Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  He’s right there. And if spending a bit of our savings is his way of coping, I can put up with it especially if he’s spending some of it on me.

  “You’re not in too much pain?” he asks.

  “Hardly any. Dr. Downer said there wouldn’t be a lot. The breast is basically an extra bit of skin. You’re not cutting through muscles to remove it.”

  He looks visibly relieved at this, which is nice. I like that he’s showing tenderness, that he doesn’t want me to be in pain. Sometimes he’s so anal about appearances, it’s hard to crack the façade.

  “What about the cancer?” he whispers. I’m unsure if this is because he’s concerned or because Rory is sitting next to me but either way, we don’t have to whisper the ‘C’ word. It’s not going to jump out and get us.

  “The doctor said Mum’s cured,” Rory announces. “But I gave her a magic hug to make sure. You should check out her cut. It’s way bigger than that one I had on my leg.”

  Now Brendan looks vaguely appalled. “You showed Rory your incision?”

  “Only the dressing and why not? He wanted to see it.”

  Brendan’s eyes get even bigger.

  “It’s not like I stripped naked and ran down the corridor, Brendan. I pulled the side of my top down a little.”

  “I can’t believe you’d do that. Don’t you have any sort of filter? He’s your son.”

  And I can’t believe he’s being such a prude. But then I shouldn’t be surprised. In the years we’ve been together the only thing we’ve ever fought about is my openness at sharing every detail of my life with my friends. Brendan’s a bit old school. He believes some things should be private, like body parts.

  “I was fully clothed.”

  “That makes no difference.”

  I take a deep breath and count to five. I want to say ‘whatever’ in a sarcastic tone but I know it won’t help so I suggest that perhaps it’s time for the boys to go home. Rory’s bedtime doesn’t need to be disrupted because I’m away.

  Brendan helps Rory down from the bed and after a flurry of kisses he says goodbye and ushers him from the room. As I lie there alone, dozing off, I wonder if he was hurrying to get away because of Rory or was it because of me?

  Chapter 11

  Two days later and I’m back home, still disbelieving that they can cut a large part of my anatomy away and discharge me within minutes. I can see why they do it though. I’m not sick just stiff, sore and sleepy. Being in my own bed, sleeping when I want, without some nurse poking me every twenty minutes is the best thing for me. You never realise how good being surrounded by your own things is, until you’ve completed a stint in hospital. Yes, the staff is caring and lovely, but those beds are like rocks and staring out the window at a car park isn’t exactly my idea of riveting entertainment. It’s far more fun being here, watching Brendan attempt to navigate his way around the new coffee machine. Apparently, his stint of retail therapy isn’t quite over yet.

  Since I’ve been home, Brendan’s been doing his best to play nursemaid. He’s taken time off work, so I can relax, but while he shows promise with washing and ironing, his bedside manner leaves a little to be desired. He keeps wanting me to go for a walk or sit on the exercise bike. He’s questioned me repeatedly as to when I’m going to stop taking the painkillers, because, surely, I don’t need them. I think he thinks I’m going to get addicted or something. He doesn’t seem to understand that, at the moment, they’re helping me sleep and sleep is the best medicine. He should try sleeping with a drain sprouting from under his arm. I bet he wouldn’t be whining about painkillers then.

  The drain is quite annoying and not merely because the wound is starting to heal. I can feel the piece of tube inside me every time I move. I keep forgetting I have the silly thing attached to my body. I get up and walk off without it and it drags along behind me like a disgruntled puppy on a lead. Yesterday, Brendan took me for a quiet lunch at our favourite café and I forgot to put it under the table out of the way. A woman almost went flying when she slipped on it and was about to give me a piece of her mind until she saw what it was she’d tripped on. After that, she simply looked at me with pity. Which sort of made me feel, for once, like I do have something wrong with me. It’s still unbelievable that I have cancer.

  *****

  So today is the day, the appendage can be removed. Alleluia! Despite waking this morning with a headache that could explode bricks and a fear I’m getting an infection in the wound site, I can’t wait to get into Dr. Downer’s rooms and have her take the drain away. I’ll drag myself there on my hands and knees if I have to.

  By ten o’clock, Brendan and I are in the car. We reverse out of the driveway and Brendan stops two minutes down the road to get us coffee. He’s still experiencing something of a coffee machine operation crisis at home and has said that until I’m back on my feet he’s going to get our local barista to make the coffee instead.

  “Can you get water too?” I beg. “And Panadol?” Because despite the fact that I’ve already taken two of the strongest painkillers known to man, my head is still feeling like someone is using a jackhammer inside it.

  Brendan hops out of the car, and returns what seems like a week later, carrying a tray with two coffees, a bottle of water and a packet of Panadol. We stow the coffees in the cup holder, I pop the foil on a couple more pills and Brendan pulls back into the traffic as we continue the journey to the doctor’s.

  As we drive, I have a sip of water — for some reason I can’t stomach the smell of that coffee — I lay against the reclined seat, eyes closed trying to get past the overwhelming feeling of nausea that’s engulfing me. Then suddenly, I spring upright.

  “Stop,” I squeal. “Pull over! Now! Quick!”

  “What? Now?” Brendan looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles. He’s calmly sipping his mocha and tapping a finger on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio.

  “I’m going to be sick. Pull over!”

  Brendan glances sideways at me. I think he senses I’m not joking, that time is of the essence and, with what is probably the image of vomit spraying over his leather seats in mind, he wrenches the car into the car park of the local fire station faster than the speed of light. The tyres screech to a halt. I’m not sure what the protocol is for dropping wheelies in a fire station but he’s done it anyway. A cloud of dust has flown up behind us and is settling over the freshly detailed car but Brendan’s not saying a thing. His face is grim and he’s pressing his lips together.

  Fumbling, I open the car door. I run to the landscaped garden and release the contents of my stomach over a bed of pretty yellow Kangaroo Paws. And as I’m wondering how this could happen without a scrap of warning, I feel it. My wound bursts. Yes, pus begins to seep from under the dressing. It’s trickling down my torso and soaking into my top and I can’t do anything about it because I’m trying to hold my hair back with one hand and keep my drain out of the way with the other.

  Then, as I’m attempting to put myself back in order, I spy a group of firemen. Big, burly, handsome firemen. They’re standing in a row, arms folded, gawking at me over the balcony of the firehouse. Under normal circumstances, I might have been graced with a wolf whistle but they simply look stunned. I suppose it’s not every day they see a woman throwing up in their garden. Repeatedly.

  “Sorry,” I call feebly up at them. “It was either all over your garden or all over me.”

  “Are you okay?” one of them calls back.

  “Nothing a bullet to the head won’t fix,” I quip and stagger back to the car.

  The vomiting continues in intermittent bursts all the way to the doctor’s. The bouts coincide perfectly with my attempts to sip my water and by the time we get there Brendan has swerved to miss a truck, pulled over in the emergency lane of the freeway — because it was obviously an emergency — and copped abuse from a number of passing motorists because he’s doing less than the speed limit. He’s too afraid that doing over eighty kilometres an hou
r will set my stomach off again. He’s trying to preserve his interiors. He’s also stopped to dress my wound twice, with dressings he bought from the chemist on his second stop there today.

  Finally, he parks the car outside Dr. Downer’s rooms.

  “We’re here,” he says, looking as relieved as I feel. This has been an epic journey for a trip that was only ten kilometres, if that.

  As I enter the packed waiting room and make my way to the reception desk, a collective gasp of horror emanates from the chairs around me, so I put on my jolliest face. I know I look a fright. I do not need these people to confirm it.

  “’Morning, June.”

  “What on earth happened to you?” asks the receptionist, barely hiding her shock. My carefully styled outfit is nothing more than a bedraggled mess. My shoes are covered in vomit, my hair smells like spew and my top, which has dried pus down one side, has stuck to my body. Not to mention my face looks like one of the zombies from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.

  “I had an argument with my wound. I think the wound is winning.” I give her a wan smile.

  “Why didn’t you cancel, love? You look like death warmed up.”

  And served on toast, I think.

  “I want the drain out.”

  “Your GP could have seen to it.”

  Yeah, if I wait till September.

  I shrug. “I didn’t look like this when I left home and once we were on the way, there was too much traffic to turn around. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion a doctor’s rooms are where I’m meant to be right about now.”

  She looks sympathetic. “I think you might be right. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Only if you want me to throw up on your carpet.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  I nod sadly. “Look, I know you’re packed and I’m early but is there any chance Dr. Downer could squeeze me in now or at least get me a bucket while I wait. I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  The receptionist consults her computer. Then a woman, wearing an aqua turban and a matching drain under each arm approaches the desk. The woman has no hair and no breasts but she has the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. “I’m next, June,” she says. “But let this one go first. She looks like she could do with a break.”

  “Are you sure?” I could kiss her.

  “Positive. I can wait another twenty minutes. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  Gratefully, I sag into a chair and wait my turn.

  *****

  “I think I’ll admit you to hospital,” Dr. Downer says, as she’s sucking the fluid from my wound with a big long syringe. “We need to get this infection under control.”

  I give her my most pleading look. Hospital is the last place I want to be, I want to go home and be with the boys and go to work and put this ordeal behind me. I can’t take the idea of being in hospital again. “Do I have to? Please. I feel much better now you’ve given me the Maxolon.”

  I don’t really, but at least the needle has stopped the vomiting. The two painkillers Bev has brought over from the ward are beginning to take effect, too.

  Dr. Downer turns away to dispose of the drain she’s removed and take off her gloves. I think she’s taken pity on me because she says, “Lay there for a bit and we’ll see how you feel. But if you go home, I want you in here at nine in the morning so I can drain the site again and make sure everything’s all right.”

  “Of course.” If I could jump from the bed at this stage I would, but I feel so weak I’m lucky to smile.

  Bev, who’s still lurking, puts a hand over mine. “You’re getting a bit of colour back,” she says. “You looked dreadful before. How long were you feeling ill for?”

  “I wasn’t. I felt fine, just a bit of a headache. Then I started throwing up.” I tell her about our trip to the fire station and the emergency ramp and the chemist and she lets out a loud laugh.

  “Gosh, you’ve had a rough trot.”

  “I try to create drama where I can.”

  On the other side of the curtain, I hear Brendan’s voice. “You can say that again.”

  Chapter 12

  Things return to normal after the infection disaster, so I’m keen to get back to work. Having come to the conclusion that daytime TV is as inane as it was when I was nursing Rory, I plan to go to the shop for a few hours the next morning. It may be that I have to admit defeat and take up residence on the couch afterwards but I’m hopeful I can make it through a day. I’m actually feeling buoyant and chirpy, like I’ve been given a new lease of life since that drain was removed and the infection has begun to subside.

  As with most mornings in Perth, the sky is a clear blue, promising another warm day. Now that I’m driving again, I drop Rory in the drive-through without a hitch. I even give Miss Butterworth a wave; something I like to do because I know it makes her uncomfortable. My hope is that one day she’ll wave or smile in return but there’s about as much chance of that as there is me growing my boob back. Still, I persist. It adds punch to the morning.

  After I collect coffee for myself and Lani, I head towards my first day at work since my surgery. It’s also my first day of wearing the ‘cushion bra’. Until now, my only trip out of the house was to the café and the doctor’s, so I’ve not needed it, but if I want to rejoin society, I have to face the thing sooner rather than later. And seeing as I have no choice in the matter, other than to be completely lopsided, I suppose I should wear it. I might scare the customers away otherwise.

  Earlier this morning, I looked at myself in the mirror for a good ten minutes, hoping that the boob wouldn’t look as fake to everyone else as it appears to me. I didn’t manage to convince myself completely. I still feel like I’m wearing a great big cushiony sign that says, ‘Check this out!’ I am, however, getting used to the idea that there’s a big space where my breast used to be, and while people think I’m being brave and ‘coping’, I can say with honesty, having one breast has not made that much difference to the way I feel about myself. Some women get quite upset after a mastectomy. They believe their femininity has been taken away. I don’t feel anything like that. It’s neither here, nor there, to me. The only thing I don’t like is being lopsided. I don’t feel less of a woman because of it.

  Armed with lattes and two crumpets heaped with butter, I push the door of the shop open with my hip. Lani’s already in. She’s been a rock this past fortnight and though I’ve spoken to her every day on the phone, I’ve only seen her once when she popped by the hospital. I’m hoping it’ll be quiet this morning so we can have a good catch-up.

  “Lani?” I head for the back of the shop and dump my bag in the cupboard.

  “In here.”

  Lani appears from the storeroom carrying a large pile of hats I’ve never seen before. She’s wearing a pale blue mini kilt, black ankle boots, legwarmers and a teeny cream-coloured angora jumper that looks remarkably like a powder puff. Around her head, she’s knotted a pale blue bandana that’s reminiscent of a Bananarama film clip I used to love. The tied ends are sitting up on top of her bald head like rabbit ears.

  Bald head?

  I do a double take.

  “Your hair?” The words splutter out in a sort of hysterical squeak. I’m used to Lani’s crazy get-up but shaving her head? What was she thinking? She’s balder than a baby’s bottom.

  “You like it?” She plops the hats on the table before me and gives her head a primp, like she’s smoothing the non-existent hair. Then she turns side to side so I can admire it from every angle.

  “I… uh… it’s very unusual. You look so different.”

  “I thought it might make you feel better. You know, doing it together.”

  Oh no, she’s shaved her head to cheer me up.

  “But I’m fine. Everything’s getting back to normal.”

  Lani walks over to the table and pulls her coffee from the tray. She points to one of the crumpets. “Mine?”

  “Yep.”

  After she swall
ows, she says, “I know you’re fine, this is for when you lose your hair from the chemo. If we’re both bald you won’t feel so self-conscious.”

  I put my coffee down and wrap my arms around her. I feel a splodge of butter from her crumpet drip onto my top but I ignore it and kiss her apricot blushed cheek.

  Lani has done some fairly amazing things as a friend but this is one of the sweetest gestures ever. This is even better than being surprised with a life-sized cut-out of a half naked Adam Levine for my birthday. Brendan had a lot of trouble letting that into our bedroom. He said he felt like he was being assessed during sex.

  I rub my hand over the prickles on Lani’s scalp. “It feels a like a doormat.”

  “Yours will be softer because it will be growing back, like baby hair.”

  I can’t believe she’s shaved her head. It makes my news slightly uncomfortable to impart.

  “I don’t have to have chemo,” I say. I wait for the ball to drop through the hole and engage. “Dr. Downer got all the cancer. It hadn’t spread as far as she first thought. I’m in the clear. I do have to take Tamoxifen for the next five years, though.”

  I tell her everything the doctor explained to me about my type of cancer and how if I take the medication for five years I’ll have a ninety-five per cent chance of survival. Even without the drug the survival rate is up as high as eighty-nine per cent since I had the mastectomy.

  Lani frowns. It appears she’s having some difficulty digesting the information. “But you said you were having chemotherapy.”

  “That’s what the doctors said originally, but after the surgery and the tests, they’ve decided against it. It’s not necessary. I’m so sorry, Lani.”

  It’s weird that I’m apologising for not having chemotherapy but I feel dreadfully guilty.

  “It’s no problem.” She shrugs flippantly. “I always wanted to shave my head anyway. This seemed like a good excuse. Bloody lucky you didn’t have to have your leg amputated or something, eh? Imagine the strife I’d have been in then. At least hair grows back.”