by Jenni Ogden
Still, I felt as light as a reef heron as I waved them goodbye, watching Collette’s petite shape diminish to a mere dot as the boat sped away. Tom hugged me from behind and whispered in my ear.
“Big bed tonight, woman.”
We were well and truly a public item now, but he’d not been willing to go as far as sleeping with me in the room next to Collette.
WHEN PAT ARRIVED THIS MORNING THERE WAS NO YOO-HOO. I was finishing breakfast, sitting alone on my deck. I spent about three nights a week in Tom’s big bed, but the other nights we stayed apart. I’d convinced him that I too thought this was a marvelous plan. In truth I would have succumbed to six—seven?—nights a week together, but I knew Tom wanted his time alone.
I looked up from my Kindle when Pat’s shadow fell across me. I had never seen her looking her age before.
“What’s wrong?” My stomach went rock hard.
“I’ve got a lump,” Pat said, her hand touching her breast.
“It’s probably a benign cyst,” I said, feeling my own breasts tighten.
“I know. But it worries me.”
“When did you find it?”
“Last night, when I was showering. It feels big, Anna. Would you have a look and see what you think?”
“It’s not my area, Pat. I have no experience at all.”
“But would you check anyway? It’s a time when a husband would be helpful, just to confirm that it’s not my imagination.”
“Oh Pat, of course I’ll check you. I examine myself often enough, and I had a benign cyst removed years ago. It was no big deal but I was pretty anxious until I got the biopsy results.”
We went into my tiny bathroom and Pat removed her T-shirt and bra. She had a firm, fit body; her breasts were still perky. Not the droopy appendages so often seen on images of aging women, especially those with an unshakeable belief in breastfeeding. Even Pat’s tanned skin had somehow triumphed over the leathery wrinkles we were supposed to suffer if we exposed ourselves to the merciless sun.
Fran once told me that she could tell whether a patient, worried about cancer, was sick simply from the way they looked. Except for her tired eyes and cautious expression, Pat glowed with health. She was pressing on the side of her left breast and I replaced her fingers with mine. I could feel it immediately: a firm lump, perhaps a centimeter in diameter. I tried to recall what mine had felt like, but could only feel the hollowness that the discovery had brought.
“Can you raise your arms above your head?” As I performed the ritual breast examination, I forced myself into doctor mindset. “I can’t feel any other lumps, but I’ll be able to do a more thorough exam if you lie on the bunk.” I poked my head out of the bathroom door and checked that there were no onlookers walking along the path outside my cabin. “It’s all clear. Basil’s not lurking.” My feeble comment wasn’t worth Pat’s small grin.
She lay on the bunk and my hands completed their exploration. I draped her T-shirt over her chest.
“What do you think?” Pat’s voice was steady, but my gut knew her apprehension.
“Truthfully, I have no idea. It could be benign or not. I can’t feel any other lumps though.”
“So I need to see a doctor pretty smartly.”
“Yes, I think so. A specialist might be able to tell from the feel of it whether it is only a cyst or some other benign condition, but I suspect they’ll want to do a needle biopsy anyway, just to be sure.”
“Does that mean going into hospital?”
“No, it’s just a simple procedure in the surgery, using a local anesthetic. When I had mine, I had to wait a few days for the results.”
“Damn. I thought I’d been too lucky with my health.”
“You certainly look fantastic. I’d put my money on this being benign. You simply don’t look as if you could have a thing wrong with you.”
While Pat dressed, I made coffee, and we sat on the deck in a patch of sun.
“Is there any history of breast cancer in your family?” I broke a long silence.
“Not that I know of. My mother died quite young, but from cervical cancer. Is that related?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh well. I’ll just have to deal with it. I’ll use Basil’s Skype to phone and get a doctor’s appointment for next Tuesday. I should be able to make that if I go back to Gladstone with Jack on Sunday, and fly to Brisbane on Monday. I’ve never been to a doctor up here. Mine’s in Melbourne.”
“Perhaps you should go there instead of Brisbane? At least your daughter’s there.”
“I don’t want to scare her. She’s got a lot on her plate at the moment. There must be a specialist service in Brisbane?”
“I’m sure there is. Why don’t I look it up on Tom’s Internet, and see what I can find? Then you could make an appointment directly with a specialist and not see a GP first.”
“Thanks Anna. You’ll be a better judge than I about who to see.”
I was back at Pat’s house an hour later, armed with the latest information about Brisbane specialists. I had even made an appointment for her at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning—easily changed if Pat wanted some other time or doctor. When I walked into the kitchen and saw her at her bench, kneading a big lump of dough, I felt suddenly embarrassed. Who the hell did I think I was, taking over and even making appointments for her?
I didn’t deserve the relief I felt when she thanked me with not a hint of annoyance.
“You’re a blessing, Anna,” she said. “I was feeling so alone last night, and now I’m not.” She came over to me, her eyes shining with tears. We reached out for each other and as I held her and she held me, I couldn’t tell which of us was trembling. We were the same height and build, and as toned as our bodies were, our hug was warm and safe. When I could feel the trembling no more, we reluctantly drew apart, our eyes meeting in a smile of recognition.
“I’ll come with you,” I said. “That’s if you’d like me to.”
“Yes, I would like you to. I can manage on my own, but if you really want to, I would like that.”
“I’ve spent no time in Brisbane, so we’ll see the sights. If they want to do a biopsy, no way will we hang around, glooming about, waiting for your results.”
“Oh, Anna. Whatever did I do before you came?”
“Come on, Pat, you never stop doing stuff. I’ve made no difference at all.”
“You’ve stopped me feeling lonely. I’ve had no real friends since I got married. Too damn busy.”
“We’re two of a kind then. And I didn’t even have a husband to talk to. Fran was my only friend, but she had her own life—that marriage thing for her as well—and we didn’t see much of each other.”
“I’m starting to look forward to this Brisbane trip. Can we go back to Tom’s and book our flights online?” Pat’s face was looking younger.
“What about your bread?” I glanced over at the dough lying half kneaded on the bench top.
“Give me a sec to stick it in the hot water cupboard to rise. When we come back it will be ready for the oven.”
THE WEATHER IN BRISBANE WAS PERFECT. WARM ENOUGH to wear a short-sleeved top, no humidity, no wind, and a clear sky. We had booked into a small hotel in the CBD, close to all the shops spread along the beautiful river. We’d decided not to talk about the lump anymore. Of course, it was there, lurking below the surface, but it didn’t stop me enjoying myself. Pat enjoyed herself as well; either that or she was a bloody good actor. We arrived at our hotel around lunchtime on Monday, and began with a riverside lunch of calamari salad matched with a delicious Riesling, and continued from there. Mud crabs were the tough choice for dinner, in a very posh waterfront restaurant. We laughed and played and generally acted like carefree tourists. I slept like the dead that night. Pat, I suspect, might not have.
The specialist oncology center we bowled up to next day was as luxurious as a five-star hotel. Not everyone in Australia has private medical insurance, but I was glad Pat did. Who needs to
wait for hours with dozens of other sick and scared people, in a dreadful mustard-colored waiting room in a public hospital, for a ten-minute consultation with a harried specialist, if you can do it in comfort and style? Real coffee—cappuccino, latte?—served with crisp almond biscuits while you wait, the latest glossy magazines to read, soft lights, beautiful furnishings, charming, attentive staff. I needed all the trimmings to take my mind off what was happening for Pat when she disappeared for ninety minutes. She was calm when she returned, and told me her specialist was wonderful and she’d already had a mammogram and an ultrasound. Her needle biopsy was scheduled in an hour’s time. As I had thought, the specialist had made no diagnosis but had told Pat the lump could well be benign. We filled in the time by strolling through the clinic grounds, admiring the tropical plantings alive with parakeets and the unseasonal water lily blossoms on the ornamental ponds.
The biopsy was over in thirty minutes and the waiting began. The specialist had told Pat she would phone her with the results between three and four on Friday afternoon. I was impressed. Not only was this a fast turnaround for a lab result, to give an actual time when Pat would hear back from the specialist was textbook perfect. I knew how important it had been for our Huntington’s families. When a non-symptomatic family member who did not know whether they harbored the Huntington’s gene decided to get tested, they first went through a long process of counseling, followed by the test. It took a while for the results to come through but at the time of the test an appointment time for four weeks later was set with the Huntington’s disease social worker, and that was when the results would be given. Removing the uncertainty about exactly when one’s fate would be sealed reduced the stress immeasurably.
And so it was for Pat. We shopped, took ferry rides, went to the stage version of the Abba musical Mamma Mia—which we both admitted we enjoyed in spite of never liking musicals—walked five kilometers along the river, and had our hair cut at an expensive hair stylist’s.
My idea of having my hair cut was a trim every four months. This hairdresser, a thirty-something young woman with a mass of red curls that looked as if they’d never seen a hairbrush, weighed my great hunk of hair in her hand and said, “This is aging. Why don’t you go for a shorter cut? It would look great with a nice rich color through your hair. It’s so thick it would be a breeze to look after.”
The image of Polly popped into my head. Model thin with that cute boy look. I was sure Tom had been attracted to her, in spite of his insistence that she was like a sister. But my fantasy that a new hairstyle would turn me into a Polly type was rapidly vanquished as my face, reflected cruelly back at me from the brilliantly lit mirror, became increasingly convictlike with every snap of the scissors.
Three hours later we left the hair salon, Pat with her hair a soft gold-brown, feathery about her face, and me with a sleek, dark brown—with highlights and lowlights—glossy cap. My head was so light I thought it might blow off in the tiny breeze. I felt giddy.
“It’s gorgeous, Anna,” Pat said kindly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Tom will love it.”
“I’m not worried about Tom.”
“Of course you are.”
“Why on earth did I let that woman talk me into this?”
“It will grow again, if you don’t like it. Give yourself time to get used to it. When was the last time you had short hair?”
“Never, in my memory.”
“Well then, it’s high time you tried something new. Let’s buy some new clothes to go with our new hair.”
I hugged her, hoping she hadn’t noticed my watering eyes. How could I bang on about losing some of my hair when Pat was worrying if she might end up having a boob removed?
On Thursday we met Kirsty and Hamish for lunch at an airy eatery on Southbank. What a treat. Hamish had grown in the short time since we’d last seen him, and was even more delightful. Kirsty had enrolled in a distance learning program training to be a veterinary nurse, and asked me if I would think about looking after Hamish for two weeks in late July while she went on an intensive live-in course that was part of the program. Her mum was back at work and couldn’t get more time off after her long overseas trip. Kirsty would bring Hamish over to the island and collect him later.
Hamish chuckled at me as I considered—for about two seconds—her request.
“But you’ll have to stop breastfeeding.” Pat’s words fell like stones into our pool of friendship.
Kirsty fussed with her salad. “I thought I’d start weaning him soon. He already has a bottle sometimes.”
“I only fed my two for three months; that’s what the experts said back then about the minimum time. I’d had enough by then of being the only one who could do the night feeds,” Pat said, her tone giving nothing away.
“That’s still the advice. I would go longer but I really need to get a qualification so I can get a job I like as soon as he’s old enough to go to crèche.” She turned to me. “Thanks Anna. You’re a gem. I don’t know what I would do if you couldn’t take him.”
“I’d be nervous about it if I didn’t have Pat and Violet to back me up,” I said as Hamish curled his fingers around mine. “I think it’s great that you’re doing the course.”
“I’ll make sure Auntie Anna doesn’t spoil him,” said Pat, winking at Hamish.
IT WAS NOT QUITE SO EASY TO FORGET ON FRIDAY, BUT we gave it our best shot. Unfortunately we made a bad decision when we decided to go to a late-morning movie to fill the hours. The only movie on that wasn’t full of car chases or vampires was one called My Sister’s Keeper. Neither of us had heard of it, and we had no time to read more than the briefest of descriptions—something about families—before it began. I’m not one for weeping in movies, but this was a corker: about a teenager dying of leukemia, and her younger sister’s fight to stop her mother using her blood, bone marrow, and kidney for spare parts. I wondered about leaving early when it became clear what was going to happen, but Pat was glued to the screen. Along with the only other four people in the theater, we shuffled with our heads down to the women’s restroom as soon as the movie was over and grinned at each other as we dabbed at our red eyes.
“That was a bit heavy for a midday movie,” I commented as we emerged into the sunshine.
“Lovely though,” said Pat.
The phone in our shared room rang at three o’clock, and I knew my prayers weren’t answered when I heard Pat saying, “Yes, I have my friend here with me so I’ll be fine. Thanks, Doctor. I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”
Neither of us slept that night. All the doctor had said was that it was a Grade 2 primary breast carcinoma—that is, a bit faster growing than a Grade 1 and not as nasty as a Grade III—and that as it had been detected early, Pat’s chances of cure were excellent. Dr. Pascoe would go over all the treatment options tomorrow. We resisted the temptation to Google them.
Pat asked me to come in with her when she saw the specialist at her Saturday morning clinic—no waiting around until Monday there. My opinion of the clinic and especially Dr. Pascoe escalated as I listened—and learned—while she talked calmly about Pat’s options, showing no discomfort when Pat became tearful at one point, and giving her all the time and space she needed. Pat wanted to have the surgery in Melbourne so she could stay with her daughter, and I knew that leaving this doctor for a new one would be hard. Afterwards we bought a picnic lunch and found a peaceful spot in the botanic gardens to eat it, or play at eating it. Pat had some big decisions to make, and by the time we had finished lunch and we had both read and reread the information pamphlets, she had decided to go with a full mastectomy rather than the breast-conserving surgery, saying she was long past worrying about having perfect boobs. She had even decided not to have a breast reconstruction; a prosthesis would do her just fine. She was more concerned about living, she said. As a bonus, a mastectomy would mean she was less likely to require radiotherapy, although chemotherapy looked like a certainty.
Her next and perhaps hardest task was to phone Susie, her daughter. While she did this back in our hotel room, I walked along the river again, trying not to cry. I was already thinking about going to Melbourne with Pat, and so as not to intrude too much on her family, spending a few days trying to trace my father’s sister.
We flew to Melbourne on Sunday, and I rented a car at the airport and dropped Pat at her daughter’s home before booking in at a motel. The front door opened as we reached it and two small girls, mirror images of each other, jumped up and down, their curly heads huge halos about their faces, their innocent ecstasy a joy available only to young children and one-man dogs. While they shrieked, their mother and grandmother clung together in silent love.
I declined Susie’s invitation to stay for dinner. Her sweet face—a younger version of Pat’s—was strained, and I could hardly bear to think how she must feel. I did accept the traditional cup of tea, and for ten minutes Susie and I struggled with trivial conversation, both avoiding the dark fear weighting our hearts. Pat had long ago been spirited away by the seven-year-old twins, and as I rose to go, Peter, the son-in-law, appeared through a door and, putting a close arm around Susie’s waist, gave me the loveliest smile.
“Go and say goodbye to Queen Pat,” he said. “Just follow the squeals.”
I did as he suggested and waved from the door at Pat, sitting center-stage on one of the beds with a crown on her head and a smile on her face, surrounded by the butterflies, ballerinas, and books of her granddaughters’ bedroom.