Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  “You ask an awful lot of questions.” He’s smiling again. The tension’s gone. “And no, I’m not a perfectionist. Well, maybe only a little bit. And only with my work.”

  “You don’t line up tins in the pantry and re-fluff the cushions if the dent in the middle isn’t right, do you?”

  “Not in recent history.”

  “Are your shirts in colour-coded, seasonal order?”

  “You can come and check if you like. Most of them are in a crumpled pile in the ironing basket.”

  Now, I’m smiling too. It’s nice to have things out in the open. I still have no idea where I stand, romantically speaking, but at least our friendship is back on an even keel. I tempt fate with one last question. “So you want to like me but you can’t, either because I remind you that you failed or because you’re afraid you might get indiscreet with me in the examination room?”

  Jared takes a step away. A mischievous twinkle sparks in his eye. “If you think about it for a while, I’m sure you’ll be able to answer that question yourself,” he laughs. And without even retrieving his half-full bottle of beer, he rushes from the room like I’ve suggested group sex with his friends might be a good idea.

  *****

  “So, Jared kissed you?”

  I’m curled up on the couch with a hot cup of tea, the dog and the phone. It’s been less than an hour since everyone went home after helping with the move but already Angela feels the need to call me to establish whether the news is true. Jeff has a habit of stretching reality for the sake of comedy.

  I reach over and rub my fingers over the soft fur on Grover’s ears. “Nearly.” I sigh, knowing that owning up to what happened is the only way to stop her talking about it.

  “And you wanted him to?”

  “Of course I did. He’s hot Ange. And he’s sweet. Why wouldn’t I want him to kiss me?”

  “May I remind you, he’s your doctor?”

  “May I remind you, you tried to set us up some months back? You should be overjoyed at this development.”

  “Oh I am, I am. But I’m also pondering your surgical future. Clearly, you can’t go on with the doctor-patient relationship now.”

  “He didn’t rip my clothes off and have wild sex with me on the rug.”

  Not that I’d be saying no to that at this point in time.

  “From what Jeff said, it sounded as if he was about to.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake. As if you’d believe anything that husband of yours says. He’s a stirrer. Don’t you remember when he sent you that picture of him and Nicole Kidman from his last trip to Sydney and you thought it was real?”

  “He had me going for days, the bastard. How was I to know he’d been to some function at Madame Tussauds?”

  “My point exactly.”

  “But you’re still going to see him tomorrow aren’t you?”

  “You saw that thing on my stomach, didn’t you? I have no intention of spending any more time than necessary looking like a walking horror movie. I’ll be in there first thing.”

  “And the almost kiss?”

  “I’m going to ignore it.”

  At least until Jared finishes treating me. Who knows? The attraction we feel may only be because it’s forbidden. Not being able to have something only makes you want to have it more. He might not even like me when I’m merely another Breast Cancer survivor.

  Chapter 33

  “I’m glad you came in, Sophie.”

  Jared is sitting at his desk, tapping his pen on the desk calendar. He’s looking very handsome today, with his dark rimmed glasses framing his eyes and a pale blue shirt rolled up to the elbows. The stone coloured trousers he has on are particularly manly too, and I don’t generally like pale pants on a man.

  “I wanted to discuss a couple of things with you in regards to the rest of your treatment.”

  Oh no. It’s coming. He’s going to say he wants me to go to another Plastic Surgeon.

  “I’ve tried to ignore it, to be professional and show self-control, but well, I’m very attracted to you….”

  I look at his fingers, caressing the pen and I begin to fantasise about them caressing other things. I picture myself taking off his glasses and some new uses for that examination bed in the corner.

  “Sophie?”

  “Huh? Sorry, yes?” I can feel my face burning with the embarrassment. I hope he doesn’t know what I was thinking. He’s very astute. Reading minds wouldn’t be out of the question.

  “I said, I think I should refer you to another surgeon.”

  “Because you’re attracted to me?”

  He leans across and takes my hands in his. “Extremely.”

  “Oh.”

  “You seem to have implanted these rather lewd daydreams in my head. I’m finding it very hard to think straight.”

  He’s not alone there.

  I straighten in my chair and cross my leg, adopting what I hope is a sensible, not non-seductive pose. “As an aside, if you send me to another specialist, will you be doing anything to act on these — uh — daydreams? It seems pointless changing doctors if I’m not going to get anything out of it. Just saying.”

  Jared stares into my eyes. He’s trying not to smirk. “That was my intention, yes.”

  “And if I don’t want another doctor?”

  “I’m still going to have to refer you on. I could be struck off for beginning a relationship with a patient while treating them.”

  “But we’re not in a relationship. All you did was almost kiss me. And tell me your deepest darkest fear.”

  He looks at me like I’m a five-year old. I know I’m splitting hairs but, seriously, I’m not going to tell anyone he thinks he’s a failure and I’m positive he’s going to be able to concentrate once he’s got me cut open. The sight of blood and guts have a way of bringing a person back from the clouds.

  “It makes no difference, Sophie. I can’t treat you, but I can refer you on to my colleague Dr. Clifford. He’s extremely good. And he won’t abide any of your eyelash batting and come hither looks.”

  “I do not bat my eyelashes!” I give a huff.

  “Well, maybe you only do it with me. Anyway, I’ve already spoken to him about your case and he has an opening later today.”

  I feel my lip beginning to wobble. Suddenly, I feel as if the rug is being pulled from under me, that someone has changed the goal posts and forgot to let me know. “But…”

  “We can’t continue this way, Sophie. You know it as well as I do.”

  I do, too, but that doesn’t mean I like it. I have an attachment to the way Jared cares for me. Forming a new attachment at this stage will seem weird. But there’s no choice. He could get into serious trouble if I don’t go along with his plan. I gather my purse and stand up ready to leave. Jared hands me a piece of notepaper, containing Dr. Clifford’s details and my appointment time.

  “What about my hernia? Is there anything I can do to alleviate it until I have surgery? It’s really uncomfortable having what I ate for lunch bulging out the side of my stomach.”

  Plus, my wardrobe choices are limited enough already. I’m not adding neck to knee kaftans.

  Jared gets up and goes to a cupboard in the corner of the office. He opens the door and begins to rummage around. “What size are your hips?”

  “Is that a professional question?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m about a 36.”

  He reappears with a large plastic package. Inside it is the biggest piece of elastic known to man. It’s at least a foot wide and has a large strip of Velcro on one end. “This is an abdominal binder. You can wear it under your clothes. It’s adjustable so you can make it any size you like but it’ll hold your stomach in place and relieve some of the uncomfortable sensation.”

  It’s a good thing we’re not in a relationship yet. If Jared saw me wearing this and the nana bra, he’d probably die laughing. I take the thing and shove it in my bag. If it means my stomach stays where it belongs, I guess I’
ll wear it.

  “Give me a call later,” he says, adding a smile. “Let me know how you get on with Dr. Clifford.”

  “I don’t think I will, not now that you’ve practically called me a hussy.”

  I leave his office with an odd feeling inside that I can’t explain. It’s like someone has filled me with air and I’m floating down the street to the car. I’m giddier than the night I got Jon Bon Jovi’s autograph, a major moment in my life. I feel like I’ve been dumped, which I sort of have, and yet somehow, I may have ended up with a boyfriend out of it. And a rather dishy one at that.

  *****

  I arrive at the shop to find Lani on the computer. It’s early morning still, and I’m loathe to have a go at her now she’s my partner. Besides, I can’t see the screen. She might well be doing the orders for the online storefront, though the way she’s chuckling to herself it appears unlikely.

  “How’s it going?” I ask, plonking a takeaway coffee down beside her. She’s so engrossed, she doesn’t even notice I’ve come into the room. Seriously, I could shoplift the entire vintage bag collection and she wouldn’t even realise.

  Lani looks up. “Oh, hi. I’ve printed out the online orders. I’ll start boxing them up for posting now you’re here. Have you seen these t-shirts?”

  I lean my head over her shoulder. She’s on eBay, of course, and has somehow managed to find a store selling custom designed cancer t-shirts, made somewhere in Perth. They have quirky — some might say offensive — slogans styled like 50’s cartoons and reading, ‘Chemo Whore’ and ‘Grope your Wife, Save a Life.’ They bring back memories of the pink glittery thing Mum gave me.

  “We’re not buying them, Lani. No matter how you think you can justify the purchase, they are not setting foot in this shop. We sell hats, bags and accessories.”

  “But they’re funny and look at the colours. They’re super retro and that cartoon style is so vintage it’s practically antique.”

  “Would you wear one?”

  Lani swivels to face me. Her outfit for the day is comprised of huge yellow plastic earrings, a neon yellow t-shirt, knotted at the hip and a knee-length black boucle pencil skirt, topped off by white ankle socks and hot pink sneakers. The very proper woman on the front of her t-shirt has a speech bubble exploding from her mouth that says, ‘My other breast is a prosthesis,’ in comic black font.

  I arch my eyebrows.

  “What?” Lani says.

  I’m unsure whether it’s in poor taste. At the moment, I’m too busy being shocked.

  “I got one for you,” Lani adds, whipping a cream shirt from under the counter. “I love this one.”

  She holds the top up in front of her chest for me to admire. It has a picture of a 1940’s pin up girl languishing over the top of the slogan in her underwear, ‘Dear Cancer, I hope you get cancer and die. Love Sophie.’

  “Try it on,” Lani suggests.

  “It’s not really me, Lan.” Even with my name across the chest.

  Lani looks deflated so I take the shirt from her, pull it over my top and straighten it, giving a twirl to display it from every angle. It is cute but I still can’t wear it.

  “What do you think?” she asks, as I look at myself in the reflection of the window.

  “I don’t think I can bring myself to wear it. It’s like I’m asking for sympathy. It’s pretty though, in a sick sort of way.”

  “I never thought of it like that.” Lani’s lip twists in thought.

  At that moment, a woman walks into the shop. She’s thin and her face is hollow, yet she has a lady-like air about her. She approaches the counter where I’m standing, awkwardly trying to hide the inappropriate t-shirt I’m wearing at ten a.m. in the morning.

  “I hope you girls don’t mind me interrupting,” the woman says, “but I was walking past and I noticed your t-shirts through the window. Are they something you stock?”

  Oh no. Upsetting potential customers isn’t my idea of good business. The poor woman is probably disgusted.

  “Ah…” I begin.

  “Not yet,” Lani interrupts, digging me with her elbow. “We’re road-testing them to gauge customer reaction. What do you think?”

  The woman looks us up and down. I have no idea if she’s annoyed that we’re taking the piss out of cancer or if she finds it funny.

  “It’s rather irreverent, but that’s the point, isn’t it?” She flashes the most gorgeous smile I think I’ve ever seen. Her bright blue eyes come alive.

  “Definitely,” Lani agrees.

  “And if you can’t laugh in the face of adversity like that, what hope have you got? My only problem would be not having the breasts to fill such a gem out.” She points to her lack of cleavage. “I used to have such great tits.”

  “You’re a Breast Cancer sufferer?” I ask.

  “The lack of hair and gaunt expression usually gives it away, if the stylish handbag doesn’t.” She holds up the bag I recognise as a drain bag. At least I’m not the only person who thinks they’re hideous.

  “Mine was such a pain in the bum,” I say. “I was always forgetting to pick the stupid thing up and walking off without it.”

  She begins to laugh. “I know. It’s a wonder I haven’t left bodily fluids all over Perth. You’re a survivor, too?”

  “I think you’d say I’m in the reconstruction phase. Which, for me, has been worse than the cancer itself.”

  We chat for a while longer, and the woman, Jessica, tells me how she’s been battling this disease for twelve years and that this is her second bout of Breast Cancer. She describes the way her life has changed since her diagnosis — how her business almost collapsed because she took so much sick leave, the infections in her wound site that recur month after month, the botched reconstruction that left her with one breast under her chin at the other at her navel. And the effects on her family were enormous too. The stress and financial burden almost turned her husband into an alcoholic and her children became clingy and needy because of the constant reminders she might die. How does she keep on smiling and joking? My own journey’s been far smoother than hers and even I have a moan now and again.

  “Gosh, you poor thing.”

  “Hey, I’m not dead, so that’s a bonus. I still have a loving husband and two beautiful children. When I get a bit whiny and annoyed with the world, I remind myself of that.”

  “I tell myself that, too. I mean, there’s a heap of things worse than having no boobs, isn’t there? So many people are worse off than me. At least I have a family and friends and a roof over my head.”

  Jessica writes her number on a piece of paper and hands it to Lani. “If you do decide to get more of those shirts, can you give me a call? I have a whole network of women friends who’d love to tell cancer to ‘fuck off.’” She exits the shop with a wave and a promise to return.

  “Well,” Lani says, as the doorbell tinkles with the closing of the door. “She was a bit of an inspiration, wasn’t she? All that positivity. Kicking cancer in the guts.”

  “I wouldn’t call her inspirational,” I reply. “She’s just a woman getting on with it. There’s nothing brave or inspirational about it when you have no choice. It’s either do it or die.”

  “You’re so blunt sometimes.”

  Lani may think that but it’s true. People with cancer get called brave and inspirational all the time. But I’m neither. It’s not like I chose to get cancer; it chose me. If it had been a choice and I’d still managed to save the world, that would be an inspiration.

  Chapter 34

  Colin and Mum are sitting opposite me on the sofa. They’ve been in the house a grand total of fifteen minutes, given out gifts, had the tour, grabbed a drink and now he’s beginning the grilling. I was hoping his obsession only covered prosthetic items but it appears he’s widened his interest to implants as well.

  “So, what type of implants are you getting?” he asks, flattening the hair that has now returned to its natural snowy white.

  “Ah, not su
re really.”

  Which is true. Dr. Clifford, my new P.S. — and I say that with a lump of sadness in my throat — is performing the procedure. I can’t wait. I’m so excited. And I know nothing is going to go wrong this time. Apparently, the clotting last time was caused because I’m a fast healer. I don’t have some whacky blood disease.

  “How can you not know? It’s quite remiss of you not to be fully informed about your surgery.”

  This makes me a bit peeved but I bite my tongue. Colin’s only showing he cares. As far as step-fathers go, he’s one of the best.

  “I don’t know because I’m not having the implants done yet. Dr. Clifford is inserting tissue expanders tomorrow to stretch my skin and make way for the implants. I’ll have to go to his rooms every week and have them injected with saline until my chest is a size I’m happy with. After that, he’ll remove the expanders and put in the implants, at which stage, I suppose we’ll have some sort of discussion about the type.”

  I look over to Colin. I’m surprised he hasn’t whipped out a recorder to help him recall each detail.

  “He’s repairing the hernia, too, isn’t he?” Mum asks.

  “Yep.”

  “And tell me again, why that handsome Dr. Hanson isn’t performing the surgery?” She gives a titter at the way that sounds.

  Okay. What do I say here?

  Because we want to shag each other’s brains out?

  Because I’ve cried on him so many times he’s had me reported as a stalker?

  “Dr. Hanson’s on holiday,” I lie. “He’ll be back by the end of the week though.” Just not as my surgeon.

  Last night, after both our children were asleep, Jared rang. He asked if he could come and visit me in the hospital, which I think was really sweet and very gentlemanly. Of course, I said yes. I mean, as if you’d say no to that. I hope he arrives at a time when I look like a human being. Though after the way I looked last time I was there, he probably won’t care.

  “So after the surgery, you won’t need the prosthesis anymore?” Colin asks.