by Helen Brown
My plot to escape the gym failed. Peter, my trainer, pointed out that I’d need strong arm and abdominal muscles to speed recovery. As an act of kindness, he started giving me lighter weights. He offered to visit the house twice-weekly when I felt strong enough after hospital. I said I’d think about it.
Sleep and more sleep. I couldn’t get enough. Shock, maybe. Katharine nestled beside me in bed some afternoons and read Kidnapped aloud. Once she’d wrapped her tongue around the wild old-fashioned language, Kidnapped was riveting. No wonder Samoans called Robert Louis Stevenson ‘Tusi tala’ – the Story-teller. He put Hollywood action writers to shame. It was a relief slipping away to a world of adventure and danger of a different kind.
‘All we need now is a cat,’ said Katharine one day, pausing between chapters.
I smiled back at her. Katharine sometimes has the ability to read my mind. A kitten curled up on the blanket would have completed the picture alright. An affectionate fur ball would calm my fears and be my constant companion through whatever lay ahead. A friend beside me even when the house was empty.
But the timing was all wrong for a new cat. I had enough on my plate.
The shrink had a tea bag string draped over a mug half filled with muddy fluid. It reminded her to drink, she explained. Otherwise she got migraines.
No wonder, I thought, listening to people moaning all day.
I was willing to keep an open mind about seeing a psychologist providing she didn’t use the word ‘journey’. Everything’s a journey these days, from climbing Everest in a wheelchair to having your underarms waxed. ‘Journey’ reduces everything to the tidy dimensions of a television script. If I’d wanted to be on a breast cancer journey, I’d have bought a ticket.
The shrink was mercifully down-to-earth and practical. She asked me to make a list of household tasks and stick it on the fridge for Philip and Katharine to work through. She suggested I write a list of friends who could be relied on to bring a meal to the house once a week while I was recovering. I couldn’t face the thought of troubling the busy, stressed-out people I was fond of. The last thing they needed was to be making soups and casseroles for me. Was I too proud, or simply a failure at friendship?
She offered tools to help me step back from negative emotions. For instance, instead of saying ‘I hate “The Girl from Ipanema”,’ I was supposed to say, ‘I’m having a thought that I hate “The Girl from Ipanema”.’ The idea was to encourage me to take a step back, instead of just reacting all the time, and accepting emotional reactions as reality. Likewise, instead of feeling angry at Lydia for taking off to Sri Lanka, I was to think, ‘I’m having angry thoughts about Lydia . . . etc.’ Though I wasn’t confident shoving a few extra words in was going to make much of a difference, there was no harm giving it a go. The technique was possibly a Westernised version of the Buddhist concept of detachment. According to Buddhist teaching, most human suffering springs from attachment. There’s some truth in that, but it’s the power of attachment that makes mother love so fierce. Without attachment, the human race would never survive.
The shrink also taught me a powerful new phrase: ‘My health comes first.’
My initial response was cautious. Favoured by hypochondriacs and neurotics since time immemorial, ‘My health comes first,’ gives you a licence to be annoying: ‘Yes I’d love to adopt your guinea pigs, but my health comes first.’
Nevertheless, the psychologist’s phrase did provide an excuse for something I felt like doing anyway – letting go of stuff that was too hard, or not relevant any more.
I’d been writing weekly columns for newspapers and magazines for thirty years. That was long enough.
Being a weekly columnist is perpetual high-wire walking. Dreading going stale or losing my touch, I’d always suffered performance anxiety. If anything it’d grown worse with each year. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d slept soundly through a Sunday night knowing there was a Monday morning column to write. It was time to let go.
I contacted all the editors who ran my syndicated column and said I was taking a break. What I really meant was retiring, though that word had the air of a tomb about it. I was touched by the warmth of the editors’ responses, along with countless emails from readers. The only commitment I decided to keep up was a monthly piece for Next magazine, who’d asked me to write a breast cancer diary.
Louise and Jude at Allen & Unwin, who were waiting on my half-finished Cleo manuscript, were more than understanding. Jude had been through a bout with breast cancer herself just a year earlier. She cancelled the September deadline for the book and said I could re-start whenever I felt ready. In truth, I wasn’t sure I’d ever return to working on it.
The day before I went into hospital, I revisited Susan, the Chinese acupuncturist. The purpose of her needles (in the calves, forehead, scalp and ears) was to promote calmness and stimulate the immune system. Behind a depressing array of faded cartons of herbs and the occasional dead fly in the window, her rooms always appeared empty.
Looks were deceiving, though. Susan had a steady flow of clients stretched out on rows of beds behind floral shower curtains. There was no point trying to hide our problems. We heard them all through the curtains. An old woman was seeking help for her arthritis. A younger man had done something to his back, though it was getting better. I had no idea what they made of my cancer.
‘Close eyes and listen to music,’ said Susan, smiling gently before disappearing behind the curtain. I waited for sounds of ancient China but was disappointed to hear the sort of New Age muzak favoured by the average spa. In the background I heard a microwave ping and wondered if Susan was mixing some exotic herbs. But the sound of cutlery scraping against a bowl confirmed she was having lunch.
Susan and I developed a sort of relationship. She was pleased when I said her needles had a calming effect (though after phone calls from Sri Lanka I usually had to revert to Western-style sleeping pills). Susan said I must go to China and write about it because it’s a very beautiful country. China vs. mastectomy. Tough choice.
Strolling back up Shirley’s dusty steps the day before my surgery, I made up a mantra: Today I have cancer. Tomorrow, with any luck, I will not.
Philip, Katharine and I went out for dinner at a cafe up the road that night. We had champagne too, of course. We laughed when the waiter spilt an explosion of chocolate sauce over our tablecloth. Life seemed gloriously simple and worth celebrating.
A familiar tune started oozing through the loudspeakers – ‘Past the Point of No Return’ from Phantom of the Opera. I’d never liked that song. Now it was reminding me there was no going back. The theatre was booked, the surgeons getting an early night (I hoped) for a big day tomorrow. Nil by mouth after midnight. In a few hours’ time I’d be handing my body over to strangers. I wasn’t brave, just seasoned enough to accept there were no choices.
Back home, I laid out clothes for the next day – the black trousers, green shirt and ankle boots with the scuffed heels. No hat. Same as I’d worn to the clinic that first time. The three blue nighties and a toilet bag were packed, though I’d probably forgotten something.
I glanced at the bedroom clock perched on the smart new bedside table. Five to midnight. Probably mid afternoon in Sri Lanka. I swallowed a sleeping pill. Breathe. Relax (I hated the word relax, I thought. No, I was having a thought about hating the word relax!).
Drifting off, I imagined a giant hot air balloon. Into it I loaded the wedding, the columns, the book writing, my fears about tomorrow, Sri Lanka . . . and watched them float away into the crisp night sky.
As I dropped into a deep hole of sleep, I imagined my hands curved around the warm softness of Cleo.
Reunion
Daughters, like cats, are only ever on loan
‘You’re going to forget most of this,’ said my old friend Greg, his face a halo of light, in the operating theatre. It’s easy to develop strange attachments to people when your survival depends on them.
Next tim
e I saw Greg, he was wearing a red shower cap and seemed extremely perky. I assumed I was having an inappropriate dream about him. Would my hormones never leave me in peace?
‘It went well,’ said Greg. ‘We’re confident the cancer’s been removed.’
Oh. So it wasn’t an erotic fantasy. A stab of pain from an unlikely place, on my left side just under the ribs. Plastic snake. A drainage tube, a voice explained. Soon after, I was being wheeled down a grey corridor, mesmerised by the thousands of little holes in the ceiling. Do hospital architects have any idea how much time patients spend studying ceilings? An oxygen mask sucked like a starfish at my face.
‘Your husband’s waiting for you,’ said a nurse.
Sounded romantic, I thought. What could be sexier than six drains, a drip and catheter with matching oxygen mask? Oh, and legs encased in loud, hissing plastic tubes – something to do with reducing the risk of clotting. I was trussed up like Tutankhamun.
It was good to see the darling man, though he looked tired and worried. The only thing worse than being in a mess is upsetting people you love. I sent him home to sleep as soon as was politely possible.
Back to nothingness.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, I became aware of a new sound over the hissing support hose. A female voice rolling over unfamiliar phrases. The words were musical and soothing. And loving, like a lullaby. Except none of the words were recognisable. A painkiller high. Obviously.
I opened my eyes to focus on a point near the window where Philip had been. A willowy profile and a head, pretty and feminine, was outlined in the shadows. Lydia?! The hospital drugs were playing tricks. I dropped reluctantly into a pool of semi-consciousness again.
Fighting through the haze of narcotics some time later, I looked over to where I’d seen the hallucination of Lydia. To my amazement, the figure was still there sitting ramrod straight in the chair beside the window, her eyes half closed. The words tumbled off her lips and wrapped around me. Chanting.
Lydia slowly became aware of me looking at her. She paused and smiled at me. Radiant light filled the room. Leaning forward, she placed three cool fingers on my forehead. And disappeared. Hospital drugs are so trippy.
Next thing Greg was standing over me comparing breast reconstruction to gardening. In the way a newly transplanted seedling requires water, he said, a new boob needs blood. The next twenty-four hours were going to be crucial. If my irrigation system did its job properly my transplanted tummy fat would ‘take’ and assimilate into its role as my new right breast.
‘And if it doesn’t work?’ I asked in a weak, breathy voice.
‘Then we’ll all have a good cry, wheel you back to theatre and weed it out.’
That took my mind off cancer cells.
A nauseatingly vivid print bore down from the opposite wall. Abstract; a coastal scene. A man’s face was hidden between the beach and the cliff. If I could’ve climbed out of bed I’d have hurled it out the window. Except the windows didn’t open.
A nurse, May from Malaysia, introduced herself and exchanged the oxygen mask for little tubes, one for each nostril – like the ones Tom Hanks had when he was dying of AIDS in the movie Philadelphia. They were surprisingly comfortable and less claustrophobic than the mask.
‘Isn’t it great your daughter’s here?’ said May, scribbling notes on a chart.
‘Lydia?’ I whispered in the pathetic little voice that didn’t belong to me.
‘Is that her name? She certainly amused us with that chanting. I’m broad-minded though. Healing takes all shapes and forms. I thought it sounded lovely.’
‘She’s here?’
‘Yes, she said she’s just flown in from Sri Lanka to see you. She brought you these,’ May said, pointing at three candles in the shape of lotus flowers on the window ledge.
It hadn’t been a dream after all. Lydia had left a month ago with no mention of returning. She must have flown home to be with me. My eldest daughter cared. Overriding my pain-wracked body and fuzzy brain, a new sensation coursed through me. Joy. Pure joy.
Lydia was actually here, living and breathing in this hospital. Three candles sat on the window ledge to prove it.
‘Wait till you get home before you light them. We can’t have naked flames in here. Oh and she also brought this . . .’ May added, holding up an old lemonade bottle half filled with amber liquid.
‘Holy water,’ she said with an amused twinkle. ‘I’d recommend boiling it before putting it anywhere near your lips.’
‘Where—?’ I croaked.
‘I sent her downstairs for a coffee,’ said May. ‘She looked tired. She’ll be back soon.’
Lydia’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. A white shawl was draped around her shoulders. With her long sleeves and high-buttoned neck, she looked almost Victorian.
This was a very different young woman from Lydia the sex columnist, or the stroppy little girl who’d once confessed to mooning cars from a motorway footbridge. She’d been under the influence of an Unsuitable Friend at the time, but had admitted that shocking innocent motorists wasn’t devoid of thrills.
It was hard to imagine the saintly being at my bedside was related to the vibrant, opinionated little girl who loved climbing door frames and diving fearlessly off cliffs into Lake Taupo.
I scanned her face for familiar landmarks – the chicken pox scar above her right eyebrow, the memory of a dimple in her chin. I was saddened to notice her eye sockets were hollow, the lids almost hooded, reminiscent of Ghandi after one of his hunger strikes. Yet as she moved toward me she was obviously still the same young woman I loved so much. I’d never seen such tenderness in her eyes.
‘You’re too thin,’ I wheedled. It was exactly the sort of thing Mum would have said.
Lydia blinked, possibly to repress annoyance.
‘I love you,’ she said gently.
‘Love you too,’ I responded, feeling wretched for having started on the wrong footing. I should’ve been first to say ‘I love you.’ Or at least, ‘Thank you.’
‘Are you thirsty?’ she asked. I nodded. She passed me a paper cup from the bedside table and prodded a straw into my mouth. Slurping tepid water, I felt weak and helpless. Holding the cup steady, Lydia was the powerful one now, the nurturer.
As I sank back into the pillow, there were a hundred questions I wanted to ask. What had made her change her mind about staying in Sri Lanka? When had she made the booking to come home and who’d paid for it? How come she’d lost so much weight? Had she been sick, or had she deliberately starved herself?
More importantly, how much further did she have to go to prove she was a separate entity who in no way ‘belonged’ to me? I was willing to keep my end of the bargain and let her sail into adulthood on her terms. When would she realise she no longer had to rail against me so stubbornly?
The only sentence I had energy to piece together though was: ‘When did you get here?’ A stupid question, but thoughts kept slipping through my head like jelly.
‘A few hours ago. I came straight from the airport.’
The tubes around my legs hissed. My brain was enveloped in cloud again.
‘Can I chant some more?’ she asked quietly.
I wasn’t that keen. Not if it was making the nurses laugh. I needed them on our side rather than making jokes about us being a family of fruitcakes.
Mum and Dad had raised us Church of England, but I’d ticked ‘No Religion’ on the hospital form. When a pastoral caregiver had stuck her head around the door asking if I’d like to pray with her before they wheeled me off to theatre, I’d waved her off. Her morbid expression implied she’d spent too many hours in front of the mirror practising sympathetic looks.
Too weary to string words together, I nodded for Lydia to go ahead. May smiled and said she’d be back in a few minutes.
My daughter settled into the chair again, closed her eyes and drew a breath. I felt uneasy verging on irritated at first. Her words were utterly foreign. They could’ve mea
nt anything. Nevertheless, there was benevolence in them. And they undoubtedly meant something to her. She believed they had significance, even power. I let the chanting wash over me like waves on a windswept beach . . . and fell asleep.
I could’ve slept for hours, days even, if they’d have let me. But May stirred me every half hour to record vital signs and unravel my dressings to listen for a pulse inside the new boob. As night dragged on she said I had low blood pressure and a fever. It was of no interest to me. All I wanted was sleep. Turning toward the darkened window I saw Lydia’s profile, straight backed and motionless. There was no need to reassure or entertain her. She was meditating.
The night dragged on for weeks. I hungered for sleep. Toward dawn I hallucinated about being a prisoner of war. Soldiers jabbed me with spears every time I drifted off. Yet May was such a dedicated nurse she was more angel than prison guard. Every time I turned to the window Lydia was still there, silent and unmoving, asking for nothing. The constancy of her presence gave me strength. All the doubts I’d had about her caring melted in the dry hospital air.
There’s no real time in hospital. The outside world peels away. Nursing shifts tick over. Rain scatters black diamonds across the window – not enough to put an end to the drought, though. Dark sky fades to grey.
The hospital shook itself awake. Brisk footsteps, clattering pans, and nurses’ chatter brought the day alive. Trolleys bearing patients, food and medical equipment rattled down the corridor outside my room.
A sullen girl from Eastern Europe plonked a breakfast tray in front of me. Cornflakes in a plastic bowl and a tea bag. The smallest task was barely possible now my arms and legs were out of action. Lydia raised the spoon to my lips, then held the cup while I slurped tea.
She looked weary. I urged her to go home and rest. She pressed her cheek against mine. Suddenly, I remembered the question I really wanted to ask. A simple one, but loaded.
‘How long are you here for?’
The tubes on my legs hissed and sighed. If she was planning to leave the next day my heart would shatter.