Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  A hand reaches out to touch my shoulder. It’s a nurse; she’s wearing a theatre gown of sorts and a maternal smile. “Welcome back.”

  I hesitate to ask what that means. Have I been dead?

  “You’re in the Intensive Care Unit,” she explains.

  My body tenses. I search her face for an explanation. What happened while I was asleep? Why am I here? Are my limbs still attached to my body? Has there been some horrible accident and they’ve had to sew the fat back on that they removed? My mind begins to swirl with a montage of scenarios, the majority of which my rational brain knows can’t be true but is so fuzzy, might believe.

  “No need to panic, Sophie,” the nurse adds. “There’s nothing wrong. Dr. Hanson was concerned at the level of aftercare. If you’re here, we can keep a good eye on you. We’ll be doing fifteen-minute observations for the first few hours, but I’ll try to be as quiet as I can. You get some rest.”

  “Where’s Mum?” I croak. My voice sounds like I tried out sword swallowing and failed.

  “She’s in the waiting room. I’ll go get her.”

  “Is Rory with her?”

  “Is that your little boy?”

  I nod.

  “He’s staying with your friend. She left a message that he’s tucked up in bed and will be in to see you tomorrow. She said not to worry. He’s fine.”

  For hours after this, I live in a blur of green and blue-robed nurses and a lovely young doctor who looks like Blake Lively. She wears a tiny mini skirt, in which I’m sure she can’t bend over, and a fluffy pink jumper with pearls. Lani would love her. She also tells me I have an arrhythmia in my heart as she’s pondering why my blood pressure keeps dropping to a level where I should be dead. I’m not happy about this. I never knew I had it. How did I never know?

  I hear her bustling around the bed, tucking me in, washing me, massaging my head that’s pounding from lack of water. I feel the nurses pumping me with more blood, placing blood pressure cuffs on my arm and stethoscopes on my chest. Together we listen with our breath held for the faint sound of my blood pumping through the blood vessels in my breast. The sound is faint but it’s there. It’s establishing a bond between my nurses and me, a shared intimacy that I never believed possible with women I don’t even know.

  Jared seems satisfied when he stops by for a post-op visit and though he’s looking tired and crumpled, his face tells me everything is well this time, that I simply have to lie here and get better. The touch of his hand on my shoulder is reassuring, a small gesture that tells me this means as much to him as it does to me.

  So, I spend infinite minutes watching the clock, its hand ticking slowly round. Time is almost frozen and without the benefit of food, I have no way to delineate the parts of the day. The nurses talk to me; we even share a laugh or two when one of them calls Jared, Dr. Handsome. I think it’s a slip of the tongue until the young Irish nurse tells me it’s the secret name the nurses have for him. Apparently, there’s a book running on who will get him first. He’s rather elusive but there’s a number of candidates in the running.

  “It’ll be a lucky girl that snags him,” the Irish nurse adds. “He’s an absolute darling.” Then she takes my obs for the twentieth time. She whispers to me about her home in County Cork and her Catholic upbringing, so similar to mine yet so very different. By the time she’s made her way from head to tail, it’s almost time to start the process again. I feel stiff and uncomfortable but I sleep in fitful patches and as the minutes tick by to the twelve-hour mark where the observations can be decreased, I begin to relax. I think it’s okay, that the surgery has worked this time. This is, of course, the moment my body chooses to let me know who, exactly, is in charge. The unimaginable happens. Once again, the beating sounds from the Doppler disappear.

  The doctor is called. He appears quickly and every nurse in the unit, along with the duty doctor descends into my space. We listen with baited breath and I see the sadness on their faces, the deflation in their bodies at the sound of nothing. We feel like failures, me especially, because it’s my body that’s the cause of the trouble.

  “It was there a minute ago,” the Irish nurse says. Her eyes have filled with tears and she’s struggling to keep the emotion from her voice. She literally turned her back to fill in a reading on the desk-size chart at the end of my bed when it went.

  I begin to cry too. “She’s right. We heard it. It was so strong.”

  Jared checks again. His head is close to mine as he listens and though he appears outwardly calm, a small twitch in his left cheek tells me otherwise. There’s something else too, a feeling that wasn’t there last time he visited. He’s closed himself off to me. The intimacy we were building has been replaced by a detached wall. He straightens and turns to the nurse. “It’s not there now. Book a theatre, we’ll have to go back to surgery.”

  By the time the orderlies wheel me to the operating theatre some time later, I’m hysterical. Tears are streaming down the sides of my cheeks and onto the pillow. I can’t keep doing this. It clearly isn’t working. Something is dreadfully wrong with me and it’s not the fault of the medical team.

  Jared’s waiting at the door of the theatre when I arrive. Seeing my tears, his face softens behind his surgeon’s mask. His eyes are feeling my sadness. He asks the nurse to get a tissue and when she returns he dabs the tears away.

  “Don’t cry, Sophie,” he says.

  The gesture is not lost on the theatre staff. I’m sure they don’t see it every day. I give him a limp smile. I hate that he’s being so nice to me. I hate that I’m putting him to this trouble.

  “It’s not that,” I begin to blubber again. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take it.” For the first time since my diagnosis, I want to give up. “I don’t have the money to keep trotting in here every few hours.”

  “You think I’d do this for the money?” He seems quite put out that I would suggest such a thing.

  “NO! No! Of course I don’t. I trust you completely. I know you’re doing the best you can do but I …” And I descend into tears again.

  I feel like such a useless failure.

  Then I feel a hand, gently covering mine. A pair of sea green eyes pull me into their focus. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll sort everything out.”

  *****

  It takes twenty-four hours and another round of surgery before Jared and I concede defeat. After being lulled into a false sense of security and fed my first meal in five days, we find that the breast has decided to decamp. It doesn’t like it’s new home on my chest, it wants to remain part of my stomach and in protest has decided it will not go on living. I resign myself to the fact that this avenue of reconstruction is not for me and, when we decide to return to surgery for the final time to remove the graft, I’m not sad. In a way, I’m relieved that the ordeal is over. If nothing else, I now have a lovely flat stomach for the first time this millennium.

  On my first day back on the ward, Jared arrives early to do his daily rounds. I haven’t seen him for over twenty-four hours and I’m beginning to suffer the effects of withdrawal. We’ve been in such close proximity this past week, I feel as if I know him intimately, even though I know I don’t. I do know a lot about his eyes though. I’ve spent an awful lot of time gazing into them.

  I’m laying on the bed. I’m showered, wearing my own clothes and feeling so much more like myself, despite the ordeal. I’ve even managed to do my hair and add a squirt of perfume. I know full well it’s playing with fire but I want to make an effort for him.

  Jared draws the curtain and stops by the end of the bed, examining my chart. His face is somber. No cheery smile, no cute dimple. And the air between us is so thick, you’d need a chainsaw to dissect it.

  Something is definitely wrong.

  “Things seem to be progressing well. How does your stomach feel?” His voice is clipped and he’s not looking me in the eye. He’s guarded. Very guarded.

  “Sore. But fine. When will the drains come out?” I
have four drains at the moment. I feel like a bowl of human spaghetti.

  Jared moves to the side of the bed and picks up a drain. He questions the nurse about the reading and grumbles that the output hasn’t been measured to his satisfaction. His frown deepens like the crevices in an earthquake.

  “We can probably take this one out tomorrow,” he replies, his gaze remaining on the drain. “Have you got any pain?”

  “My back is killing me. And my head hurts when I move.”

  He doesn’t make a silly comment about not moving. He merely mutters something to the nurse and shuffles around like he’s lost his way. This time, three days ago, he was stroking my shoulder and wiping away my tears. Now, it’s as if I’ve contracted Rabies and he’s afraid if he comes close without a mask, he’ll catch it. I don’t understand. What have I done?

  As he puts the drain back on the floor beside the bed, he turns to the nurse. “I’ll write up a prescription for some stronger pain killers,” he says.

  Then he leaves.

  *****

  I’m discharged from the hospital a week later and as I stand in the loading bay waiting for Mum to drive the car around, I’m hit with the most dreadful sense of loss and grief. The past week on the ward has been quiet and calm. I’ve been pampered to within an inch of my life. There’s been a constant stream of visitors and I’ve put on my usual bubbly persona, tricking them into thinking that I’m coping well with this disappointment but now I’m leaving, it’s hitting home. My body feels heavy, like I’ve been filled with bricks. I’m finding it hard to move a leg to get in the car and I have this overwhelming urge to sob. It’s like I went into hospital to have a baby and the baby died, that’s how I feel. It’s grief like I’ve never experienced before. And the worst part is, when I get home and Mum is gone, I have no-one to shoulder the load. I am completely alone.

  Chapter 27

  I have no idea what I’d do without my family and friends.

  After my discharge, they rally around. They cook and clean, take Rory to school. Angela even offers to bake me a casserole, though I know the closest she’ll come to actual baking is buying the pre-packaged fresh goods from Herdsman Fresh. It’s her version of cooking.

  On the first Friday night after I come home, Mum decides to take Rory to the movies. I beg off. My stomach is numb and if I sit or lay in one spot for any length of time it’s hell to get back up, so I’m trying to move at regular intervals. I view this turn of events in the positive though. There’s only so many Pixar movies a parent should be required to see in their lifetime and I reached my quota a long time ago.

  So, Mum and Rory disappear for an early dinner and movie and I’m left prone on the couch with a book. I’ve felt better in the last few days, though I do break into fits of sobbing at the most ridiculous things. It’s as if in the middle of everything, my hormones have decided to play ping pong with my brain. Things that I’d normally gloss over are tear-inducing, like finding a huge chunk of hair in my hand when I wash it — though I would have been upset about that at any time, I wouldn’t have cried for two hours. And yesterday, Mum arrived home from the shops to find me sobbing over the love scene in Dirty Dancing. I’ve seen it at least thirty times and yet something managed to strike a chord.

  “Sophie!” Mum screamed, dropping the groceries and running to my side. I think she thought I’d popped the stitches in my stomach or something. The look on her face was less than sympathetic when I explained I was crying because Baby and Johnny would never have their happy ending. Thank heavens I hadn’t been watching a rerun of Marley and Me.

  The doorbell rings, followed instantly by a text. It’s Angela.

  Can I come in?

  Door is unlocked, I text back. I like her thinking here. She knows I’m flat out on the couch and doesn’t want me to move.

  “Hey hon.” I’m greeted by her cheery smile as she enters the room, a large box of groceries in her arms. “I brought you a few supplies. With your Mum going home next week you’ll have nobody to cook for you. You can pop them in the freezer until you need them.”

  She lowers the box for my inspection. There’s a lasagna, a barbeque chicken pizza and a fish pie, not to mention an assortment of pre-prepared vegetables and three blocks of Cadbury.

  “You’ve been cooking then?” I grin.

  She gives me a look. “Of course not. I got it from Herdies. Someone has to keep the local economy afloat. It might as well be me. I’ll stash this stuff in the kitchen, shall I?”

  “Great. And thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know. But I wanted to. Speaking of Herdies, guess who I met in the fresh produce aisle?”

  “Jamie Oliver.”

  “Ha ha. Melinda. Her trolley was chock full with things I know for a fact never pass her lips — bread, bananas, pasta. She asked how you were.”

  I crane my neck over the top of the couch. “What did you say?”

  “That she should ring and ask you herself. I said you were really upset that she was freezing you out.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She said she’d lost your number. Stupid cow. Nobody loses numbers off an iPhone. You have to delete them and even then they’re stored in the iCloud. Anyway, I texted your number to her while we were standing there. I watched her open it.”

  “You didn’t!” I’m stunned Angela had the guts to stand up to Melinda. She can be pretty full on when she gets going.

  “She hasn’t rung, has she?”

  “Nup.”

  “She’s such a two-faced bitch. I knew she wouldn’t. It was worth it to see her squirm, though.”

  After packing the supplies away, Angela returns with a bottle of Shiraz. She pops the cork and offers me a glass.

  “Can’t,” I say. “I’m still on painkillers.”

  “That’s a bugger.” She lifts her glass to take a sip. “Oh well, more for me. Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?”

  I indicate the large bottle of water on the floor next to the couch. “I’m good. So, tell me the latest.”

  We chat for a while about the nanny, Jeff’s new secretary — who Angela is in love with because she’s at least fifty and looks like Mrs. Doubtfire — and the new instructor at the gym. He apparently makes sweating it out in a pump class worthwhile.

  “When do you get the all clear to exercise?” Angela asks.

  “I have a follow up next week. I’ll find out then.” Since beginning my exercise regime again, I’m keen to maintain my level of fitness, though I loathe the gym. It’s about as much fun as sitting in a vat of boiling oil.

  “And what’s going on with the house?”

  “There’s a couple of interested parties. I’m hoping if they make an offer I can string the settlement out for a couple of months. I’m in no condition to be moving house.”

  “Surely Brendan will make that small concession or at least help with the move?”

  I release an exasperated sigh. “I doubt it. He’s been on my case almost every day since I got home. I don’t even know how he got my new number.”

  “What does he want? Surely, he can’t want money. It’s not like he’s destitute.”

  “He’s up to something. You haven’t heard anything, have you?” Angela and I move in relatively the same circles. And she knows everything about everyone, right down to the colour of their undies.

  “Not a scrap. He’s been off the radar since the spilt.”

  “Which makes me think, he has a new girlfriend.”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not really. Good luck to them. I just wish he’d leave me alone. He rang four times yesterday. I was this close to telling him to go fuck himself.” I hold up a pinch of fingers.

  “From what I’ve heard, he wouldn’t be that good at it.” Angela lets out a guffaw and I hold my stomach and try not to laugh.

  “Don’t say stuff like that! It hurts if I laugh.”

  After we settle down, and Angela has had another sip of wine, she ch
anges the subject. “You haven’t spoken to Jared since you got home, then?”

  I’m wondering where she’s heading with this line of questioning. Why on earth would I have talked to Jared? I’m sure he has far more pressing things to worry about than my failed breast reconstruction. Besides he wasn’t exactly Mr Conversation during my last days in the hospital. He seemed so preoccupied. And distant.

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Which, of course, means there is a reason and she’s dying for me to ask so she can tell me the secret without looking like she is.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well.” The word is long and drawn out for effect.

  “Yes?”

  “Jared rang Jeff. He was asking questions about you, personal questions.”

  “It could be he’s simply trying to piece together what happened. He was very cross about the whole thing. The last time I spoke to him at my discharge, he put me in the care of a blood doctor. They took so much blood to test, it’s a wonder I didn’t need another transfusion.” I shove up my sleeve, revealing a left arm that is yellowish-bluish from wrist to elbow.

  “This conversation was nothing to do with the reconstruction. Jeff said he was asking about Brendan and Rory and those sorts of things, the types of things people ask when they’re ‘interested’.”

  It’s an effort but I push myself up on the couch. “Don’t be silly. Jared Hanson isn’t interested in me.”

  And if she’d seen the way he behaved during my last week in hospital, there’d be no way she’d entertain the thought.

  “You know he slept at the hospital while you were in ICU?”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. He made the nurses organise him a bed. Practically threatened to sue someone if it wasn’t done by the time he came out of theatre.”