Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  “Thank heavens.”

  “Is there some sort of recycling facility? Like they have for glasses? When your mother got her eyes lasered they sent her frames to some place in Africa where they give them to people who can’t afford to buy a pair.”

  I hardly think my fake boob is going to end up on some African woman’s chest. Wouldn’t it be unhygienic?

  “I don’t know that such a program exists,” I say. “And anyway, I’m keeping my prosthesis.”

  “What on earth for?” Mum asks.

  “Lani and I are going to spray paint it fluorescent pink and hang it in a gilt frame in the shop. It’s going to continue its life as a work of art. So in a way, it will be recycled.”

  “Oh my giddy aunt!” A look of dismay crosses Mum’s face, which is slightly at odds with the fact that she was the one who gave me a sex toy as a gift. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As serious as I was about having Bon Jovi played at my funeral.”

  Mum shakes her head. I think she’s hoping I’ll change my mind but I won’t. As soon as I’m well enough, I’m climbing that ladder and hanging my cancer on the wall for everyone to see. I’m proud of what I’ve conquered this year. I want to celebrate my life. And not when I’m dead.

  *****

  I’m sure I stipulated I wanted a private room but when I wake from my surgery the next afternoon, with three drains and a drip attached so I have no possibility of escaping any time soon, I discover I’m still in the same room with the same awesome view. The one that overlooks the second tier of the car park. That same annoying woman who arrived this morning is still here, too. She’s on the door side of the room and the privacy curtain’s drawn, yet the stench of cigarettes from where she’s been outside is so overpowering it’s practically in bed with me. She’s yelling over the divide as if the curtain didn’t exist. She hasn’t stopped for long enough to comprehend that, even if I wanted to hold a conversation, I’m incapable because I haven’t stopped throwing up since I got back from theatre. I’m tired, I’m weak from dehydration and holding my stomach every time I move and yet on she goes… blah, blah blah. I, seriously, wish she’d shut it. She’s making it so hard for me to keep it together.

  After I’ve thrown up for what seems like the tenth time, I see the curtain move and I pray she hasn’t decided to get out of bed and join me on my side of the room but it’s Jared. He’s finished his rounds and decided he’d pop in on the way home. He slides into the narrow area between the curtain and the bed. His shoulders seem to fill the small space as he stops at the head. His smile is like daffodils on a spring day or honey on a crumpet. I only wish I had the energy to return it.

  “How are you feeling? Dr. Clifford said everything went very well.” His voice is quiet, so he can’t be heard by the woman in the other bed. Not that that would stop her. Once she finishes telling the nurses as loudly as she can how rude I am for not talking to her, I’m sure she’ll be ducking her head around the curtain to enquire how he is.

  I look up into his face. For some reason, my stomach feels calmer now he’s here. “I’m good, apart from being insanely tired and not being able to stop being sick. The poor nurses have been run off their feet cleaning up my mess.”

  “You don’t look ill. You look beautiful.”

  The urge to giggle surfaces but I manage to control it by pressing my lips as firmly together as I can. It’s a long while since I’ve been complimented. You tend to forget how nice it makes you feel. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Good. I like to see the pink in your cheeks.”

  Taking hold of the bed rails, I attempt to shuffle up in the bed. I have this sudden need to be closer to him, to feel his nearness. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

  “I can’t stay long. It wouldn’t be good to raise eyebrows just yet.”

  “No.” I run my tongue over my lips.

  “Would you like some water?”

  I wonder if he’s like this with everyone or if he’s simply trying to impress me. I’m past trying to impress. I’m trying not to fall asleep in the middle of his sentence. That would be extremely bad manners.

  “Yes, please,” I mumble.

  Jared lifts the glass towards me and places the straw in my mouth. He glances at my chest and I can see he’s dying to get a look at Dr. Clifford’s work to see if it’s as good as he would have done.

  “You can look if you want. I won’t tell.”

  He thinks twice before declining. “I’d better not. I’d never be able to explain my way out of it if a nurse comes in. There’ll be plenty of time for me to look at your chest.”

  Like an instant dose of sunburn, the blush races from my forehead to my toes.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” I whisper, boldly.

  “I’ve no doubt you will.”

  “As soon as I can get out of the bed.”

  “I could get in it.”

  I gasp in mock horror. “That’s not very professional.”

  “I’m not your doctor, remember?” He’s smirking now, enjoying my discomfort. I’m more worried about my reaction to his words. I’m a grown woman, for heavens sake. A bit of playful banter shouldn’t have me behaving like a coy school girl.

  I take a few sips of water and sink back onto the pillow, exhausted from the flirting. The water’s cool and refreshing, soothing my angry throat. But only for thirty seconds. Because it’s then the water comes back up, and along with the remaining bile in my stomach it spews down the front of Jared’s shirt. He’s seen me naked and scared. He’s seen me with one boob. Now he’s witnessing me vomiting over him, which can’t be a good start to any relationship.

  On the flip side, if this doesn’t scare him away, I guess nothing will.

  “Good shot,” he says, as he puts down the glass and holds the sick bag for the next round. He presses a button for the nurse. “Can’t say I’ve ever had that reaction from a woman before.”

  “First time for everything,” I say, before heaving one more time.

  “Hopefully there’ll be a lot more firsts for us,” he answers with a slight squeeze of my hand.

  Shit, now he’s made me cry. He’s going to think I’m some sort of nutcase, laughing in one breath and sobbing the next. “Can you pass me a tissue?”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “No.” I sniffle. “Just the hormones.”

  But we both know I’m lying. I’m just so overwhelmed, I could cry for a week.

  A while later, after we’ve both been cleaned up, and he’s talking to me about something I can’t comprehend because words are foam inside my head, Mum, Colin and Rory arrive. The tiny space is suddenly heaving with people much to the disgust of my roommate who can no longer talk to the curtain without seeming like a loon. Colin’s pinched her visitor chair, too, which causes a disgruntled huff from her side of the room; one I’m sure I’ll be hearing well after the visit is over.

  “You’re back from your holiday, then?” Mum asks Jared, as she gives his damp shirt a longer than necessary glance.

  Jared glances at me before answering. “Ah, yes. It was more of a work thing. I couldn’t get out of it.”

  Phew. Clearly he can read minds as well as make boobs because I was channelling that answer to him.

  “Well, it’s lovely to see you back. There’s nothing like a nice strong doctor to hold your hair back when you’re feeling poorly.”

  “It was either that or let Sophie vomit over it. There wasn’t a great deal of time to call a nurse.”

  Over in the corner, Colin has made himself comfortable, oblivious that his wife is flirting with a man half his age. As Mum twitters and flits like a girlish bird, Colin swings an ankle over his knee, giving us a full view. Beneath his funky new short-shorts he’s decided going commando was a good option for the day. He also appears to have had a bit of manscaping done in the pubic department.

  “But you’re feeling better now, Sophie?” he enquires, casually.

  Well, I was b
efore I got an eyeful of his privates.

  “Yes, thanks,” I say. I know it’s bad manners but I can’t look at him as I say it. I’m so shocked by what I’ve seen I can’t look at anybody. I grab the sick bag and heave into it again.

  “What type of implants will you be giving Sophie, Dr. Hanson?” Colin asks, oblivious that his parts are on display.

  Now it’s Jared’s turn. He looks at Colin and looks away. He’s going to laugh. I know he is. “We have to wait until the expansion’s complete. Then we can determine brand, size and shape. It depends on what looks best with Sophie’s body type.”

  “It sounds like an interesting procedure. Do you think I’d be able to sit in? You know, in the operation, like?”

  Jared shakes his head. How he’s managing to hold a conversation with Colin’s third eye staring at him is beyond me. The whole situation is so surreal; I’m beginning to think the anaesthetic is playing tricks with my mind.

  “Probably not. The operating theatres are quite small. There’s really only room for staff.”

  At which I hide my face in the blanket because I know for a fact they’re massive. I’ve seen the inside of nearly every one in the city over the past year.

  “That’s a pity.” Colin adjusts his position in the chair causing his level of exposure to reach heights even a porn star couldn’t ignore. “I have the greatest admiration for the work you do. It takes balls to play with a person’s life.”

  “Oh shit,” I say, causing Mum to bounce from her chair and send Rory flying to the floor where he sits for a second probably wondering how he got there.

  “Are you all right, darling?”

  “Fine,” I reply, indicating the floorshow Colin is now giving the entire ward, including the orderly who’s come to empty the waste bin.

  Mum swings around, a puzzled look on her face. Then she twigs. “Oh for Pete’s sake, Colin! Can you tuck yourself in, please? Sophie doesn’t need to see your man bits, especially when she doesn’t have a man of her own. You’ll put her off her dinner.”

  Rory gets to his feet. He has a look of bewilderment but that might be because his brain has been bounced about inside his little head. “What are man bits, Mummy? Are they like Choc Bits?”

  Which causes us to burst into fits of laughter. I laugh so much, in fact, I begin to cry.

  Chapter 35

  The next day, due to my constant coughing from the cigarette stench of the woman in the adjacent bed, I am wheeled down the corridor to a new room. I’m happy to leave the crazy lady behind but I don’t think she feels the same way. On my way out the door I hear her complaining that I’m leaving. She can’t understand it; she was positive she asked to move rooms before I did.

  I arrive in my new room and am greeted by the welcome sound of silence. The silence lasts for two days and is broken by the arrival of another roommate. Like me, she, too, has been a victim of Breast Cancer. I can tell by her wig, which though very natural looking is still obviously a wig. Maybe the staff is hoping we’ll bond. After six days eating cardboard cereal and waiting for my friends to bring me real coffee, I’m willing to talk to anyone.

  The woman in the bed bedside me however, has no intention of engaging in a conversation. When her husband arrives with a bag of groceries because she can’t suffer the food, she begins to wail and then, as she receives a phone call that she refuses to answer, the wailing increases. She can’t possibly be dying. She’s way too vocal.

  At lunch the next day, after a night of sobbing followed by a series of long drawn out groans, an orderly arrives to take her for an ultrasound. This is apparently cause for concern, though Jared — who conveniently happens to be her surgeon — has told her they’re simply checking her infection and as I sit in the silence left in her wake, I wonder at how Breast Cancer affects people in different ways.

  The woman returns, the wailing continues well into the afternoon and is punctuated by sniffing and nose blowing. Even a visit from the handsome Dr. Hanson to let her know everything’s fine is not enough to make her moaning cease. He’s walked in, winked at me on the way past my bed and imparted the news in between her bursts of tears.

  After two hours, I can take no more, so I put my head around the curtain.

  “Is everything okay? Is there anything I can get for you?”

  I know I shouldn’t ask, because, obviously, what she’s wanted this entire time is someone to unload on.

  So I sit on the edge of her bed with her. We drink coffee I buy from the café downstairs — not an easy feat while carrying two drains — and eat huge slabs of Hummingbird Cake like two old friends out for afternoon tea. The woman, Olga, tells me about her diagnosis five months ago. In a bold and rather forward move for two people who’ve recently met, she whips off her bra and shows me the site of her lumpectomy and the reconstruction the size of a twenty-cent piece near her right armpit.

  That’s it? I think. That’s what the moaning is about? She hasn’t even lost a breast.

  Olga goes on to tell me how her life is over because she’s lost her hair and bemoans my luck at still having mine. It’s depressing listening to the way she’s speaking but at least she’s not crying anymore and when the nurses come in to give us our medication they smile at me. I think they think the same thing.

  But it’s when Olga tells me that she can’t bear to have her family see her this way, so she’s banned them from visiting, I begin to think the cancer medication has left her seriously unhinged. It’s sort of confirmed when she tells me how she had to give up her job as an emergency nurse because she couldn’t stand people asking her how she was.

  What is her problem? Why does she feel she has to shut everyone out of her life because of her cancer? I would never have coped without the people in my life.

  Then she asks me the strangest question of all.

  “How do you cope having to give up drinking?” she says.

  “What?” I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. She has a bit of an accent.

  “I love a glass of wine with dinner. Having to give it up was a major sacrifice.”

  “Why did you give it up?” I ask.

  “Olivia Newton John says you should only put organic produce into your body. No wine, no caffeine, no sugar.”

  Is she kidding? Not that I’m knocking what other people do to deal with their cancer but people die from wacky alternative notions like that. You could go into serious detox giving up everything in one go. Next she’ll be telling me you can be cured by herbs or Wicca or something. Talk about clutching at straws. I think it might be time for Olga to hear a few home truths.

  “Ah, Olivia Newton John is a cancer survivor, Olga. She’s not the Cancer Police. She won’t be coming to your house anytime soon to see if your carrots are organic.”

  Olga gives me a blank gaze.

  “You don’t have to give up wine if you don’t want to. Your life can stay exactly as it was.”

  “What about the ear candling?”

  Oh. My. God. I can’t even go there.

  “Listen,” I say. “I have Breast Cancer but I’m not bloody dying and I have no intention of giving up the good things in life. I think it’s time for you to suck it up and get over it. So, you got cancer. So what? There’s a heap of people worse off than you. At least you have breasts.”

  I pull up my top and show her my complete lack of cleavage and the long angry scars that cover my chest from being cut open so many times. I show her the scar that goes from hip to hip, the new belly button sewn into place so the old one wouldn’t be down in my pubes. When I relate the things that have happened to me in the past year, her face suddenly changes. It’s like for the first time, she gets it. Yes, cancer is shit and neither of us deserve to have it, but it’s not the end of the freakin’ world.

  *****

  Lani arrives after dinner that night. She’s bearing chocolate and a smile as big as the bend in the Swan River.

  “You won’t believe the week I’ve had,” she begins.

  I
sit up on the bed and cross my legs. Her excitement is infectious. “Tell. Tell.”

  “You know that woman, Jessica?”

  “The t-shirt woman?”

  “Yeah. Well, it turns out she owns some big public relations firm. She’s got connections in places even the Pope can’t get access to and she’s been telling everyone she knows about us. I’ve been run off my feet for the last three days, at one stage there were so many women in the shop I couldn’t find the counter. The takings have quadrupled.”

  “What are they buying?”

  “Well, the bags, firstly. They want to rent bags but a close second are those cancer t-shirts, the ones like yours.”

  Hang on. We’d agreed we weren’t going to buy them.

  “Before you get het up,” Lani continues, “I only bought a couple of samples for people to choose from. Then I set up an online list and took pre-paid orders. Women around Australia have been placing orders and the eBay guy I sourced them from is giving us a discount because I ordered in bulk. It’s like you always dreamed it would be, Soph.”

  She reaches across to hug me and I think that I’m truly blessed.

  *****

  The next day, I’m getting ready to be discharged when Jared arrives. He pulls the curtain, enclosing us in a cabbage green cocoon and I wonder what he’s up to. There’s a certain twinkle in his eyes and that dimple on the side of his cheek is more pronounced than usual.

  “I hear you’ve taken up counselling,” he says, as he sits on the end of the bed next to where I’m sorting my stuff.

  Luckily, Olga is in our shared bathroom, doing her daily ritual of an hour of cleansing, toning and moisturising and doesn’t hear him say this.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I have spies. They’re everywhere here.”

  Of course they are. Most of the nurses are still operating under the assumption that Dr. Handsome is in the market for a partner. They’d tell him everything.

  “What did they say?”

  “Just that you gave Olga a bit of a run for her money. Apparently, she’s been quite well behaved since you flashed your scars in her direction.”