by Susan Duncan
A silent mantra begins:'I am strong and my body is strong. I am strong and my body is strong. 'With the first flicker of doubt, slip into the mantra, over and over again. Switch off the mad monkey spinning in my head. Laughing. Pointing. Sneering. You brought it on yourself,Miss Fitz-Twiddle – which was my husband Paul's name for me when he wanted to criticise.
I do not fear death, I understand in a flash. Cannot imagine the nothingness of it. I fear being ill and in pain far more. I know I will not go searching for miracle cures if the worst case scenario eventuates.
I travelled that path with my brother. I saw, too, the ravages of successively more potent chemotherapy treatments and made the vow back then, naively, that if I were ever in the same situation, I would not go down that path. But that was then. This is now. My turn. Creeping around in a dark world of shifting sands where there are no straight answers. No matter what the outcome, there will never be another day that I will breeze through airily, another day lightly taken for granted.
I go through the process of scheduling surgery like a sleepwalker, feeling detached. The specialist's secretary avoids my eyes, and deals matter-of-factly with the details.
Seven to ten days in hospital.
Fine.
Is there anyone at home to look after me after surgery?
No.
Whom should they call in the event of an emergency?
My mother? No. A distantly located cousin? No. Work colleagues? No. The lover? NO!
Fleury, I finally decide. Good, strong, loyal, smart, the kind of woman who anticipates problems and solves them so successfully before they erupt that not many people understand how much she quietly does for them. And a friend, a wonderful, dear, funny, completely non-judgemental friend.
I walk out of the specialist's office, buy a bottle of French champagne and meet Pia at a hairdresser's in Darlinghurst. We laugh and joke our way through a cut, streaks and the wine. I am manic and a little crazy and Donald, the hairdresser, looks at us warily.
'What's going on, girls?' he asks.
'Nothing!'
'I'm missing something and you know how I hate that.'
'It's ok, Donald, nothing serious. Little trip to the hospital ahead. Nothing serious.'
If only.
It is late in the afternoon and Donald lets his little Jack Russell terrier, Lucy, come into the main part of the salon from her bed downstairs. Lucy is outrageous, cheeky, full of herself, a shocking flirt and she goes about getting her own way with the confidence of a beautiful woman. I watch her and I do not think about cancer.
'Where did you get Lucy?'
Donald gives me a card with the breeder's name, anxious that I, too, should have a little Lucy clone in my life. I put it in my handbag with the receipt for the hairdressing bill and forget about it.
Pia and I stumble out of the salon into the cold dark of a windy June night, streaked, smooth and shiny. Not a grey root in sight. Who would guess a little hard lump, no bigger than a pea, a slow growing, insidious little bastard, lurks under my nipple, threatening all?
'Will you be ok? Do you want to stay in town?' she asks.
'No. I want to get home.'
'What about dinner somewhere? You need company.'
'Don't be a dope. I'm fine.'
I laugh and smile, wave goodbye. As I slam the car door behind me, though, I cave in, suddenly limp. The effort of toujours gai, toujours brave, is exhausting. I want to wind back the clock. Return to innocence. Snatch back the security of believing death is a nebulous, distant issue (and never mine?).
I go home, not out to dinner as I once would have done. I do not want to be around friends. I want my home. I want the peace of Lovett Bay. I want the sound of the waterfall to put me to sleep. I want to wake up and watch the early morning sun turn the escarpment a burning orange. It is the physical world I crave, it is the physical world that I will most regret leaving. Already Lovett Bay has become my sanctuary. I will not give it up. Not for a long, long time. Not until I am too old, like Gordon, to get on a boat or carry the shopping up the steps. And even then, I think, I will find a way.
I sleep that night in fits and starts with the light burning constantly. It becomes a habit, to leave the light on. Waking from sleep, I want instant reality, not the mystery of darkness.
Insects ping against the lampshade, drawn irresistibly towards the fiery centre of the light bulb, and death. A pile of books lies untouched on the bedside table. Ruth Park. William Styron. Isabel Allende.Old favourites. But words that once inspired now seem to ring a different knell.
My mind flutters, screams, races. Is never calm. All the old cliches spin through my head: Regrets? Finest moments? Worst moments? And ultimately, the big one:What the hell is it all about?
I get up in the witching hour, around 3 am, when everything seems at its worst, and raid the bookshelves once more, seeking comfort this time, not escape. I pick up a slim volume that promises to help me find my guardian angel. I have no idea where it came from, have never seen it before. I take it as an omen and read for two hours before tossing it in the bin. If there is little time left, the banal is untenable.
Find the strength within, I tell myself. After almost a lifetime of 'take the risk but hook up the safety net', I am flying without a harness. This time, there is no fallback position. I switch off the lamp in the pewter light of dawn, reciting my mantra. I am strong and my body is strong. Again and again until it puts me to sleep.
Next morning, on the way to work, it is raining and I get wet racing from the water taxi to the car, but I don't care. The traffic is bad but it doesn't irk. At the office, someone is in my parking space and I do not even swear. I press the button for the elevator just once, even though it takes a long time to arrive. Already, my view of the world has changed. Don't sweat the small stuff.
I stride down the long corridors of the office, where the carpet is as grey as the air, past desks with empty screens and teetering piles of files. Here and there a head bends over a newspaper, the rich smell of coffee and fresh toast hovers fragrantly.
'Morning.'
The ritual greetings. Check out the eyes. Who has a hangover? Not me for once. The corner office is empty. The boss, a shimmering blonde with perfect lips, is late. Probably at the gym.
In Lego cubicles along the western wall, voices rise and fall on telephones. Stories bought and sold, pictures bargained for, souls for hire to the highest bidder. I once sat in a room where the father of a boy, only moments dead, called to sell his story. At the time, it didn't even shock me. It was a common enough scenario. Money, always money, the ultimate temptress, the final corrupter.
All day I sit in my cell and go through the motions, harbouring my little secret. Toujours gai.
As I pull on my coat to leave at the scheduled time of 5.30 pm instead of working late, I stick my head into the editor's office.
'I'll be needing a bit of personal time.'
'Why?' Not when.
'I'm having a breast lopped off.'
My voice wobbles. Which makes me furious. I turn to leave but she jumps up, a long, lean figure in tight black, gold jewellery, a huge, flashing diamond ring. She grabs my arm, leading me to a seat. Sits on the edge of her desk framed by a gigantic vase of powerfully perfumed oriental lilies. The smell is sickly.
'What's going on?'
The compassion in her tone nearly brings me undone.
'Breast cancer. Have to have a breast removed. Just take a few days. Shouldn't be away for long.'
'Are you sure of the diagnosis? Have you had a second opinion?'
'I'm sure.'
'What's the prognosis?'
'Don't know. Won't know until after surgery.'
'Are you frightened?'
'Oh no. Not a bit. It's much easier to deal with your own mortality than to face losing people you love.'
But it's a lie. They are both devastating.
Two weeks later, I check into hospital. Two weeks in which every twinge I feel becom
es evidence of advanced cancer, every sleepless night a time to watch the flickering black and white rerun of my life and wonder how I should have done it differently.
A little thin, nervy man who looks vaguely familiar takes my details across a scratched reception counter and leads me to my hospital room. He chats away and I suddenly slot him into place.
'Did you have a plant nursery once, near the Blue Mountains?'
'Yeah.' But he is wary.
'I used to buy a lot of plants from you. How long have you worked here?' Idle chat, trivia. Anything to deflect attention from what will happen later in the day.
I think back. He landscaped a section of my garden a few houses ago, filling it with diseased plants. Every morning, waking with excitement, I'd race out to the herbaceous borders expecting a river of flowers only to find collapsed foliage, fungus-ridden roots. When I called to ask him the problem, he told me it was heat. The weather. High summer. Too much water. Not enough water. Now he tells me his marriage is over. He has sold his business. He seems broken.
He does not offer to carry my bag, which is filled with new pyjamas. Ones that don't need two breasts to look right.
'It's a wonderful room,' he says. 'Light, comfortable. Carpet on the floor. Curtains. Views. The best room in the hospital. But you have to share it until we can get you a private room. Probably in a couple of days.'
It is like being shown a hotel room but there's no mini bar, no fridge and check-out time isn't negotiable. The air is old and thick. The much-praised carpet has a large dark stain. The bed crackles with plastic underlay when I press it. The artwork is a metal panel with cords trailing from it – one to change the level of the bed, the other to call for help. The view directly across the road is of the hospice. I see it immediately and try never to look at it again. I am not going there. That is not my future. But sometimes at night, when I see the glow of a light burning until dawn, I think I understand that someone is trying to blaze away the spectre of death.
The day I arrive I stay in my street clothes for as long as possible, sitting and reading a book in the recliner chair by the bed. Nurses come and go, blood samples are taken, vital signs recorded. Allergies noted. I'm tagged like a steer for slaughter.
'Hi, I'm Maggie.You can get changed now.'
I look up from the pages of a novel I've read before. I want to know endings now, before I begin. Happily ever after or don't pick up the book. Suspense is no longer a thrill.
A nurse holds one of those white cotton robes with ties at the back. 'Put this on and get into bed. I'll be back in a minute.'
I want to shout that it's the middle of the day and nobody goes to bed at this time unless they're sick. And I don't feel sick. Tired, but not sick.That's the worst damned bit of it. Nothing tangible to fight. But I am silent. She is kind and happy. It's her fortieth birthday. A woman turning forty and she's excited.
So far the second bed has remained empty. 'Who's going into the other bed?' I ask the nurse when she returns.
'Woman with a brain tumour.'
'What stage?' Questions I do not dare to ask of my own condition.
'Not good.'
'How old?' Age. The new issue.
'Sixties. About.'
Maggie rolls up the rubber blood pressure bag, cool fingers lightly find the pulse in my wrist. She counts the seconds on her watch.
'Someone else did all this a while ago.'
'Yep. And it's going to happen on the hour, every hour, day and night for a while. Better get used to it, love.'
She pats my arm, tells me she'll be back with an injection shortly. Pethidine. The happy drug. Something to look forward to.
While I wait for nirvana,my room-mate is wheeled in, her hair caught up in a cotton cap, her face white and frail. She is slid from one bed to another, lightly, as though she has already shed most of her body. As soon as the nurses leave, her husband, daughter and son creep in, form a human chain around the bed, holding hands, heads bent. The daughter begins a prayer.
I don't want to be here.This grief and love is private. For what they are doing is saying farewell.
Surgery is scheduled for 2 pm. Unlike most schedules, this one is running on time. The pethidine shot calms me although it does not change reality, as I'd hoped. But by the time I am moved from stationary bed to mobile bed for the journey to the operating theatre, I feel everyone is my new best friend.
'Pethidine?' asks a nurse, pushing the bed from behind my head.
'Yup.' I am giggling.
'Great, isn't it?'
Above me, the ceiling spins wildly as I'm pushed around corners, into elevators. Bang. Bump. The nurses chat. Romance. Holidays. What's for dinner. I engage complete strangers in disjointed conversation. I remember many of them smiling down at me. Pity and humour in their eyes.
Then the countdown. A whack on my hand, find the vein, a jab. The sickening smell of anaesthetic, spotlights overhead.
'Count backwards from ten.' Voices are friendly, as though we've known each other for years.
I make it to seven and blackness descends.
I am angry when a woman's voice cuts through my world of peace, calling my name. I want her to go away. Shut up.
'Susan. Wake up. Can you hear me? Susan!'
Her voice gets closer and closer. Something big and heavy, suffocating, is shoved on my face. I try to push it away.
'You're hyperventilating, Susan. Can you hear me? Just breathe slowly. Slowly.'
I open my eyes and they are already filled with tears. I cannot remember a dream. Cannot understand my grief. The oxygen mask is heavy on my face.
'Good girl.That's it. Slow breath. Relax.'
I feel like a child, defenceless. I want to give someone my life, give away the whole responsibility and weight of it. A young face swims into focus. Bright and cheerful, young enough to be my own child.
'What's your name?'
'Susan.'
'Where do you live?'
'Lovett Bay.'
'Ok. We're just going to leave you here for a while, until the anaesthetic wears off.Then we'll take you to your room, ok? If you need anything just call.'
I wake up when I am being gently dragged onto the bed in my room. The ties on the hospital robe come undone and I feel exposed amongst strangers. Someone quickly covers me. I want to say thank you but I can't get the words to move further than my brain.
There are tubes in my hand, tubes in my chest, tubes filled with rainbow coloured fluids.
'Press this for pain.'
A little black cylinder is squeezed into my hand and my thumb placed on a red button. Press for escape.
'Don't worry, you can't overdose. It's self-regulating.'
There is hardly any pain but I press it all night, every time I wake. It is bliss to be able to gas the monkey at will. A small reprieve from the moment I will have to look down at my chest, note the new body formation.
Mid-morning the other bed has a new client. She is young and beautiful and her parents hover like hummingbirds. Her boyfriend slithers in and leaves as quickly as is decent. When she is alone, I say hello.
'What are you here for?'
'Breast reduction,' she says, eyes shining brightly.
'Oh.'
Then I recover enough to continue. 'But why?'
'People always look at my breasts, never my face.'
'Are you sure? You have a lovely face and a lovely body.'
Before we can continue, two nurses arrive to measure her vital signs. She goes off and returns hours later. She sleeps quietly through the early evening.
That night, very late, I hear panic in a nurse's voice as she stops by to do the hourly check. Buzzers are pressed, feet stampede down the corridor, there is a team around the young woman's bed in minutes. Equipment is hurtled through the door. Shock treatment. Then drugs.
'Come on, Genevieve, come on.' Urging, willing a response.
Her first words when she is revived are very clear:'I'm so cold. I'm really, really cold.
'
Is that what happens when you die? You feel colder and colder until there is only cold?
She'd overdosed. Someone forgot to record a second dose of painkiller administered before they brought her back to the ward from the operating theatre, and she nearly died. For smaller breasts. Her boyfriend, if that's who she was really having the reduction for, does not visit her again. And then she goes home.
After a few days, hospital begins to feel like a safe haven. No need to think about being different yet. Everyone around me is branded in some way. Body parts are whisked out as quickly as a floating hair in a bowl of soup. Everyone wears pyjamas all day, most people wheel a steel pole with a plastic bag full of fluid attached. Daytime is bedtime, and so is night-time. It is a nether world.
There is no way of knowing how far cancer has progressed until after surgery and pathology on the lymph nodes removed from under the arm, so waiting for pathology results is terrible. More terrible to me than losing a breast.That was just a body part. Pathology will tell me if I have a chance of survival or if I should join the queue of the condemned.
After two days I ask the surgeon when he visits for the daily check-up if there are any results.
He is snappish. 'If I had news I'd tell you.'
It is the hope and fear mingled nakedly on my face, I think, that he finds difficult. But I ask again on the third day. Nervous now, that I will make him angry.
'I told you I'd tell you immediately. As soon as I know.'
I want to scream at him. Slap him. I have a right to ask! It is my future!
He checks the tubing running from under the skin where my breast once was, he feels the bones.
I ask him how his day has gone.
'Operated on a twenty-one year old this morning. Twenty-one!'
Slap. Perspective in a flash.
On the fourth day, I do not ask. But when he sits by the bed and sandwiches my hand in his, I can hardly breathe.
'One lymph node affected,' he says. 'And only the smallest trace measurable. Nothing really. A minute trace.'
'What does that mean?' At last I can ask.
'Not the best case scenario. But the second best case scenario.'
I had prepared myself for the worst in all the usual ways, the ways I had indulged in when the boys died, when grief had so overwhelmed me death seemed the only escape. 'Death is part of life,' I'd told myself. 'Remember the Buddhist who told Sophia – everything that is born must die. It might be my turn. Everyone has a turn. Face it. But don't give in to it.'