by Lindy Dale
Later in the morning, between Brendan going for a run and Mum returning Rory, I give Lani a call. I tell her about the boob incident of the previous evening and she laughs. “I wish I’d seen it,” she says. “That’s priceless.”
“It was pretty funny.”
“I bet that guy never tries to cop a feel again.”
“Nope. I think I’ve cured him of that. Everyone was laughing so hard, the poor bloke, his face was scarlet.”
“Serves him right.”
I go on to tell her about Brendan’s reaction to the event and his subsequent behaviour.
“He doesn’t want me, Lani. He’s repulsed by the way I look. It’s written all over his face.”
“The cancer’s been a big adjustment for him. You have to give him time.”
“Isn’t two months enough time?”
“There’s no rulebook for this type of thing.”
“But he won’t touch me unless I’m fully clothed and since the mastectomy, he’s avoided everything between the navel and the neck. I may as well have had the other one chopped off too.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
“How can I talk to him? Every time I mention it, he gets this glazed look on his face and tells me it’s time to get over it. He’s not over it, though. I think he’s getting worse.”
“What about counselling? The cancer people have lots of resources for families and loved ones.”
If I weren’t bawling my eyes out, I’d laugh.
“As if Brendan would ever go to counselling. Talking about your feelings is a sign of weakness. He’d never admit anything was wrong. He’d rather take it out on me.” My voice is getting higher and higher and I know I’m starting to sound like a fishwife but isn’t it time for him to move on, too? Why do I have to be the one to deal with everything?
Lani is silent for a minute. “You need to calm down and think this through logically. Firstly, you’ve both had a big scare recently. Cancer alone would be enough to freak anyone out. Secondly, you look different. It’s probably taking some getting used to. It’s common for women to have body issues after a mastectomy and there’s research to show it affects partners in a number of ways.”
“Have you been Googling again?”
“I joined the Breast Cancer Network. They have a forum for loved ones. Anyway what I’m saying is, the women there say you have to give him time. One woman I spoke to said her husband went completely off the rails, like he was having male menopause or something. It lasted over a year. Give Brendan some space. He’ll come round.”
Male menopause? I hope Brendan’s not suffering from that. One set of crazy hormones in the house is enough. I let out an exasperated groan. “I guess so. Look, I have to go now, but thanks for listening, hon. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Lani replies. “See you tomorrow.”
“And don’t forget I have my appointment with the plastic surgeon at two, so I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon.”
“In the calendar already.”
I hang up the phone and sit for a minute. Gosh, I love Lani. Despite her silly outfits and ditsy ways, she’s a stronghold in my life. I’d never cope without her.
Chapter 18
Well, la de dah, I think to myself as I enter Dr. Hanson’s rooms for the first time. This is a bit swanky.
I’ve never had to press a button to enter an office before. I feel like I should have more money or be wearing a classy pair of jeans and heels, not my Levis with the faded knees and my favourite boots.
The waiting room has leather armchairs with poufy cushions that coordinate with the obviously expensive carpet. The walls and reception desk are chocolate timber-panelled and in the thirty seconds since I’ve entered, one man has arrived with a fresh flower delivery for the console and another with take away coffees for the staff, including what looks to be homemade biscuits. Fancy having your afternoon tea delivered every day. Fancy having the money to be able afford it. Clearly, being a plastic surgeon is a lucrative business.
After announcing myself to the receptionist, who by the way looks like she’s never had a lick of cosmetic surgery, I find a chair opposite a corridor that leads to a series of doors. I put my purse on the empty seat next to me. Brendan should be here at any moment. He’s taking an hour or so off work this afternoon and the plan is for him to meet me here so he can return to the office when we’re done. I glance at my watch, not concerned that he’s a couple of minutes late. Everyone knows attempting to find parking in the inner city is like expecting there’ll be milk left in the fridge on the only morning you want to eat cereal.
Another few minutes pass and I pick up a magazine from the coffee table and begin to sift through the contents. As I’m reading my horoscope from 2011 in the New Idea and realising how totally wrong they got it, a tall man in a pair of charcoal-coloured pants and a cream shirt comes striding along the hall toward me. There’s a gorgeous looking woman with him, who’s wearing the exact outfit a girl should be wearing in an establishment like this. She’s tall and lean and quite beautiful.
“Thanks so much, Jared,” she says throatily, placing her cheek in front of him to be kissed. “You’re a doll.” She says the ‘doll’ slow and sultry-like, as if she’s having sex with it, or the man next to her. Then, her hand grazing along his forearm, she sashays from the office. Wow.
“Sophie Molloy?” In front of me, the man in the charcoal pants has stopped at the edge of the waiting room and glanced to the name on the file in his hand. When I don’t respond — I’m too busy imagining being a commanding presence in a room, like that woman — he looks at me expectantly. I guess I look more like a Sophie Molloy than the two elderly people sitting next to me.
“Sophie?”
“Oh, yes, sorry,” I say, putting put my magazine down and collecting my purse.
“I’m Jared Hanson.”
I stand and walk towards him. He holds out a large, smooth hand and I shake it. It feels like he uses hand cream. Every day. Very nice hand cream.
I follow him along the narrow hall towards his office. “Um, my partner is meant to be meeting me here. He must be running late. Do you mind if I give him a quick call?”
Dr. Hanson opens the office door and offers me a chair beside his desk. “Sure,” he says. “We can wait a minute or so, if he’s almost here.”
He opens my file, discreetly turning away from me so I can make the call. I locate Brendan’s number in my recent calls and when there’s no answer, I send a quick text. I can’t understand it. When we spoke about the appointment this morning at breakfast, Brendan was set to come. He wanted to be here to support me. At least that’s what he led me to believe.
“I don’t know what’s happened,” I tell the doctor. It’s so unlike Brendan to bail on an appointment. He has such high standards about punctuality and manners.
“We can reschedule if you want your partner here. It’s no drama.”
I think about the things that will need to be rearranged if I do that.
Nightmare.
Then I decide if Brendan’s late or not showing for some reason it’s not my fault. For once I’m making this about me. I’m tired of always doing what everyone else expects. “No. It’s okay. I can fill him in at home.”
“And if he arrives, Catherine will show him through.”
“Great.”
We begin the consultation.
Dr. Hanson asks me what’s been going on since the mastectomy, and why I needed a mastectomy in the first place, given that the cancer was not as bad as first suspected. He questions me generally about my health. He sits and listens as I blither on, unloading my medical baggage on him. Baggage he doesn’t need to know, I’m sure. Yet, somehow, I feel as if he wants to hear, as if he understands completely the trauma I’ve suffered.
At last, we begin to discuss reconstruction procedures and which, in his opinion, would be best for me. He tells me how he’ll do a small breast lift on my rem
aining breast so that it matches the new one he’s going to make. I sit, absorbing the information as he shows me implants and photos of previous patients but it’s not until he says the words ‘tummy tuck’ that my ears prick up with excitement.
“You mean you can take fat from my stomach and make it into a boob?”
I’ve died and gone to heaven. Not that my stomach is massive or anything but, since Rory was born, it’s never bounced back to its former glory. No matter how many sit-ups I do or how much wheat I don’t eat, I still have a bullnose veranda from the caesarean. Which severely limits the choice of knickers, let me tell you.
“I think you’d be a suitable candidate for a Tram Flap procedure.” Dr. Hanson nods. “Let me take a few measurements and we’ll see what we can do.”
This is unbelievable. A flat tummy and new perky boobs? I’ll be able to model bikinis by the time he’s finished. Having cancer isn’t all bad, it seems.
I strip off my top and bra and stand semi-naked before a man I’ve never met before. Strangely, I don’t feel self-conscious, not even when he cups my left breast in his hand and gently lifts it. Okay, well maybe I’m a tad turned on. I mean, he’s incredibly good looking. The mastectomy didn’t render me blind. Any woman would be turned on by this. In an attempt to ignore the rising feeling of desire, I gaze over his shoulder at the paintings on the wall, done by children. I contemplate what to cook for dinner, without success. The only thing filling my mind is the gentle way he’s touching me.
Dr. Hanson gets out a measuring tape and measures the width of my breast, the distance from my navel and how far my nipple is from the centre of my ribs. He asks me to undo my jeans and he assesses the amount of fat I have on my stomach to see if I’m suitable.
“I knew I’d been storing that fat for a reason,” I say with a laugh. “It wasn’t there to make me look bad in pants.”
He ignores the comment and sits down in his big leather chair. Or at least, I think he does. When I turn back, I notice he’s trying not to laugh.
Dr. Hanson scribbles a few things while I finish dressing and then, after I join him, he closes the file and swings towards me. It’s then I notice his eyes. They’re large and green like the deepest, clearest part of the Great Barrier Reef, the part where you can see the bottom even though it’s tens of metres away. I want to dive into them. I want to swim in my doctor’s eyes.
Gosh. This is not good. I can’t develop some schoolgirl crush on my doctor. I can’t. It would be very immature. I sneak another peak at him, while he’s bringing up photos of other reconstructed breasts to show me. I note the way his dark lashes frame his eyes and the chiselling along his cheek. I think it may be too late. From the way my heart is pounding, the crush is well and truly established.
“So, Sophie,” he says — though in his defence he may have said heaps before that and I didn’t hear because I was so busy ogling.
“Yes?”
Please say I can have the tummy tuck. Please.
“What size breasts would you like to have?”
This is like shopping, except for body parts. Next, he’ll be whisking out a catalogue for me to pick from.
“A bit smaller than I have now, maybe? Can you do that?”
“I can. I can build you a breast slightly smaller your current one and then later on we can do a minor reduction and breast lift on the left breast so that it mirrors your new one. Or we can model a new breast with an imlpant, then do a small reduction on the other.”
“So I’ll have two perfect boobs?”
He smiles again. A dimple forms on the right side of his cheek. I try not to notice it but it’s clearly too late. “That’s the aim.”
This is like a dream. It’s easy to see how women become so addicted to cosmetic surgery. I’m asking and he’s agreeing to everything.
Dr. Hanson makes a few more notes. Then he moves to the computer, where he opens his calendar and we begin to discuss dates, fat transfer and follow up procedures to complete the reconstruction.
“So what happens now?” I ask him.
“I want to you to have an MRI, to check out your blood vessels. In some cases, a Tram Flap is not an option if the vessels are small.”
We spend a few more minutes talking about costs and dates and amounts of time spent in hospital and despite my discovery the bill is going to be close to eight thousand dollars, I leave his rooms with a tentative date for surgery in two months’ time and a grin so wide it could be mistaken for an off-ramp on the Mitchell Freeway. The cancer phase is over. Now I’m into rebuilding. Bring on the boobs.
*****
At precisely four-thirty, I arrive home with Rory in tow after our trip to the supermarket. He’s chattering away as I swing the car into the garage and switch off the engine. He’s had a good day at school, been promoted into the highest group for spelling and kicked three ‘goals’ during a lunchtime game of footy. He’s animated as he tells me about the clay dragon he’s making in art class. I like to see him happy. His little face was way too long when he thought I was going to die.
But I know he’s not entirely over it. Every now and then, he’ll run up to me and give me the biggest cuddle, for no reason. Rory’s always been an affectionate child but he’s never done things like that. The other night he snuggled himself into my lap while we were watching TV, something he hasn’t done since he declared himself a big boy at age four. It was nice to feel his little body next to mine again, though he does weigh a deal more than he used to. My legs were asleep after ten minutes.
I flip the boot open and Rory collects his schoolbag and runs into the house, picking up a tennis ball and tossing it to Grover on his way past. I collect the two bags of groceries and trail along behind him, deftly avoiding Grover’s slobbery tongue as he deposits the ball at my feet ready for another throw. It’s about this time of day that Brendan calls or texts to let me know what time he’ll be home but, so far this afternoon, there’s been no communication. I’ve tried to reach him numerous times since I left Dr. Hanson’s rooms and sent a number of texts to which I’ve not got a reply so, frankly, I’m getting a little worried. Brendan always replies to texts. I hope he hasn’t had an accident or something.
As I round the bench in the kitchen, I catch a strange sight out of the corner of my eye. The sofa, coffee table and dining suite are gone. The painting above the mantel is missing too and the large cowhide rug Brendan would not part with when we moved in together is nowhere to be seen. My eyes take in the details around me, or lack thereof. The missing items belong to Brendan, which is most puzzling. Why would a burglar take only Brendan’s things? We couldn’t have been burgled. We have an alarm and the security company would have called us if it were triggered. I would have known.
A cold feeling crawls over my skin as the realisation hits my Tamoxifen-fuddled brain and the pieces begin to slot together. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I feel the weight of the grocery bags dropping from my hands as they fall to the floor at my feet. I feel the milk, where the carton has smashed, splashing over my foot and I faintly register as the bag of oranges rolls through the milk and across the timber floor towards the fridge. I can’t breathe. I cling to the kitchen counter trying not to faint. Now, I know why Brendan didn’t appear for the appointment today.
Rory looks up at me questioningly. “Where’s our stuff, Mum?”
I can’t answer, it’s taking every ounce of energy I have to stand upright. Brendan is gone. Without a word. How could he do this? Why would he do this?
“Mum?” Beside me, Rory is beginning to tear up. His lip is wobbling. He knows something bad is happening but he has no clue what.
“Mummy?” he says again.
I look down at my son and I know, even though I want to cry and scream and fall into a pathetic heap on the floor, I have to keep it together for him. I have to be strong. “It’s okay, baby.”
“But where’s our furniture?”
“I think Brendan may have taken it.”
“Wh
y?”
“I think he might have gone to live in a new house.”
“Why?”
Please Rory, I think, please don’t start the ‘why’ game now.
“I’m not sure but I think he was a bit unhappy. Maybe he didn’t know how to tell me.” I can’t say ‘us’. I can’t hang part of the blame on my child. It’s not his fault Brendan’s gone. It’s mine. I should have seen this coming. I should have done something to prevent it. I should never have gotten cancer.
Rory gives a slow nod. His face shows a great deal more wisdom than anyone would ever give a child credit for. He reaches around and hugs my hips, his cheek nestles into my side. “I don’t care if you look different, Mum. I still love you.”
And that’s all I need to rally. I ruffle his hair and give his shoulder a squeeze.
“I love you too, Mr. Rory. Now grab your stuff and put it in your room, get some work clothes on and we’ll clean up this mess. Then I think a picnic in the family room might be in order for dinner, what do you reckon?”
He brightens. “Like with a rug and the picnic set?”
“Yep. I might make some oven chips and chicken fingers too.”
“Yum! Can we watch a DVD while we eat?”
“Only if you do your homework first, so you’d best get cracking.”
Rory lets go of me and sidesteps the puddle of milk before racing down the hall to his room. “You’re the best Mum ever,” he calls over his shoulder. “The best in the whole wide world.”
Looks like I’m also going to be the solo mum from now on.
Brendan’s left me.