by Lindy Dale
“It’s a vibrator, Mum!”
Her mouth bends into a naughty smile. I think she’s enjoying this. “I’m well aware of that, darling. I couldn’t have coped without mine after your father and I split.”
I want to put my fingers in my ears and sing. Instead, I swallow and put the sex toy aside. I delve inside the box again, wondering what other surprise is in store but this time, it’s an envelope. Phew. At least I know it’s not another Advanced Hair Studio voucher. Still, I’m too afraid to open it in case there’s more pornographic content. The picture of my mother and her own pleasure treasure is very fresh in my mind.
“Go on. Open it.”
Gingerly, I let my fingers tear the lip of the envelope and out comes yet another voucher, this time in the blue tones of the dating site, eHarmony.
“I signed you up,” Mum crows. She seems so proud but I’m not sure whether it’s because she knows what eHarmony is or that she’s used the internet independently. “There’s a year’s subscription. Once the reconstruction’s complete you can go about the business of finding a decent man. I never liked that Brendan. He was so anal.”
Well, she’s got that right.
I’m dumfounded. I guess I might put it to use. One day. Right now, I’m focusing on finishing my treatment.
“Thanks Mum, these are great,” I say. I lean across the console of the car and give her a heartfelt kiss. She might be a bit mad at times but she means well, and she’s the best mum in the world.
“Right,” she says, pressing what can only be a tear from her eye. “Let’s get this show on the road shall we? You’ve got a hot date with an operating table.”
Chapter 25
Monday evening. Hospital. I’ve had my last meal like I’m being sent to the gallows and I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed flicking through the channels on TV. I’m praying for some home renovation show to spring up and take my mind off the fact that my visitors have gone and I’m alone and feeling very nervous.
I find an old episode of The Block — suitably distracting as one of the contestants is quite cute — and am taking a sip of my cup of tea when the door opens and Jared swings into the room followed by a nurse. He’s carrying a permanent marker and wearing a sky blue rugby jersey and a pair of dark denim jeans. His smile is big and friendly, and as usual makes me completely forget that I am trying not to be interested in him.
“How’s things, Sophie?”
“Fine,” I reply, thinking he sounds more like an old pal than my doctor. “I’m pretty nervous, though. I’ve been to the toilet about a thousand times.”
Why did I say that?
“I’ll order you a sleeping pill for later, if you like.”
“That’d be good. Thank you.”
Jared asks me to take off my top and stand up in front of him. He slides my track pants as low as is decently possible. His hand lingers on the bare skin of my hip and as he begins to draw on me with his permanent marker, I imagine him making those movements with his fingers rather than the pen. God. This is absurd. His head is bent as he draws ovals on my stomach and a series of dots and dashes around my chest cavity and I’m thinking about what it would be like if he kissed me there. It’s so awkward, I have no idea where to look. I must be blushing from head to toe. Especially, given that there’s a nurse in the room with us.
“Try not to wash these off,” he says.
“Pardon?”
“The marker. Don’t wash it off. Or I won’t know where to cut.” He jokes.
I look down at my naked chest and torso, covered in big black lines. “Oh. Sure.”
Jared puts the pen on the bed, watching as my spaghetti-like fingers fumble to do up the buttons on my top. He sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from the nurse. His face is at eye level with mine. He has a perfect view of my embarrassment.
“Is something wrong, Sophie? You’re not having second thoughts, are you? It’s a big procedure.”
“No. Definitely not. It’s nerves, I think. I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”
The pen rolls off the bed and we both bend to pick it up.
“You’re not the only one,” he whispers, as he straightens, pen in hand.
Collecting his clipboard, Jared turns to leave. “See you bright and early. Get a good night’s sleep.”
I watch him go. As if I can do that now. He knows I have a crush on him. He’s going to operate on me tomorrow knowing how I feel. It’s mortifying.
*****
Tuesday afternoon. Surgery complete.
I’m lying in bed with my feet propped up to ease the tightness in my stomach. It’s a few hours after the surgery and in my euphoric, drug-induced haze, in lieu of chocolate or wine, sandwiches and a cup of tea sound like a very good idea. The nurse has scrounged me a mixed plate and has helped me to sit up so I don’t get crumbs over the mound that is my new boob. I can’t believe I’m looking forward to eating a plate of sandwiches so much.
There appears to be one major hurdle, to this plan, however. As the first nibble passes my lips, I discover the bread tastes like soggy cardboard. In the hours since my last meal, someone has either removed my taste buds or filled my mouth with dry plaster. I take another a small bite and, instantly, globs of bread glue themselves to every possible surface inside my mouth, including the space under my tongue. I have to use my finger to dislodge them. Even with a sip of tea taken at the moment of the bite, the result is the same. So I give up, forget the food and decide to sleep instead. At least, that doesn’t require effort and suddenly I’m feeling exhausted — though how you can be tired after being unconscious for an entire day is beyond me.
As the nurse takes my tray away, Mum arrives with Rory. She’s collected him from school and brought him straight here. He wouldn’t hear of going home to change beforehand. He’s positive I’ll be fine seeing him in his uniform as I do it every day — or so he tells Mum.
“Hey Mum,” he says, as he leans up over the bed rail to kiss me. He’s a little in awe of the gadgets and tubes this time; it’s not like when I had the mastectomy.
“Hey buster, how was your day?”
“Good. Grandmam let me have a lunch order from the canteen. I got sushi ‘cause it’s more healthy.”
“Was it nice?”
“Yummy. I had an ice cream too but it was a yogurt one.” He beams up at me, proud that he’s made a good choice without my assistance. Then his small hand reaches for mine. He gives my hand a pat, as he looks me up and down, inspecting me for differences. “Your hair’s messy.”
“Is it?”
He’s probably right but at this moment I don’t care. My level of tiredness is on a par with giving birth and I couldn’t raise a hand to fix it if I wanted to. Physically, my energy’s going into staying awake and forming a sentence that doesn’t sound like I’ve guzzled three bottles of Shiraz. Not an easy task, not even when lying down.
Rory stands up on the chair next to the bed. “Do you have any new scars?” he enquires, lifting the bedcovers to see where the cords and drains are going.
“There’ll be a huge one on my tummy, like the one from where you were born but bigger. Like a big smile.”
“Can I see?”
Mum lifts him down from the chair. Clearly, this is a little too intimate, even for her. “Maybe tomorrow, Rory. Mummy’s had a big day and her tummy is very tender. She needs to lie quietly.”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry, Mum.”
“It’s okay, sweetie. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He smiles and I think he understands. “Hey, Mum?”
“Mmm?”
“I brought my home reader. And Miss Reynolds said I could have extra so I can read you a bedtime story. You know, to help you go to sleep?”
Mum and I exchange a look.
“Not my idea,” she says. “Completely off his own bat.”
So, Rory, perched in the armchair next to the bed, on a pile of pillows to help him reach eye level and looking every bit the little man, pulls
the selection of reading books he’s brought from school out of his backpack. From then, until the door opens and Lani appears, along with Angela and Hilary, I am treated to the adventures of Fat Pig and Jolly Roger the Pirate, complete with character voices and the pictures being displayed, teacher-style, at the end of each page. I never knew reading books could be so entertaining.
As the room becomes increasingly crowded, Rory gives up his throne and goes to sit on Mum’s knee. The girls hand over bouquets of flowers, blocks of chocolate and bottles of wine because everyone knows wine is ‘a far more practical gift’. They ask me about my surgery, how I feel and generally make me feel very loved. They even offer to cut up my dinner, which arrives on a tray amidst the flurry. I’m hoping my sense of taste has returned somewhat because it smells delicious but after the sandwiches, I’m not confident.
“It’s like a rock concert in here,” the orderly remarks, as she refills my water jug. “You can hear the ruckus from down the hall.”
“That’d be Angela,” Hilary says. “She’s like an air-raid siren when she gets a good laugh up. The Eagles wanted to use her laugh as the bounce-down hooter at the footy but she wouldn’t be in it.”
Angela pretends to be affronted. “At least I don’t snort like you do.”
And as they’re debating who sounds worse and who is the loudest, Jared and the duty nurse make an entrance. He’s changed from the scrubs he was wearing earlier in the day and is now in his familiar post-operating attire of jeans and a striped rugby shirt, the emerald of which matches his eyes.
“I see you’re taking visitors,” he says, approaching the bed. His eyes catch mine for a second longer than can be considered doctor-patient like and there’s a glimmer of something I’ve never seen before. Though I may be hallucinating. I’m on an awful lot of meds.
“This is my mother, Denise,” I say, by way of introduction. “And my son, Rory. The other ladies are my friends, Lani and Hilary. Angela, you already know.”
Jared nods a brief hello. He appears embarrassed, as well he may be. You’d think from the reaction he’s getting he’s said ‘I might strip naked if that’s okay with you’ rather than ‘hello’. Hilary’s face has gone quite pink and she’s trying not to stare which means she’s staring at ridiculous things like the curtains. Lani is not so subtle. Her ogling is so open it’s making me feel embarrassed. And Mum? Well, she’s fluffing her hair and puffing her chest like she’s a teenager again. Bugger the man called Colin she lives with. Anyone would think they’d never seen a man before. The only people not affected are Rory, who is staring quizzically at the doctor and Angela, who has, of course, known Jared since he had pimples. His looks are water under the bridge to her.
Jared manoeuvres himself around the side of the bed and the nurse follows, a clipboard in her hand ready to take any notes. Hilary is now pressed against the wall only centimetres from his back and is making rather lewd gestures at me over his shoulder.
“Ouch,” she squeals, stopping to rub her shin, where Angela has kicked her. “That hurt.”
“Get a grip,” Angela hisses. “You are a married woman.”
I hear Hilary mutter something about there being no harm in looking as they’re ushered out of the room so Jared can perform his examination. I hope the doctor hasn’t heard but he seems to have blocked their antics out and is focusing on me. I suppose when you’re a surgeon you become oblivious to people behaving oddly around you. And being viewed as dessert by four women certainly counts as odd.
“The surgery went well,” Jared says, after the room is finally emptied. “You should be up and around in a couple of days. Try to keep still for the moment and let the nurses do everything for you.”
I nod an okay.
“May I?” He moves a little closer, indicating the bump on my chest.
“Sure.” I shuffle up in bed to let him inspect his handiwork while I concoct a fantasy about him inspecting other parts of me.
Jared takes a peak and presses gently against the mound. As he does so, his face becomes serious, filled with concentration. His eyes darken with shadows.
“The room’s not very warm. Has the nurse turned the heating down?”
Because of the nature of the surgery, I’m meant to be in a very hot room for two days after. It keeps the graft warm and hopefully stops my body from rejecting it. Of course, being mind-fuddled as I am, I am currently unable to recall more than my own name. I have not remembered this fact. I know Jared explained it to me in my pre-op consultation but I guess I let it slip my mind. I hope this isn’t bad.
“I haven’t seen the nurse for an hour or so,” I tell him.
“No obs?”
I shake my head. “Not since Mum and Rory have been here.”
Jared goes to the end of the bed. He takes my chart from the pocket on the wall and opens it, studying and turning pages rapidly. I’m becoming concerned. His happy smile from minutes before has been replaced with a scowl, not directed at me but at my charts. He turns to question the nurse who, in her defence has only started her shift in the last few minutes. She’s not responsible for what’s gone on before.
When I sat in his office yesterday making the final arrangements for this day, Jared told me a number of things about the after care. Apart from being in a hot room, I would also have a special nurse to care for me, one on one, until the danger period was over. I would need to be monitored every fifteen minutes initially to ensure any changes could be dealt with immediately and because I would have so many drains and bags attached, I would be unable to care for myself. The nurse who was meant to be seeing to this, however, is nowhere to be found. And the doctor’s face is getting darker and darker.
“When was the last set of observations done?” he asks the nurse.
“At the end of shift, doctor.”
“Has anyone done the Dopplers?” he asks, addressing me again.
I don’t even know what a Doppler is. Which I suppose means nobody has done them. This is my fault. If I’d remembered what he told me instead of gazing into his eyes and thinking rude things, none of this would be happening. I could have reminded them about the heaters and the obs and the god damned Dopplers.
“Get me the Doppler,” he growls at the nurse, who rushes from the room faster than I’ve ever seen anyone run in a hospital.
She returns, panting, with a small pen-like instrument which I gather is a Doppler. Jared places it on my newly-made breast and the nurse and I watch in nervous silence. I’ve no clue what we’re watching for but from the expression on his face I’d say we haven’t seen it.
“Is something wrong?” I venture.
“This machine is like a mini ultrasound. We should be able to hear the blood pumping through the graft.” His ear is cocked to the speaker as he moves the machine to another spot on my breast.
We listen for a sound. Any sound. The nurse is visibly holding her breath. She’s straining so hard, she’s almost willing a sound to happen. There’s nothing. Only a swishing sort of noise like when my ears are blocked.
“Nothing.”
Jared hands the Doppler back to the nurse so roughly, she almost drops it. She has this pained expression, like she’s going to need to use my sick bag at any minute. Either that or she’s going to burst into tears but it’s not her fault. She’s only just started her shift.
“Excuse me.” Jared’s face is thunderous, there’s no other word to describe it. Every aspect of my aftercare, so carefully planned, has been ignored. He strides from the room with the nurse in close pursuit. The door shuts behind them and from the other side I hear the sound of raised voices, very annoyed, angry, raised voices. Jared is throwing a massive hissy fit at everyone in sight.
This is not good. Not good at all.
Then, Jared reappears. He seems composed but I don’t think that’s the case. I think he’s good at putting on a front. I mean, he has to be. He’s a doctor.
“We’ll have to go back to surgery,” he informs me. “The blood flow to the n
ew breast has been compromised and I’ll need to fix it. That’s why your breast is so cold. It’s effectively dying.”
I feel like the rest of me is dying with it. The pity in the room is smothering me.
“But how? I didn’t do anything, did I?”
He looks down at me. “This is not your fault, Sophie. I gave specific instructions for your care and they haven’t been followed.”
I nod sadly. I can’t reply. I’m stunned.
“I’ll organise a theatre. We need to get straight on this. When was the last time you ate?”
“I had a bit of a sandwich, but it was only a bite.”
“Right.”
The look on Jared’s face makes me think maybe I should have waited until he told me it was okay to eat. But seriously, the nurse gave me the sandwich. And I didn’t eat it. not all of it. His pouting like a three year old isn’t going to change the fact.
As Jared strides from the room and the nurse returns to prep me for my second operation in twelve hours, I fall into what can only be described as a bubble of shock. It’s like this is happening around me; like I’m looking at it from above my body. My senses are dulled to the point where everything is merging into one and all I can think is ‘why me’? Wasn’t the fucking cancer enough?
Chapter 26
I wake some hours later, disoriented, groggy and slightly disbelieving that what has happened has happened. It’s surreal, like a scene from a medical drama, except it’s happening to me. There are people calling my name, rousing me to consciousness, the constant beeping of a blood pressure machine, an oxygen tube in my nose. When a girl says she wants a bit of attention this isn’t exactly what she means.
The space around me is dim and curtains on either side shield me from view, so I know I’m no longer in my room on the ward, the one with the TV and my own private bathroom. Where the hell am I? There are other people here. I can hear their machines beeping too. I can sense them, laying here waiting to die. It’s depressing.
In front of me there’s a wall with a large metal-rimmed clock. The red second hand is clicking loudly around and around, marking each moment in time. I try to orientate myself, to put myself back into time and space. The clock reads ten o’clock but whether it’s day or night I’m not sure. There are no windows to give me a clue, no crack of daylight or fresh air.