The Cows

by Dawn O'Porter

  I cup the ends of my breasts in my hands and push them up a little, to where they used to sit. They haven’t sagged much since I was a teenager, but enough to mean I could never get away with not wearing a bra now. With my cleavage pumped up, I turn slowly from side to side and smile as I remember the low-cut tops I used to wear in my party days. A memory of me and Alice dancing on a podium in Ibiza comes into my head. We’d been up for twenty-four hours and had pulled a couple of brothers who were loaded and kept pumping us full of Ecstasy and tequila shots. We were trying to dance sexily on the podium but Alice lost her footing and we both ended up in a heap on the floor. Alice got a black eye, and I got a broken arm. We spent the next eight hours in a Spanish hospital surrounded by other wasted people with similar injuries. Because we were still so high, we laughed the entire time. That’s the kind of fun we used to have, all the time.

  I look at the scar across my forearm. An everlasting memory of that brilliant holiday. And then, finding the sensation of joy uncomfortable, I clench my hand around my boobs and yank them both backwards, slamming my elbows down to hold as much of the flesh under my arms as I can. I look at my body now. Breast-less. Nipple-less. Sex-less. This is how it will be. My vagina will be a dead end.

  ‘OK, are you ready?’ says the nurse, coming back in and walking to the mammogram machine.

  I lift my elbows and my breasts flop back into position, swinging and bouncing off each other as they find their place back on my chest. An anger burns inside of me like indigestion. Why my mum? Why Alice? Why me?

  ‘OK, lift your breast and lay it on the plate,’ says the nurse. I do as she says, thinking how ridiculous the command ‘lay your breast on the plate’ is. Also I know exactly what to do, this is my second mammogram. Ever since I heard the word ‘positive’, it’s been constant appointments, smear tests, blood tests, squashed boobs. The BRCA gene means that cancer could appear quickly, so until I have the surgery, they are monitoring me carefully. Nothing is private any more. It’s my body but someone else, or something has the control.

  ‘OK, now I’m going to bring the other plate down, it might squeeze a bit.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, with an air of impatience, ‘I know how this works.’

  ‘Just wanting you to feel as comfortable as possible.’

  ‘As comfortable as possible? While you squash my tit to be as flat as a pancake so we can find out if I have cancer or not? It’s hardly a spa treatment, is it?’

  ‘OK, let’s just get this over with, shall we?’ says the nurse.

  I am terrible for making things harder on other people when I feel out of control. I know it isn’t nice. I do it anyway.

  The machine takes a few pictures.

  ‘You have lovely big boobs,’ the nurse says.

  ‘Thanks. I like them.’

  ‘That’s nice. Doing this job, you see how many women don’t like their breasts. It’s sad.’

  ‘Not as sad as when the ones that do like them have to have them sliced off, I imagine?’

  There is an awkward silence. Something else I am good at creating. The nurse realises that what she said was potentially a little insensitive, considering the scenario, so just cracks on with taking the pictures in a bid to get me out as quickly as she can. I suppose it’s not her job to deal with the complex psychology of these situations.

  ‘OK, you’re all done. If you get dressed and wait in reception, Dr Cordon will be right with you for your consultation.’

  Out in reception, Phil is sitting there, reading a leaflet.

  ‘You came?’ I say, surprised to see him. But to be fair to him, he’s never missed one of my appointments.

  ‘Of course I did. Sorry I was late, you’d already gone in by the time I got here,’ he says, sweetly, but without really looking at me.

  ‘It’s OK. You wouldn’t have come in there anyway; you don’t need to see me getting touched up by a robot.’ I laugh, he doesn’t. ‘Dr Cordon is going to see us soon.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Great. What are you reading?’

  He passes me the leaflet.

  Preventative surgery saved my life

  Inside is a picture of a woman with her husband and a child.

  ‘When I found out I had the BRCA gene, I feared for my family. I felt like a ticking bomb. There was no question what I should do. I booked in for the surgery immediately. My husband was very supportive; I knew he’d love me, regardless of my body. Now I can live my life and I don’t live in fear of leaving my little boy without a mum. I feel so lucky that the surgery was an option for me and my family.’

  ‘I wonder what my testimonial would say in a leaflet like this,’ I say, trying to have a joke with Phil. ‘Something like, “I had the surgery because my mother died of breast cancer and my twin sister died of ovarian cancer. There wasn’t really any choice for me unless I wanted to die too. Oh, and I never had any kids, so in the grand scheme of things my death wouldn’t really matter anyway. So I should probably not have bothered and just kept my boobs so at least I would have died with my body intact rather than with half of me missing and being alone … ”’

  Whoops. I had intended that to be funny.

  ‘God, Stella. When you talk like that it makes me feel so uncomfortable,’ he says, taking the leaflet back from me.

  ‘Sorry, that just kind of came out. I should have added that I have you, and that you make me really happy. And that you have supported me?’ We both know I’m lying. I put my face close to his and he moves his cheek towards my lips so I can kiss it.

  ‘Stella?’ says Dr Cordon’s voice. We are both relieved for the interruption.

  Phil and I walk into her examination room and sit next to each other on the two chairs next to her desk.

  ‘So, how are you two?’ she asks.

  ‘Good, yeah,’ says Phil.

  ‘We’re OK,’ I clarify.

  ‘Great. We won’t get the results from the mammogram back for a week or so, and I really want that to be your last. At your age too many can actually be detrimental, and your breast tissue is too dense to get very clear results. If you decide to go against the surgery idea, then we will do a yearly MRI instead, OK? It is much more accurate.’

  Dr Cordon had booked me in for a mammogram because last time we tried to do an MRI I had a severe panic attack. The noise, the memory of watching Alice go into one of those machines, it all got too much for me. I never want to have one.

  ‘I want the surgery,’ I say, causing Phil to shift in his seat. ‘Even though I am terrified.’

  When Mum was having her last bout of chemo, she was so sick. Alice and I were sitting on the bed listening to her vomit constantly for fifteen minutes. When she came out, she made us both promise that if we could ever do anything to avoid that happening to us, then we must. Unfortunately, Alice didn’t get the chance to make any decisions. Her cancer appeared and then she disappeared. It was all over in under a year.

  ‘I’m sure,’ says Dr Cordon, sympathetically. ‘And what is it that troubles you most?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Just that I’ll be disfigured and infertile. It’s all pretty daunting.’

  Phil sniffs. Dr Cordon and I both look at him, to make sure he’s not crying.

  ‘Yes, right, of course,’ Dr Cordon says. ‘But because of the aggression of Alice’s ovarian cancer, and also your mum’s breast cancer, and that they both developed at such a young age and that Alice was your identical twin …’ The word ‘was’ hangs in the air like a dark cloud that won’t blow away. ‘… I am particularly anxious about your situation. Have you two thought any more about having a baby? I know we discussed it last time you were here?’

  Both Phil and I scramble for some words, but come up with nothing. I’m not going to be the one to tell her that he has refused to have sex for a month.

  She senses tension, and moves it along.

  ‘Like I said in our last appointment, I’m comfortable with holding off the surgery for a year or so, to give
you the chance to have a baby naturally. I’d monitor you very carefully throughout. If this result comes back clear, then there is nothing to say you don’t have time.’

  ‘Do I, though?’ I ask. ‘Alice was dead by the time she was twenty-six. How do you know I have time?’

  ‘OK, I don’t. You know that the positive gene result means you have an eighty-five per cent chance of developing breast or ovarian cancer in your lifetime. Your mum and sister’s ages at passing show that the risk in your younger years is also very high. But if you really want a baby, then my view is that you go for it. You might never get cancer; fifteen per cent says you won’t. We don’t have to do the surgery at all …’

  ‘No, I want the surgery,’ I say, boldly, again.

  But I want a baby too. So, so much.

  ‘OK, so my advice is go home, work on getting pregnant, and stay focused on the fact that right now you are a healthy young woman. We can do the surgery when the baby is born. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, looking at Phil, who says nothing but nods unenthusiastically.

  ‘And if it doesn’t work, we can look into freezing your eggs, and then you can have the surgery and have a baby further down the line. But if you’re quick, maybe you can do it all naturally, just the way you want. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, feeling pumped after a little pep talk. ‘We’ll try.’

  ‘So, shall I make that tuna bake tonight then?’ I ask Phil, as we arrive home. He has barely said a word in the Uber.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And there is champagne in the fridge. The one your parents sent me for my birthday, we could drink that, relax a little?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Great, I’ll make a start on dinner. Why don’t you chill for a bit?’

  God, he is being so grumpy. Who was it that just got reminded they have an eighty-five per cent chance of getting cancer?

  I wash my hands, and then get to making the food. I can feel him hovering and it’s making me uncomfortable.

  ‘I can’t do it any more, Stella,’ he says softly, standing behind me as I get three tins of tuna out of a cupboard.

  ‘Do what?’ I reply, as if he’s going to tell me he doesn’t know how to open bottles of champagne.

  ‘It’s just so much pressure. The gene, the operation, the baby,’ he continues, his voice getting stronger.

  I turn to him. He’s crying. This is really happening. I wonder what to say, but then I remember what my mother used to tell me. She said if someone is about to hurt you, let them say everything they need to say – so when they are done, you can tell them to shut up if they interrupt you.

  ‘I wanted to support you, so much, but this has taken it to another level. You don’t connect with me; you don’t see how this is hard for me. You sat with Dr Cordon last time and told her that you wanted a baby, that we were going to try for one. But you never even asked me if it was what I wanted. And now I feel like if I don’t give you the baby then you’ll be miserable forever and I don’t think you’ve taken any time to consider how that might feel for me. I’m not ready for kids, and this isn’t how I want to do it even when I am. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how it is good for either of us for me to stick around while you go through this.’

  ‘OK, Phil. Let’s not have a baby then,’ I say, slamming the tuna down on the work surface. ‘I just won’t have a baby, fine.’

  ‘But that’s not the problem, is it, Stella?’ he says, gaining more confidence. ‘The problem is you can’t love me because you’re so full of grief and anger that there’s no room for anything else.’

  I gently lay both my hands on the work surface and stare at the spice rack on the wall. That was a really horrible assessment of my character.

  ‘I think we should break up,’ he says, clearly determined to say the things he needs to say and not allow emotion to get in the way. ‘And I know that makes me look terrible and like I’m abandoning you, that I’m cruel and selfish, but you know that if it wasn’t for you testing positive to the gene we would not be trying for a baby. We’d probably not even be together. So I’m ending it – because no matter what you decide to do, us pretending to be in love with each other just because it would be easier if we were is not the right thing, for either of us. I think what you’re facing is horrible, but I can’t carry on this way. I’m sorry.’

  I want to scream in his face. This relationship was supposed to make things better, not damage me more. He came into my life all compassionate, full of, ‘I’ll help you, I’ll support you, I’ll take care of you.’ What else is someone like me supposed to do in that situation? I’d lost the people I loved the most and there was this guy saying, ‘Hey, you don’t have to be alone.’ I threw myself at him, saying all the right things, doing all the nice things, all the stuff you’re supposed to do in relationships to make the other person happy. I cooked, I worshipped him in bed, I made him laugh. What more could I have done?

  I could have actually loved him.

  ‘I’ll come back and get my things while you’re at work,’ he says, getting up. He walks over to the door but turns just before he leaves. ‘You should just have the surgery, Stell. Learn to be alone. I know this has been awful for you, but you need to work out who Stella is without Alice. You’re not a twin any more.’

  ‘GET OUT,’ I screech. ‘Why the fuck would you say that to me?’ I pick up a vase from the table and launch it across the room. It smashes as it hits the door behind his head. ‘GET OUT,’ I scream again, watching him leave quickly as he fears for what I might do next. I’m not even sure myself.

  The bomb inside me has exploded.

  4

  Cam

  ‘In my day, the jokes were funnier,’ says Cam’s dad, as they turn on to Carlisle Street and arrive at The Toucan pub. ‘Now it’s about who can be cruder, who can say the most racist, aggressive or politically inappropriate thing. The laugh comes because the audience doesn’t know what else to do with themselves, not because of a well-constructed and cleverly written joke. Comedy is losing its soul. Anyway, the usual?’

  ‘Yes please,’ says Cam, sitting on a barstool that is shaped like a giant pint of Guinness. Her dad orders a stout and a pint of lager. The lager is for Cam. They’ve just been to a Tuesday night comedy gig, a tradition they have held for around ten years. Her mum hates comedy clubs, always has, which is one of the main reasons her dad had to stop working in them. Cam couldn’t bear the idea that he didn’t get to be in the clubs any more, so every Tuesday she takes him to one and they have a pint or two afterwards. She loves it; she’s more herself with her dad than anyone else. This evening they went to see a newish guy at the Soho Theatre who the critics are calling, ‘The Next Russell Brand’. He spoke about little more than his sexual conquests, itchy balls and his fantasies about interracial orgies. Her dad is right – it was gross, tacky and shit.

  ‘The millennials love it though, Dad. They’re growing up in an unedited world. They can see anything at any time of the day and people in entertainment think they have to match that, so they get more and more extreme. I see it all the time in journalism too. Lots of people writing stuff to get noticed, rather than stuff they actually feel. Most of what is being said is just the fearful result of some writer who is scared of not getting any more work. I do it myself sometimes.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Kind of. I mean, I don’t make anything up or pretend to be someone I’m not like a lot of people do, but I know I have to play a game. I have to entice and provoke. No one wants normal, or sweet and fluffy. People want grit, dirt, drama. But they want it to feel spontaneous, like it’s my real life.’

  ‘Yes, well you certainly create drama,’ Cam’s dad says, taking a glug of beer and raising his eyebrows. She knows exactly what he means.

  ‘Has she read it then?’

  ‘Yup, she’s read it alright.’

  Cam knew the column about not wanting kids would go down like a smack in the face with her mother. Her mum has never w
anted to hear it, no matter how many times she has tried to explain how she feels.

  ‘She thinks there is something wrong with you.’

  ‘You mean she thinks I am a lesbian?’

  ‘In her mind that is something wrong, unfortunately.’

  Cam looks at her dad; this funny, energetic, liberal, gentle, kind man, and wonders how he ended up with someone so completely different to him in so many ways. She loves her mum so much. She admires her greatly for her strength, determination and dedication to her family but the truth is not something she can avoid – her mum is an arsehole.

  ‘How have you done it, Dad? For forty-three years?’

  ‘Ahh she’s not so bad when you get her on her own,’ he says, smiling. ‘It’s just a shell, she’s all slushy on the inside. You know that really.’

  Cam nods. Of course she’s seen her mum’s softer side over the years. It’s there, somewhere.

  ‘Your mum is a good woman, Camilla. She loves you very very much, that’s all. She had a dream for all her girls and you don’t want to live it. She’s still getting used to it.’

  ‘I want her to be really proud of me for everything else.’

  ‘She’ll get there. She will,’ her dad says, reassuringly. He looks like he has something he needs to say.

  ‘Oh go on, what is it?’ Cam asks, with a good idea of what it is.

  ‘Look, don’t get mad. Just tell me really, why do you not want to do it? Have a family?’

  ‘Dad! For God’s sake, not you as well!’

  ‘Oh come on, you know I don’t care if you do or don’t. But I’m curious to know, is it anything we did?’

  Cam doesn’t want to answer. But if he really thinks it could be his fault, she can’t have that.

  ‘It’s nothing you did, Dad. Look, I’m sure if all the layers were stripped away it would have something to do with us as a family. The life I think you could have lived on the road, or me being bossed about my entire childhood by three really overpowering sisters and only feeling truly in control of myself when I was alone. Or maybe because I worry I’d not be loving enough, like Mum. Or because I hid in a cupboard one too many times as a kid, or blah blah blah. But also maybe it’s none of those things. Maybe it is just really, genuinely who I am. Does everything have to be because of something? Aren’t some things just because?’