the faint breeze created as someone walks by in the hallway. It doesn’t seem real. People with cancer look sickly and pale. They are gaunt from weight loss and have a greyish pallor to their skin. I am none of these things. I am simply Sophie and I want this to be over.

  Brendan is sitting in a chair on the opposite wall, sipping the cup of tea provided by the nurse while we wait. He’s silent in his support, deep in contemplation I guess, as he checks his emails on his phone and plays solitaire. I don’t mind that he’s silent. Being with me is enough.

  The curtain swings back and a friendly looking doctor, who vaguely resembles the way Santa would look after a few shots of whisky, enters the room, belly first. He introduces himself with a handshake and a smile and begins to tell me what’s going to happen.

  “The procedure is relatively simple,” he says. “We inject radioactive dye into the tumour and then after twenty minutes or so we pop you under the machine and see where the dye has gone. It locates the sentinel lymph node which will be removed during surgery.”

  “What for?” I know my voice sounds panicky and bordering on a slight case of mania but why are they removing my lymph nodes? Is the cancer worse than the initial diagnosis?

  “We test the nodes to make sure the cancer hasn’t spread any further. If that node is clear, the others will be too.”

  “So the cancer hasn’t spread? There’s nothing I’m not being informed of?”

  “This is precautionary. It’s our way of determining where the cancer is. It doesn’t mean it’s spread.”

  “But what if it has?” I ask again, sounding a hint more crazed than before.

  God, what is wrong with me? This morning I was fine; I was taking this in my stride, being calm, getting it over with. Now I’m becoming one of those women. I want to be strong Sophie, the one who makes jokes about cancer. If I keep this up I’ll be ordering spinach smoothies with a side of chia seeds and giving up caffeine before I get home. I give myself an internal slap and try to concentrate on what he’s telling me.

  “If the cancer has begun to spread your surgeon will remove the affected nodes at the time of surgery and instead of one drain, you’ll wake up with two. She’ll discuss the next steps with you after you wake up.”

  I nod slowly as I attempt to take everything in but I feel like I’m back in that weightless place again.

  The doctor holds up a needle and prepares to inject my breast with green liquid. The needle is small. Seriously, it’s so small, a bee sting would probably be sharper but as his hand approaches my boob, my body goes into flashback mode. My brain is telling it this is going to be excruciating and my body responds by sending steaming hot tears down my face. I begin to shake. I’m shaking uncontrollably and crying like … who knows what I’m crying like.

  Brendan stands up and pulls a wad of tissues from a box on the bench. He moves to the head of the bed and hands them to me. Even he looks worried. He’s not used to seeing me so vulnerable. I’m the ‘in control’ one. Remember?

  “Sshhh, baby,” he says. “It’ll be all right.”

  I dab at my eyes and blow my nose. I give him a limp nod and squeeze his hand like there’s no tomorrow. Then I turn my eyes to the doctor.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not usually a sook about needles.” I go on to explain, through my weakening sobs, about the biopsy and resulting trauma.

  The doctor gives me an understanding smile. “It’s not overly painful, I promise. The stinging will only occur after the dye is in and then it won’t be pain, as such. Most women describe it as a warm sensation. Turn your head to the wall so you won’t see when the needle goes in. That should help.”

  Warm, my bum, I think, but I do as he tells me. I’ve been on the Breast Cancer forum and not one of those women used the word ‘warm’ in relation to this procedure. In fact, a couple of them described it as excruciating.

  Miraculously, I manage not to faint, not even when I begin to massage my breast as instructed, to make the dye disperse. The stinging is painful. There’s no blo
ody warm sensation about it.

  Two and a half hours, three heat packs and a threat of another round of dye later, I get back to the ward. My breast is covered in black crosses made by a permanent marker. I look like a treasure map though there’s not many people who’d want this kind of treasure.

  “You were gone a while,” says Bev, who has finished her shift and is heading home.

  “Nothing is ever simple in the life of Sophie Molloy,” I half joke.

  “What happened?”

  “The dye decided it didn’t want to move around my body. It liked my tumour too much.” I didn’t mention that I’d had to sit in the hallway massaging my boob like a sex offender for an hour and a half. Or that they had three goes at getting an image and after the doctor informed me he’d have to inject me again I told him I’d rather be forced to drink bleach.

  *****

  At 6 a.m. the following morning, I am woken from my one hour of sleep to get ready for my surgery. It’s been a horrendous night. Clearly, the dividing curtain between the woman in the bed next to me and myself is not sound proof. She’s been farting, coughing her lungs up and alternating between snoring and setting off her drip alarm the entire night. Even with the begged for sleeping pill, I remained wide awake, alert and counting those dots on the ceiling.

  As I come from the shower wearing an exotic hospital gown of baby blue and white stripes, a nurse appears to give me a pre-med. She takes my blood pressure and settles me in bed. Then my roommate speaks from across the divide.

  “You didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, lovey. You tossed and turned.”

  It’s all I can do to clamp my lips together.

  “Mmm.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  I think to myself that it’s impossible to be woken up when you haven’t gone to sleep but I refrain from pointing out the fact.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Thankfully, this is the moment when the orderlies come to take me to surgery. Lack of sleep does not make me the pleasantest of people.

  I’m wheeled down the hall and along to a waiting room outside the operating theatres. A nurse comes with a warmed blanket and places it over me and suddenly, in the quiet bustling, I’m finally getting some sleep.

  “Sophie? Sophie.”

  It’s Dr. Downer. She’s standing over me. Her hand is on my shoulder and she’s smiling. She’s wearing surgical scrubs and a jaunty little hat with a flower pattern. “How relaxed are you? I don’t usually have to wake patients up before they go into surgery.”

  “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

  “Well, you can sleep all day after this. I’m taking you in now. I’ll talk to you again after the surgery.”

  I smile at her. I trust her. I know she’s going to do the best she can with this thing that’s taken up residence inside my body. Then I fall asleep again. And true to Dr. Downer’s words, I sleep for the rest of the day.

  Chapter 10

  By dinnertime that night, I’m sitting up in bed in a private room, feeling rested, relieved and extremely hungry. Dinner has been ordered for me and I don’t care what it is. At this moment, I’d eat cardboard if it had a scrape of butter on it.

  The door squeaks open and a small round face appears around the half-drawn curtain. “Mummy?”

  I push myself up in the bed and put on a smile, not that I have to fake it. I feel so much relief now that this first step is over, I could smile until my face drops off. Dr. Downer has been in to tell me they got the cancer. She’s going to explain the details later but she assures me I’m fine.

  Rory comes pelting into the room, a bouquet of lilies trailing the ground behind him. He’s trying to hide them behind his back but the bunch is so big an elephant wouldn’t obscure them.

  “Ta da!” He whips out the flowers and I act surprised.

  “Oh, they’re beautiful.”

  “I wanted to get the pink ones but Brendan said you like white better.” He looks a bit miffed at being told what his mother likes but shoves them in my direction anyway. I give the flowers a sniff and turn the bouquet this way and that, admiring it for his benefit.

  “Where is Brendan?” I ask.

  “He went another way. I told him it was this way, I looked at the numbers on the wall and the arrows.” Rory beams at me, proud that he’s been independent enough to find me without adult assistance.

  “You shouldn’t have run off like that. It’s naughty.”

  “I didn’t. Brendan’s in the hall. On the phone.”

  “Oh. Okay then.” I nod and ring the buzzer. When the nurse arrives I ask if she has a vase for my flowers.

  “Gee. Another bouquet?” She grins at me as she relieves me of the huge bunch. “We’re going to have to call for vase reinforcements from the other wards at this rate.”

  I have to agree with her. There’s nothing like a bout of cancer for reminding people that they haven’t been keeping in contact. The bouquet count is up to fifteen already. I never knew I had so many friends. The only unfortunate thing is that none of the arrangements appears to be from Melinda. But knowing her, she wants to make a grand entrance, carrying some huge bunch nobody else could hope to match.

  After the nurse leaves the room, Rory hops up on the side of the bed. He stares quite openly at my sudden lack of chest. His face is sombre but he doesn’t appear upset, more quizzical. Like me, he likes to be reassured, to understand what’s going on. That’s why I’m trying to tell him everything that’s happening. He shouldn’t be afraid or feel like he’s being left out. I think it’s important for him to know.

  “Can I have one of your special cuddles?” I ask. “I think I need a cuddle tonight so I’ll have a good sleep.”

  Rory’s eyes haven’t left my chest. I can tell he’s trying to process the change but it’s making me feel a bit like I’ve gone out in public without my trousers on or something.

  “I’ll hurt you,” he says, pointing to the empty space where my boob used to be.

  “You won’t. The doctor has given me some medicine so I can’t feel much and if you be extra gentle, it will feel nice. Cuddle me on this side.” I shuffle over to the side that still has a breast.

  He considers this for a minute and makes up his mind I’m right. “You’ll probably get better fast. My cuddles are magic.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  Rory leans over in the bed and wraps his tiny arms around my neck. He’s so small his arms barely reach but he leans his head into the good side of my chest and gives me a squeeze. I can tell he’s trying hard not to be too rough and it makes me tear up. I fold him into my arms and give him a hug back.

  “That’s lovely,” I say. “I love you Mr. Rory.”

  “I love you, too, Mrs. Mummy. Even more than Ben Ten.”

  Wow. Now there’s a compliment.

  After a minute, Rory pulls back. He sits up on the bed, his back very straight. His fingers curl into the sheets. “Do you have a cut, Mum? On your tummy?”

  “It’s on my chest actually, but the doctor sewed it up. In a few weeks it’ll be a big scar.”

  He brightens at that. “Is it like the one I got on my knee at footy? Can I see?”

  “It’s bigger than that, I imagine. I’m not sure. I haven’t had a look. Shall we look together?”

  I know this sounds like a bit of a weird thing to do, but I don’t want my son to be freaked out because I look different. I want him to see I’m still the same person.

  “Can we?”

  “Yep.” Slowly, I pull down one side of my singlet top, just enough so he can see the wound. A huge white dressing stained with blood covers it. He studies it for a minute, clearly in awe, even though he can’t see the actual cut.

  “Coooool! That’s massive. That bandage goes way under your arm.”

  I look down at where my breast used to be. It is quite a large incision.

  “What’s that pipe for?”

  “It’s not a pipe, it’s
a tube and it’s to drain the nasty stuff away so I don’t get infected.”

  He looks down at the bottle containing the contents of the drain. “Gross. Are there guts in there?”

  “Mostly blood, I think.”

  “Can I take a photo of your bandage on the phone? Nobody at school has ever had a cut that big.”

  I’m not sure a picture of my surgical wounds would make appropriate viewing for a bunch of six-year-olds and I tell him so.

  “But Evan got his stitches in a jar. And Brodie showed us the great big splinter they took out of his foot. Miss Reynolds said it was more interesting than toys ‘cos we’re learning new things. She likes gross stuff.”

  How does one explain that it’s not quite the same?

  I’m saved by the bell as the curtain is pushed aside and Brendan appears, looking very tentative. As if compelled to look at a car crash, his eyes travel down to my chest. It’s like his eyes are ball bearings and my missing breast the magnet. He can’t control them, even though he’s trying. He approaches the bed and kisses me on the forehead, giving me a funny sideways hug that avoids the right side of my body.

  “You look well,” he says. “I was expecting you to be groggy.”

  “I feel good. Thank you for the lovely flowers.”

  “I know you like lilies. I got this for you too.” He whips flat rectangular object from behind his back and gives it to me.

  I pull at the wrapping. It’s an iPad. Brendan’s been at the retail therapy again. At this rate, we’ll be bankrupt by the time I’m finished treatment.

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “You can watch some movies or read a book. I know you’re only here for a couple of days this time but there’s a way to go. You’re gonna be sick of hospitals if you don’t have something to do apart from eat chocolate.”

  This is one of the sweetest, kindest gestures he’s ever made. I tell him.

  “An iPad is a very expensive gift,” I add.

  “You know I don’t like to talk about money, Soph. Yes, I’ve been spending a lot lately but what does it matter? Life’s meant to be enjoyed, isn’t it?”