by Lindy Dale
It’s better. But only marginally.
As I’m standing waiting for my temperature to return to normal, I hear a grating, sawing noise quite close. I open my eyes and see Mr. Wells, our rather prudish next-door neighbour. He’s decided today is the perfect time to trim the big tree between our properties and is perched high up on the ladder with his pruning saw. He looks a little stunned at seeing my naked skin and purple bra only metres away. Lucky I didn’t take that off, too.
“Uh, hi, Mr. Wells. Lovely day for it.”
Mr. Wells is mute and understandably so. His wife died some years back. It’s probably been quite a while since he’s seen a topless woman.
“Uh, I’ll be getting back to it,” I say, and giving him an awkward wave, I slide the window closed and return to the bedroom where I collapse in a fit of laughter on the bed. Bloody Tamoxifen. If this is what it’s going to be like, I think I’d like my ovaries cut out, thank you.
After a bit, I feel recovered so I find a flimsy cotton top, pop it on and head back to the family room. Mum and Colin are ‘warming themselves’ in front of the fire, even though it’s not on.
“You’ve been gone a while. Everything okay?”
“Just giving the neighbours a weekly dose of gossip.”
I offer them both a cup of tea.
“Thanks,” Colin says. “That’ll wet my whistle. I can’t abide by that tea they serve on the plane.” He sits down in an armchair, removing the cap he’s been wearing and placing it on the coffee table. That’s when I notice his hair. He’s gone from combed over and white to close cut and as black as a badger. He looks like a comic version of Satan. His widow’s peak is worthy of a spot in a 1920’s silent film with Colin cast as the villain.
Honestly, what is with everybody? You mention you may need chemotherapy and they start doing things to their heads as a form of support. He could have signed up for the Pink Pedal Challenge if he wanted to show commitment to a cause.
“I see you’re admiring my hair,” he says, as he dips into his pocket and pulls out a king-sized Mars Bar for Rory.
I swallow. I have no idea how to approach this. “Yeessss. It looks very nice. Makes you look younger.” I hope that’s the right thing to say. I can’t manage anything more without bursting out laughing, so I scuttle off to the kitchen to hide my face in the fridge.
I’m getting the milk out when I hear Mum come up behind me. She wraps me in a hug and, carton in hand, I return it. It feels nice to have her near. It’s like, suddenly I can not cope for a second and she’ll pick up the pieces where I fall.
“How are you, darling?”
“Good. Getting on with it. Happier now I know the cancer’s gone.”
“I was so worried.”
“I know but it’s nearly finished now. I have to get the reconstruction over with. And take the medication. That’s a conversation for when Colin’s not present. Let me tell you.”
“Any ideas when the reconstruction will be?”
“Not for a while yet. I know nothing about the process other than what Lani’s managed to Google.” I turn to the bench and toss a couple of teabags into the mugs. I get a packet of Double Choc Tim Tams from the pantry and pile them onto a plate, taking one to munch on as I go. “I have an appointment with the plastic surgeon in a few weeks. He’s very good apparently and quite busy. What happened to Colin’s head?”
“Don’t ask.” Mum rolls her eyes to the kitchen ceiling. “I think he’s having some sort of midlife crisis. It started when he turned sixty a couple of months back. He went out and bought gym equipment. I’ve tripped over his vibrating thing so many times it’s a wonder I haven’t had to have surgery myself. The latest is the Ab Master Pro or some rubbish.”
“Thank heavens, I thought he’d dyed his hair because of me. Lani shaved her head, you know.”
“No. Colin’s a silly old fool. He won’t admit his hair looks ridiculous. I’m almost too ashamed to go out in public with him, especially when he’s wearing that yellow Tencel tracksuit. He bought a matching one for me but I refused to put it on after the first time. We looked like something from an episode of Kath and Kim. People actually stopped in the street to stare when we went jogging.”
I put the hot drinks and biscuits onto a tray. There’s a glass of milk for Rory, too. He might need it if he eats that whole Mars Bar at once.
We sit around the coffee table. Rory is at my feet, eating his chocolate, and tweaking a Lego city he’s begun building this morning. So far, it has a large ‘hospital’ in the middle, a toyshop, a lolly factory and another building that he’s said is our house. Colin is bent over, watching him and directing the construction.
“So, when are we going bra shopping?” Mum asks. “I can’t wait. I love lingerie.”
Here we go. How do I tell her, much as I love a good shopping trip, she’s not welcome on this one? My body has been on display so much over the past couple of months I want this to be private. I don’t need to parade a string of prosthetic bras through the shop for her approval.
“Um. You have to make an appointment.”
“You need an appointment to be fitted for a bra?” Mum seems amazed.
“Not for the bra as such, but for the prosthesis. Don’t ask me why. I suppose there are sizes or something. Everyone’s boobs are different.”
She reaches over and hands me her phone. “Give them a ring then and make the appointment. I have a couple of things to do while I’m here but I can work around your schedule.”
“I don’t know how long it’ll take. It might be hours. You don’t want to be stuck in the bra shop all that time.”
Am I saying it nicely enough? Please don’t come?
“It’s fine, darling. I don’t care. I’m here to support you.”
Now I feel like a bitch. I pick up the business card I was given in hospital and dial the number of the shop. Lucky for me, or maybe not, they have a free space tomorrow around lunchtime. I’m dreading this. I’m really dreading this.
“But that’s perfect,” Mum crows, when I tell her I’ve booked an appointment. “We can watch Rory’s footy in the morning and then make a day of it with lunch in the city and a spot of shopping.”
“I’m coming too!” Rory adds. The only time he deigns to shop is when his Grandmam is around. He likes that she buys him whatever he wants.
“It’s not that type of shopping trip, Rory,” I say. “You should stay home with Brendan or Granddad Colin. We’ll bring you back a treat ”
Then Colin pipes up, “But I’d like to come. I’ve had an interest in the prosthetic industry for a long time now. This will be useful for my research.”
Holy Mother of Amputees. He’d better not start questioning the bra technician. I try not to groan.
“Well, that’s settled,” Mum says, taking a sip of her tea. “We’ll all go bra shopping and have lunch after. Do you think Brendan would like to join us?”
“I’m pretty sure he has open homes tomorrow.”
And if not, once the word bra or prosthesis is mentioned, he’ll run for the hills.
*****
Late the next morning, after Rory has finished footy and we’ve taken him back to the house to change, we head into the city. As I park the car and we walk the two blocks to the Hay Street Mall, the feeling of impending doom grows stronger and stronger. I tried to explain it to Brendan in bed last night — that I wanted this experience to be calm and quiet with me and the bra technician. Alone. He didn’t understand. He didn’t get that going shopping with my mother is like being in a three-ringed circus where the clowns have gone bonkers. She’s like a shopping tornado when she gets started. I’ve seen her spend thousands in the space of an hour. And not on one thing.
Brendan was unsympathetic. In fact, he declared I was being selfish.
“She’s only trying to help,” he said. “She feels bad because she went jaunting around Asia while you were in hospital.”
“No she doesn’t! How many times do I have to say it wa
s my decision? I wanted her to go. What point was there in her being here? She can’t cure cancer.”
I couldn’t believe we were arguing over this and, worse still, that Brendan had no understanding of how I felt. He’s definitely changed since my diagnosis. Either that, or I’m noticing things I never saw before.
We arrive at Trinity Arcade and head for the lifts. “I’d like to pop into Myers later,” Mum says. “There’s a new face cream I want to try.”
My eyes light up. This is probably my last chance to get rid of them. And yes, I know how horrid that sounds.
“Why don’t you go now? Take Rory with you. I’ll text you when I’m done and we’ll meet up for lunch.”
“It’s fine, sweetheart,” Mum replies, and presses the lift button. “I can do it afterwards.”
We take the three flights to the top floor and get out of the lift. I glance up and down, looking for the shop.
“Look, the AFL shop,” Colin cries. “I’d like a new Richmond jersey.”
Born and bred in Melbourne, Colin is a massive AFL supporter.
“Why don’t you go and have a look while I’m in here?” I suggest, having located the lingerie shop. I know Brendan, or any other sane man, wouldn’t need a second invitation. “Take Rory. He loves Dockers. I’m sure there’s plenty of merchandise he doesn’t have.”
I shove Rory in his direction, fully realising I’m encouraging my step-father to waste money on my child. I’m practically pushing them into the AFL shop and I don’t even feel guilty because all I want is to be alone.
“We’ll go later,” Colin says, “when we can spend a bit of time perusing. Now, let’s get inside. You don’t want to be late for your appointment.”
Sure don’t.
The lingerie shop is tiny and stacked from wall to wall with every imaginable type of underwear — silky, cotton, camis, corsets, suck-me-in-pull-me-up pants — some of the items look extremely expensive and not the type I would usually wear. It’s very pink and cream. It’s also the only shop in Perth that specialises in the fitting of breast prostheses, so I have no choice but to be here if I want one.
My posse and I approach the counter. I like the way it’s built high, with a divider, so people can’t see what you’re buying. Discretion is certainly assured here.
“Hi, I have an appointment at eleven. For a fitting.”
The lady on the other side of the counter gives me a welcoming smile. “You must be Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sue.” She moves to one side of the counter, leading the way to a set of shell-pink saloon doors that mark the entrance to a hallway. She pushes one of the doors and steps through, holding it for me. “Come this way and we’ll get you sorted.”
I follow, expecting the doors to flap behind me as I do, but no. They can’t because my little gang of followers thinks tagging along is the order of the day. They’re so close behind me we’re going to have to back up like trucks to get out.
“What are you doing?” I hiss at Mum over my shoulder.
“You might need a second opinion.”
“I think we’ll be fine. Thank you. Why don’t you wait outside?”
I’m about to turn away when Colin whips out his iPhone and prepares to take a few photos. I do not want this moment recorded for posterity and I tell him so, after explaining to Sue about his little hobby, that is. She may think my step-father’s some sort of creepy old man, if I don’t.
“But my research,” Colin says, looking rather disheartened at the idea of leaving. “I may be able to help. I’ve done extensive research in the last five years.”
Just shoot me now.
“Sue will help me. That’s her job, isn’t it?”
I give Sue a ‘save me’ look and she calmly directs the family to a couch, promising Colin a close up look at her stash of prostheses and some information on the latest products that he may not have seen. After we finish the fitting. Mum and Colin flop down like a couple of deflated sausage balloons, attempted fun aborted.
“We’ll wait here then, I guess,” Mum says.
“Good idea.”
I slip into the cubicle with Sue. I feel like I’m in a bad movie where I’m trying to escape from a monster. “Does this curtain have a lock?” I ask, as I peek around the side, praying that my family hasn’t moved and are silently sneaking up on me while my back is turned.
“We’ve never needed one before,” Sue says.
“You will give us a fashion parade, won’t you?” I hear Mum call from the other side.
Gahhhhhh. Why can’t they go to the AFL shop or something?
“NO!”
I look at Sue, who is attempting not to laugh, albeit unsuccessfully.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t apologise. That’s your family, I take it?” Her voice is soothing as she begins to bustle around in the space beside me looking for a tape measure.
“How did you guess?”
“The look of sheer terror had something to do with it.”
“On me? Or them?”
“Them. I guess this has been rough. Your diagnosis and everything. Cancer has a way of changing the way we look at life and loved ones.”
“Mmm.”
And now I feel like a cow again. I never considered it must have been hard for Mum, too. I know I’d be distraught if Rory became ill. Maybe I’ve been too harsh? I could try to relax a little more.
“We’re ready for the show,” Colin bellows. “Any time you are.”
Or maybe not.
Sue wraps the tape measure around my body. Her hands are cool and soft. Her eyes fall to the numbers on the tape measure, then to the shape of my body but it’s not awkward or embarrassing. She has this way of making me feel quite okay with it.
“I just wanted a stress-free experience,” I say, feeling a sudden need to justify why I’ve been so short with them. “I didn’t want them to come. The last couple of months have been so surreal, I wanted to step back from it for a minute.”
“Your family love you, they want to be close to you.”
“They don’t have to be quite this close, do they?”
Sue puts the tape measure down. “I’m popping out to get you a bra and prosthesis to try. You won’t believe the difference once we remove that thing you’re wearing now, and get a good fitting bra and prosthesis on you. Nobody will be able to tell the difference.”
Nobody except me.
The rest of the fitting goes off without a hitch. I’ve come out of the fitting room with two new bras that are lacy and make me feel nice and a nude-coloured breast form that looks nothing like the colour of naked skin. It’s made of silicone, I think, but it’s soft and has this outer layer of gel that’s meant to stay cool against my body. It also has its own suitcase, so it doesn’t lose shape. And it’s heavy. I can’t believe my breast was that heavy when it was attached to my body but, apparently, it was.
I go to the counter to pay.
Sue punches a few numbers and says, in her soft soothing voice, “That’ll be six hundred and forty-five dollars.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She hands me the invoice to better help me deal with the shock. I can hardly take it from her hand.
“Let me pay,” says Mum.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
Before I can open my purse, Mum pulls out her credit card and punches in the security pin. She gives me the ‘I-win-this-time’ smile and for once, I let her. If she wants to spend that amount of money on a fake boob, I’ll let her. If it makes her happy, I’ll let her.
But six hundred dollars? Cancer is bloody expensive. I know we’ll get a bit back from the government reimbursement scheme but seriously, how do others cope when slugged with upfront costs like this? Are they pretending to be proud Breast Cancer survivors who walk around lopsided for their entire lives because they can’t afford the upfront outlay?
Chapter 16
It’s a week later. Brendan and I have been invited t
o a birthday party. We got invited months ago, before the whole diagnosis thing and we haven’t seen the couple in question since then. What with having my boob lopped off and everything, I have been rather preoccupied.
I love parties. In my former life, before Breast Cancer, I was the party queen. Never a party was thrown without me being given an invitation, mostly because I manage to do something embarrassing that makes people laugh, like slipping in a wet spot on the dance floor or doing red wine karaoke to very forgettable 90’s pop hits. Tonight, however, I’m not in party mode. In fact, I’d rather stay at home and watch something trashy on TV but Brendan wants to go. And I’ll probably have fun once we get there.
Earlier on today, I let Mum take me shopping to buy a new top. This is usually a guaranteed pick me up but it appears that I am so depressed that even a new outfit won’t work. I peer at myself in the mirror and frown at the girl looking back. I’ve spent ages on my look but something isn’t right. The top that seemed so pretty in the shop makes me look like I’m fifty in natural light. Yes, it covers my lack of cleavage — the very reason I bought it — but now I have it on, I find I don’t want it to. I want to get out my flimsy, floaty tops and look like me. Tears well in my eyes and I know it’s silly to be crying over the way I look, but I can’t help it. I feel so angry with myself and this bloody cancer. And frustrated. I’m so frustrated by, well, everything.
Brendan pokes his head around the bathroom door, where I’m now trying to make my hair look exceptionally good. If my hair looks good people won’t notice the top. At least that’s what I’ve reasoned.
“Ready?”
I nod feebly. A tear rolls down my cheek and I dab a tissue at it so it won’t spoil my make-up.
Brendan steps into the room. A whiff of the new cologne he’s recently started wearing wafts between us. I’m not sure if I like his new scent. I think I’m a fan of the one he used to wear, the one he said he was sick of and needed a change from. Brendan moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. He drops a kiss on the tip of my ear before his chin comes to rest on my shoulder. He looks intently at my reflection in the mirror. What I want, is for him to say I look nice. I want to see the desire in his eyes, the way it used to be. I want my life the way it was.