by Lindy Dale
Something I’m not looking forward to.
“When will that be?”
“In about a month.”
“Perfect. I was planning to come home for a few days, anyway. I can work around that and we can go shopping together.”
And here we go again. All I want is to get this thing over with while attracting the least amount of attention. I want the experience to be stress-free and calm, something that it invariably won’t be if Denise Molloy has arrived. Once Mum commences her well-meaning antics, I’ll probably need to be committed.
“That would be lovely, Mum,” I reply, hoping she can’t hear the grimace in my voice.
After saying goodbye, I hang up and go to pick up Rory from his sleep over. The weekend is almost done and funnily enough, even though the cancer is supposedly gone, it seems as if that’s the only thing on my mind in one way or another.
Chapter 14
“This is my son, Rory. Rory, this is Dr. Downer.”
I sit in the chair opposite Dr. Downer. Rory, who has been allowed to have the morning off school to attend this appointment, sits in the chair beside me. His legs don’t touch the floor and his body appears as if the big barrel shape of the chair is swallowing him whole. Usually, his school uniform makes him seem older but here, in this setting, he’s suddenly a little boy again. My little boy. Even his fingers appear tiny as he clutches at the wooden arms of the chair.
Dr. Downer holds her hand out across the desk for Rory to shake. She gives him a pleasant smile. I’m not sure she’s used to having children in her rooms, cancer is more of an adult thing.
“He wanted to come because he wants to ask you a few questions about my illness,” I say.
Rory and I have been having interesting bedtime chats over the past couple of weeks. I’ve tried to be up front with him but I think he needs reassurance that I’m not going to die, from someone other than me. I think he’s convinced I’m pulling the ‘mother’ wool over his eyes. You know, bending the truth to make the prognosis more favourable. I’ve never done it before, not even when Glossy, his goldfish, looked terminal, so I’ve no clue where this is coming from. Even as Rory’s eyes swelled with tears at the fish that was bobbing around in the bowl like a cork in the ocean, I tried to say it straight, but gently. There was no hope for Glossy. And no, mouth to fish resuscitation would not bring him back to life.
“Rory has some questions he’d like answered,” I explain to Dr. Downer, who is looking increasingly nervous at the prospect. I wonder if she has children and how long it is since she’s had to explain the ins and outs of tumours to a six-year-old.
“Of course.”
Rory reaches into the pocket of his school shorts and pulls out a piece of paper. I watch as he unfolds it and shifts his body to the front of the seat. His face is very serious as he focuses on the doctor. He’s giving this his full attention and is demanding to be treated the same. I’m a little shocked by this maturity in my child. I wasn’t expecting a list. When had he made a list?
Rory looks down at the paper. He clears his throat and begins to read. “Is my mum going to die?”
Dr. Downer straightens her body in a similar fashion and considers her answer, not so she can change it, but rather tailor it to suit my son’s understanding. I can see her pondering the best way to form the sentence.
“No,” she says at last.
Well. That was easy to understand.
“When we operated on your mum, we did a lot of tests and the tests show that we got all the cancer. She is not going to die.”
“So, she doesn’t have to have the medicine that will make her hair fall out? She’ll look silly with no hair. Grandmam sent her these hats to wear but she’ll still look like Granddad. He’s as bald as a football. He’s a bit fat too.”
The doctor’s lips are holding in a smile. Perhaps she’s picturing me looking like a sixty-year-old balding man with a paunch.
“Mummy won’t have to have chemotherapy because the type of cancer we found was not spreading fast. The other doctors who have been looking after her also agree she’ll be fine. She has take a tablet every day for the next five years, though. That will stop any little tiny cancer that might have an idea of growing somewhere else in her body from doing so. The tablet is very powerful. Lots of ladies have taken it to make them well.”
Rory nods, satisfied.
“Will her boobie grow back? Spiders can grow their legs back if you chop them off.”
“Unfortunately not. Your mother will have to have another operation and we will make her a new breast if she wants one.”
“So, she’s not going to die?” he repeats, to make sure the doctor wasn’t tricking him the first time.
“Not until she’s an old lady.”
“And she can make my bed again soon? Her arms are going to go back to normal?”
“A big fellow like you should be making your own bed.”
Rory is affronted by this comment. “I do, but when I’m not looking she comes in and fixes it up. Mum likes things tidy.”
Sprung.
Dr. Downer glances at me. The glint of smile has moved to her eyes. Somewhere in her history there must be children whose beds she’s straightened.
“Any other questions, Rory?” the doctor asks.
“Can I go and look at the fish in the waiting room?”
“Of course. I want to talk to your mother for a few more minutes, but you’re more than welcome to look at my fish.”
“Do they have names?”
“No. Maybe you can choose some names for me?”
As Rory hops from his chair and races out the door, Dr. Downer lifts the phone to ask her receptionist to keep an eye on him. Then she turns back to me. “That was quite a grilling.”
“Sorry.” I smile. “He already knew everything you said. I think he needed to hear it from ‘a doctor’. He thought I was having him on.”
“Understandable in the circumstances. I hope I’ve allayed his fears.”
“I think so.”
“Good. Well back to you.” She shuffles a few papers on the desk and opens up my file. It’s rather thick for such a short amount of time. “As I said to Rory, I’ll prescribe you a course of Tamoxifen. It’s a drug therapy, commonly used for treating your type of cancer. Many Breast Cancers rely on the female hormone oestrogen to grow. Hormone-positive Breast Cancer cells have proteins called receptors, which sex hormones attach to, so when oestrogen comes into contact with the receptors, it fits into them and stimulates the cancer cells to divide so that the tumour grows. Tamoxifen fits into the oestrogen receptor and blocks oestrogen from reaching the cancer cells. This means the cancer either grows more slowly or stops growing altogether.”
“Is there any other alternative?” I ask. Five years seems an awfully long time to be taking a drug.
“You can have your ovaries ‘switched off’ via a hysterectomy or through a course of injections. It’s painful and quite time consuming.”
I’m not overly keen on medication but in this case, I guess Tamoxifen it is.
*****
I drop Rory at school and head back to work. On the way, I stop at the chemist shop down the road. ‘Friendlies Chemist’ they’re called. We’ll see. The chemist and I are going to be on intimate terms for the next five years, so he’d better be.
The prescriptions counter is at the back of the shop, so I wander in that direction, trying to look as casual as I can. Of course, I probably look nothing like it. The only time I grace these walls is the twice a year I come to get my prescription for the Pill and I always feel embarrassed about that, like I’m being judged because I’m not married.
“What can we do for you today?”
The chemist is a tall, jolly looking fellow. His wiry, white hair is thinning on top of his head. It looks like vermicelli noodles that have dried up in the bowl. He has little round glasses like the ones John Lennon used to wear and a very white shirt. I’d say his wife loves bleach. Lots of it.
&nb
sp; “I’d like to have this prescription filled,” I say. I hand the page to him and he opens it, examining the writing. Then he raises his face to mine — very slowly — and I know something has changed. His expression is somewhat confused, like he’s suddenly been rendered illiterate.
“Um… ah… has she ever had this medication before?”
She? Who is ‘she’? I look at him blankly, causing him to peer at me harder.
Then the penny drops. The chemist thinks I’m getting the tablets for some other poor woman with Breast Cancer. Clearly, because I have hair and a fake boob, I don’t look like a Breast Cancer patient. I can’t resist, I have to tease him a little.
“Who?”
“Ah,” he looks at my name on the prescription. “Mrs. Molloy. Has she had Tamoxifen before?”
He looks from side to side, as if he’s giving me the combination to a safe containing the crown jewels, not asking me about a cancer drug. Obviously, the disease I have is something we don’t talk about in a normal voice. It’s one of those hushed-tones type of conversations.
“I’m Ms. Molloy. And, no, I haven’t had the medication before. Possibly because I haven’t had Breast Cancer before.”
His face goes quite red. “My apologies. It’s just that you don’t look old enough.”
“There’s an age limit? I wish someone had told my boob that,” I say, unsure whether to be flattered or disgusted.
Suitably chastised, the chemist takes my prescription and Medicare card and scuttles off to fill it. I step away from the counter and stand with the other people who are waiting for their medications. I can hear one or two of them whispering to each other words like ‘poor thing’ and ‘such a shame’ and I want to jump up and down and tell them it’s only fucking Breast Cancer, I have an ninety-five per cent chance of survival and it hasn’t affected my hearing, but I don’t. Instead I give them a tight smile and turn to inspect the haemorrhoid creams. Who’d have thought there were so many on the market?
After ten minutes or so, the chemist returns with my prescription. He’s carrying the bottle in a little plastic basket and he lowers it slowly to the counter like it’s going to shatter if he’s not careful. He opens his mouth to call my name. But wait, he doesn’t, he just looks at me in a knowing sort of way and I approach to the counter. I’m the only one here who has Breast Cancer. Nobody else needs Tamoxifen today.
“I can give you a fact sheet,” he offers as he takes my credit card. “It explains the possible side effects of the medication.”
“I’m fine thanks,” I reply. “My doctor has explained everything.”
And I’m so looking forward to the hot flushes and headaches.
Chapter 15
It’s been seven weeks since my surgery. The experience, so far, has been such a blur that at times I almost forget it’s happened. I wake up each day and prepare for another trip to the shop. I make muesli for breakfast and cut Rory’s lunch. We go to footy and the supermarket. Everything is exactly the way it was before, apart from only having one boob. It’s almost like I had an injury and now it’s healed. I don’t feel sick. I don’t feel like there’s this thing in me that could cause me to have to rearrange my funeral plans. I certainly don’t feel the attention and assistance I’m receiving are warranted. It’s a sham if I say I’m feeling poorly. Which I don’t. And I’m still me, just with a bit missing, a little factor that somehow never leaves my mind. There’s nothing that can be done. I’m alive; I can’t change that I have Breast Cancer, so I may as well get on with it.
Brendan, however, is another story. He appears to have developed a multiple personality disorder. I fancied, that after the shopping saga, he was beginning to get used to the idea. But, seriously, it’s like living with two different men. I have no idea which one I’ll be greeted with at any given time. One minute, he’s loving and helpful, the next he’s so distant, it’s like I’d have to stand on the sofa and screech through a megaphone before he’d notice me. Taking my clothes off wouldn’t work, that’s for sure, because one of the downsides to this whole thing is that Brendan apparently no longer finds me attractive. Sex is something other couples have, the ones with symmetrical chests.
I’ve tried everything I can think of but nothing’s working. I’ve initiated and been rejected; I’ve attempted discussion on the topic but might as well be talking to the rug for the response I get. Last week, I was so desperate I even suggested we watch porn together. The look I received was bordering on disdain. It appears porn isn’t something that exists in this new Brendan’s world. He’s become completely non-sexual. It’s sad and tragic and I’ve tried not to blame myself but who else is there? Everything was fine before my diagnosis.
I’m excited today, though, as Mum is coming for a visit. Yes, I know I complain about her interfering and sometimes I think she’s the reason I’m addicted to chocolate, but it’s the first time I’ve seen her in months. Even though we talk regularly on the phone, it’s not the same as face-to-face contact.
About an hour after their designated arrival time — if there’s one thing that can be relied upon it’s the unreliability of the Australian airline system — the doorbell rings and Rory dashes to answer it. He’s excited about his Grandmam and Granddad Colin visiting too, mostly because they bring him presents and let him drink Coke when I’m not around. They’re typical grandparents. They spoil him rotten.
“Grandmam!” he squeals, flinging open the door.
It’s lucky Mum keeps active and fit. He’s jumped into her arms like she’s a trampoline.
“Rory, my little man!” She gives him the biggest bear hug before depositing him on the doorstep. “Look at you. If you get any taller, you’ll be taller than Brendan.”
Rory puffs his chest out at this, standing as tall as his tiny body will allow. His one aim in life — other than to meet Willy Wonka — is to be taller than Brendan. “I’ve been eating my vegetables, even the broccoli,” he replies, pulling a face to indicate the absolute disgustingness of the concept. Then, he holds up a bicep to be felt. “See?”
“Rocks, matey,” says Colin, giving Rory’s arm a squeeze. “You’ve got guns like rocks.”
Rory grins. “It’s the push-ups. Mum and I have been keeping fit in the lounge room with the fitness lady. She does push-ups on her knuckles.”
“Who, Mummy?” Mum asks. The look she gives me tells me she can’t believe I’m exercising anything other than my chocolate unwrapping fingers, let alone doing push-ups with Michelle Bridges.
“No, the exercise lady.”
“Have you been exercising, Sophie? Is that safe in your condition?”
“I’m not pregnant, Mum. Exercise is very good for Breast Cancer patients. Research says it can lower the reoccurrence.”
And right about now, I’m into anything that lowers my chances of getting cancer again. Apart from joining some crazy Christian cult or drinking nasty green drinks.
“Well, you’re looking good, sweetheart,” she says, as she leans over Rory to give me a kiss. “Oh my, what’s wrong with your face?”
“Nothing.”
“But your cheek’s bright red.”
I swivel to look in the hall mirror. Mum’s right. I look like I’ve fallen asleep on my side in the sun and gotten an extreme case of sunburn. One side of my face is its usual pale, skin colour and the other is a shade of red seen only on fire engines.
“It looks so angry,” Mum says. She places the back of her hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“Must be a reaction to the housework. Rory and I have been cleaning up a storm this morning.” I let out an awkward chuckle, realising I do feel hot all of a sudden and that beads of perspiration are forming below my hairline, which is not like me. I am not a sweaty person.
I lead everyone down the hall into the lounge. They follow along behind, Colin bringing up the rear as he struggles with the four massive suitcases he’s attempted to stack one on top of the other to save time. He wouldn’t stop to drop them at
the hotel first. He didn’t want to pay extra on the taxi. Colin can be quite frugal.
Mum puts her handbag down on the sofa. She steps closer and peers at my face in the light.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Your other cheek’s completely lost its colour.” She strokes the side of my face. “It’s cold, Sophie. How can one side of your body be hot and the other cold?”
“How would I know, Mum, I’m not a doctor.”
Though I wish I was right about now. The perspiration is beginning to trickle and I have this unearthly desire to strip down to my knickers and open the windows to let the cool air in. Which I don’t think anyone here would appreciate but me.
Mum looks worried. “I hope you’re not coming down with something. Your immune system has got to be low with the cancer and everything.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, as the line of sweat reaches my ear. I wipe it away with the heel of my hand. “Probably …”
Then it hits me. I’m having a hot flush. So far, I’ve only experienced aching legs and some rather heinous bloating as a side effect of the Tamoxifen, so this is unexpected and just a tad alarming. Thirty seconds ago I was fine. Now, my skin’s so slimy, I could pass for a frog in the dark. And my insides feel hotter than a furnace. I need to change. I have to get this cardigan off this minute, or I’m going to self-combust.
“Make yourself at home,” I say. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Dashing to the bedroom, I rip the top from my body, throwing it onto the bed. It makes no difference. I still feel like someone lit a bushfire inside me. I race to the bathroom and turn on the taps. I splash cold water on my burning skin but it does little good. I’m so hot my skin is practically boiling the water as it connects with my body. In the mirror, I see the flush has spread across my whole face, down my neck and over the top of my chest. It’s like I’m in a sauna. No, I am the sauna. Complete with steaming armpits like water thrown on hot rocks.
Stripping off my next layer, I thrust the bathroom window open and stick the top half of my body out, letting the semi-cool afternoon air soothe my skin. I pull the fabric of my bra back and forth attempting to fan myself and get a bit more fresh air onto my burning flesh, then I close my eyes and relax, taking the air in, allowing it to cool me down.