Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (10 page)

*****

At 6 a.m.
the following morning, I am woken from my one hour of sleep to get ready for my
surgery. It’s been a horrendous night. Clearly, the dividing curtain between
the woman in the bed next to me and myself is not sound proof. She’s been
farting, coughing her lungs up and alternating between snoring and setting off her
drip alarm the entire night. Even with the begged for sleeping pill, I remained
wide awake, alert and counting those dots on the ceiling.

As I come
from the shower wearing an exotic hospital gown of baby blue and white stripes,
a nurse appears to give me a pre-med. She takes my blood pressure and settles
me in bed. Then my room-mate speaks from across the divide.

“You didn’t
get a wink of sleep last night, lovey. You tossed and turned.”

It’s all I
can do to clamp my lips together.

“Mmm.”

“I hope I
didn’t wake you up.”

I think to
myself that it’s impossible to be woken up when you haven’t gone to sleep but I
refrain from pointing out the fact.

“I couldn’t
sleep.”

Thankfully,
this is the moment when the orderlies come to take me to surgery. Lack of sleep
does not make me the pleasantest of people.

I’m wheeled
down the hall and along to a waiting room outside the operating theatres. A
nurse comes with a warmed blanket and places it over me and suddenly, in the
quiet bustling, I’m finally getting some sleep.

“Sophie?
Sophie.”

It’s Dr. Downer.
She’s standing over me. Her hand is on my shoulder and she’s smiling. She’s
wearing surgical scrubs and a jaunty little hat with a flower pattern. “How
relaxed are you? I don’t usually have to wake patients up before they go into
surgery.”

“I didn’t
get a lot of sleep last night.”

“Well, you
can sleep all day after this. I’m taking you in now. I’ll talk to you again
after the surgery.”

I smile at
her. I trust her. I know she’s going to do the best she can with this thing
that’s taken up residence inside my body. Then I fall asleep again. And true to
Dr. Downer’s words, I sleep for the rest of the day.

Chapter 10

By dinnertime
that night, I’m sitting up in bed in a private room, feeling rested, relieved
and extremely hungry. Dinner has been ordered for me and I don’t care what it
is. At this moment, I’d eat cardboard if it had a scrape of butter on it.

The door
squeaks open and a small round face appears around the half-drawn curtain.
“Mummy?”

I push
myself up in the bed and put on a smile, not that I have to fake it. I feel so
much relief now that this first step is over, I could smile until my face drops
off. Dr. Downer has been in to tell me they got the cancer. She’s going to
explain the details later but she assures me I’m fine.

Rory comes
pelting into the room, a bouquet of lilies trailing the ground behind him. He’s
trying to hide them behind his back but the bunch is so big an elephant
wouldn’t obscure them.

“Ta da!” He
whips out the flowers and I act surprised.

“Oh, they’re
beautiful.”

“I wanted to
get the pink ones but Brendan said you like white better.” He looks a bit
miffed at being told what his mother likes but shoves them in my direction
anyway. I give the flowers a sniff and turn the bouquet this way and that, admiring
it for his benefit.

“Where
is
Brendan?” I ask.

“He went
another way. I told him it was this way, I looked at the numbers on the wall
and the arrows.” Rory beams at me, proud that he’s been independent enough to
find me without adult assistance.

“You
shouldn’t have run off like that. It’s naughty.”

“I didn’t.
Brendan’s in the hall. On the phone.”

“Oh. Okay
then.” I nod and ring the buzzer. When the nurse arrives I ask if she has a
vase for my flowers.

“Gee.
Another bouquet?” She grins at me as she relieves me of the huge bunch. “We’re
going to have to call for vase reinforcements from the other wards at this
rate.”

I have to
agree with her. There’s nothing like a bout of cancer for reminding people that
they haven’t been keeping in contact. The bouquet count is up to fifteen
already. I never knew I had so many friends. The only unfortunate thing is that
none of the arrangements appears to be from Melinda. But knowing her, she wants
to make a grand entrance, carrying some huge bunch nobody else could hope to
match.

After the
nurse leaves the room, Rory hops up on the side of the bed. He stares quite
openly at my sudden lack of chest. His face is sombre but he doesn’t appear
upset, more quizzical. Like me, he likes to be reassured, to understand what’s
going on. That’s why I’m trying to tell him everything that’s happening. He
shouldn’t be afraid or feel like he’s being left out. I think it’s important for
him to know.

“Can I have
one of your special cuddles?” I ask. “I think I need a cuddle tonight so I’ll
have a good sleep.”

Rory’s eyes
haven’t left my chest. I can tell he’s trying to process the change but it’s
making me feel a bit like I’ve gone out in public without my trousers on or
something.

“I’ll hurt
you,” he says, pointing to the empty space where my boob used to be.

“You won’t.
The doctor has given me some medicine so I can’t feel much and if you be extra
gentle, it will feel nice. Cuddle me on this side.” I shuffle over to the side
that still has a breast.

He considers
this for a minute and makes up his mind I’m right. “You’ll probably get better
fast. My cuddles are magic.”

“That’s what
I’m counting on.”

Rory leans
over in the bed and wraps his tiny arms around my neck. He’s so small his arms
barely reach but he leans his head into the good side of my chest and gives me
a squeeze. I can tell he’s trying hard not to be too rough and it makes me tear
up. I fold him into my arms and give him a hug back.

“That’s
lovely,” I say. “I love you Mr. Rory.”

“I love you,
too, Mrs. Mummy. Even more than
Ben Ten
.”

Wow. Now
there’s a compliment.

 
After a minute, Rory pulls back. He sits
up on the bed, his back very straight. His fingers curl into the sheets. “Do
you have a cut, Mum? On your tummy?”

“It’s on my chest
actually, but the doctor sewed it up. In a few weeks it’ll be a big scar.”

He brightens
at that. “Is it like the one I got on my knee at footy? Can I see?”

“It’s bigger
than that, I imagine. I’m not sure. I haven’t had a look. Shall we look
together?”

I know this
sounds like a bit of a weird thing to do, but I don’t want my son to be freaked
out because I look different. I want him to see I’m still the same person.

“Can we?”

“Yep.”
Slowly, I pull down one side of my singlet top, just enough so he can see the
wound. A huge white dressing stained with blood covers it. He studies it for a
minute, clearly in awe, even though he can’t see the actual cut.

“
Coooool
! That’s massive. That bandage
goes way under your arm.”

I look down
at where my breast used to be. It is quite a large incision.

“What’s that
pipe for?”

“It’s not a
pipe, it’s a tube and it’s to drain the nasty stuff away so I don’t get
infected.”

He looks
down at the bottle containing the contents of the drain. “Gross. Are there guts
in there?”

“Mostly
blood, I think.”

“Can I take
a photo of your bandage on the phone? Nobody at school has ever had a cut
that
big.”

I’m not sure
a picture of my surgical wounds would make appropriate viewing for a bunch of
six-year-olds and I tell him so.

“But Evan got
his stitches in a jar. And Brodie showed us the great big splinter they took
out of his foot. Miss Reynolds said it was more interesting than toys ‘cos we’re
learning new things. She likes gross stuff.”

How does one
explain that it’s not quite the same?

I’m saved by
the bell as the curtain is pushed aside and Brendan appears, looking very
tentative. As if compelled to look at a car crash, his eyes travel down to my
chest. It’s like his eyes are ball bearings and my missing breast the magnet. He
can’t control them, even though he’s trying. He approaches the bed and kisses
me on the forehead, giving me a funny sideways hug that avoids the right side
of my body.

“You look
well,” he says. “I was expecting you to be groggy.”

“I feel good.
Thank you for the lovely flowers.”

“I know you
like lilies. I got this for you too.” He whips flat rectangular object from
behind his back and gives it to me.

I pull at
the wrapping. It’s an iPad. Brendan’s been at the retail therapy again. At this
rate, we’ll be bankrupt by the time I’m finished treatment.

“Wow,
thanks.”

“You can
watch some movies or read a book. I know you’re only here for a couple of days
this time but there’s a way to go. You’re gonna be sick of hospitals if you
don’t have something to do apart from eat chocolate.”

This is one
of the sweetest, kindest gestures he’s ever made. I tell him.

“An iPad is
a very expensive gift,” I add.

“You know I
don’t like to talk about money, Soph. Yes, I’ve been spending a lot lately but
what does it matter? Life’s meant to be enjoyed, isn’t it?”

He’s right
there. And if spending a bit of our savings is his way of coping, I can put up
with it especially if he’s spending some of it on me.

 
“You’re not in too much pain?” he asks.

“Hardly any.
Dr. Downer said there wouldn’t be a lot. The breast is basically an extra bit
of skin. You’re not cutting through muscles to remove it.”

He looks
visibly relieved at this, which is nice. I like that he’s showing tenderness,
that he doesn’t want me to be in pain. Sometimes he’s so anal about appearances,
it’s hard to crack the façade.

“What about
the cancer?” he whispers. I’m unsure if this is because he’s concerned or
because Rory is sitting next to me but either way, we don’t have to whisper the
‘C’ word. It’s not going to jump out and get us.

“The doctor
said Mum’s cured,” Rory announces. “But I gave her a magic hug to make sure.
You should check out her cut. It’s way bigger than that one I had on my leg.”

Now Brendan
looks vaguely appalled. “You showed Rory your incision?”

“Only the
dressing and why not? He wanted to see it.”

Brendan’s
eyes get even bigger.

“It’s not
like I stripped naked and ran down the corridor, Brendan. I pulled the side of
my top down a little.”

“I can’t
believe you’d do that. Don’t you have any sort of filter? He’s your son.”

And I can’t
believe he’s being such a prude. But then I shouldn’t be surprised. In the
years we’ve been together the only thing we’ve ever fought about is my openness
at sharing every detail of my life with my friends. Brendan’s a bit old school.
He believes some things should be private, like body parts.

“I was fully
clothed.”

“That makes
no difference.”

I take a
deep breath and count to five. I want to say ‘whatever’ in a sarcastic tone but
I know it won’t help so I suggest that perhaps it’s time for the boys to go
home. Rory’s bedtime doesn’t need to be disrupted because I’m away.

Brendan
helps Rory down from the bed and after a flurry of kisses he says goodbye and
ushers him from the room. As I lie there alone, dozing off, I wonder if he was
hurrying to get away because of Rory or was it because of me?

Chapter 11

Two days
later and I’m back home, still disbelieving that they can cut a large part of
my anatomy away and discharge me within minutes. I can see why they do it
though. I’m not sick just stiff, sore and sleepy. Being in my own bed, sleeping
when I want, without some nurse poking me every twenty minutes is the best
thing for me. You never realise how good being surrounded by your own things
is, until you’ve completed a stint in hospital. Yes, the staff is caring and
lovely, but those beds are like rocks and staring out the window at a car park
isn’t exactly my idea of riveting entertainment. It’s far more fun being here,
watching Brendan attempt to navigate his way around the new coffee machine.
Apparently, his stint of retail therapy isn’t quite over yet.

Since I’ve
been home, Brendan’s been doing his best to play nursemaid. He’s taken time off
work, so I can relax, but while he shows promise with washing and ironing, his
bedside manner leaves a little to be desired. He keeps wanting me to go for a walk
or sit on the exercise bike. He’s questioned me repeatedly as to when I’m going
to stop taking the painkillers, because, surely, I don’t need them. I think he
thinks I’m going to get addicted or something. He doesn’t seem to understand
that, at the moment, they’re helping me sleep and sleep is the best medicine.
He should try sleeping with a drain sprouting from under his arm. I bet he
wouldn’t be whining about painkillers then.