Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (27 page)

“Sore. But
fine. When will the drains come out?” I have four drains at the moment. I feel
like a bowl of human spaghetti.

Jared moves to
the side of the bed and picks up a drain. He questions the nurse about the reading
and grumbles that the output hasn’t been measured to his satisfaction. His
frown deepens like the crevices in an earthquake.

“We can
probably take this one out tomorrow,” he replies, his gaze remaining on the
drain. “Have you got any pain?”

“My back is
killing me. And my head hurts when I move.”

He doesn’t make
a silly comment about not moving. He merely mutters something to the nurse and
shuffles around like he’s lost his way. This time, three days ago, he was
stroking my shoulder and wiping away my tears. Now, it’s as if I’ve contracted
Rabies and he’s afraid if he comes close without a mask, he’ll catch it. I
don’t understand. What have I done?

As he puts the
drain back on the floor beside the bed, he turns to the nurse. “I’ll write up a
prescription for some stronger pain killers,” he says.

Then he leaves.

*****

I’m discharged
from the hospital a week later and as I stand in the loading bay waiting for
Mum to drive the car around, I’m hit with the most dreadful sense of loss and
grief. The past week on the ward has been quiet and calm. I’ve been pampered to
within an inch of my life. There’s been a constant stream of visitors and I’ve
put on my usual bubbly persona, tricking them into thinking that I’m coping
well with this disappointment but now I’m leaving, it’s hitting home. My body
feels heavy, like I’ve been filled with bricks. I’m finding it hard to move a
leg to get in the car and I have this overwhelming urge to sob. It’s like I
went into hospital to have a baby and the baby died, that’s how I feel. It’s
grief like I’ve never experienced before. And the worst part is, when I get
home and Mum is gone, I have no-one to shoulder the load. I am completely
alone.

Chapter 27

I have no idea
what I’d do without my family and friends.

After my
discharge, they rally around. They cook and clean, take Rory to school. Angela
even offers to bake me a casserole, though I know the closest she’ll come to
actual baking is buying the pre-packaged fresh goods from
Herdsman Fresh
. It’s her version of cooking.

On the first
Friday night after I come home, Mum decides to take Rory to the movies. I beg
off. My stomach is numb and if I sit or lay in one spot for any length of time
it’s hell to get back up, so I’m trying to move at regular intervals. I view
this turn of events in the positive though. There’s only so many Pixar movies a
parent should be required to see in their lifetime and I reached my quota a
long time ago.

So, Mum and
Rory disappear for an early dinner and movie and I’m left prone on the couch
with a book. I’ve felt better in the last few days, though I do break into fits
of sobbing at the most ridiculous things. It’s as if in the middle of
everything, my hormones have decided to play ping pong with my brain. Things
that I’d normally gloss over are tear-inducing, like finding a huge chunk of
hair in my hand when I wash it
—
though I would have been upset about that at any time, I wouldn’t have
cried for two hours. And yesterday, Mum arrived home from the shops to find me
sobbing over the love scene in
Dirty
Dancing
. I’ve seen it at least thirty times and yet something managed to
strike a chord.

“Sophie!” Mum
screamed, dropping the groceries and running to my side. I think she thought
I’d popped the stitches in my stomach or something. The look on her face was
less than sympathetic when I explained I was crying because Baby and Johnny
would never have their happy ending. Thank heavens I hadn’t been watching a
rerun of
Marley and Me
.

The doorbell
rings, followed instantly by a text. It’s Angela.

Can I come in?

Door is unlocked,
I text back.
 
I like her thinking here. She knows I’m flat out on the
couch and doesn’t want me to move.

“Hey hon.” I’m
greeted by her cheery smile as she enters the room, a large box of groceries in
her arms. “I brought you a few supplies. With your Mum going home next week
you’ll have nobody to cook for you. You can pop them in the freezer until you
need them.”

She lowers the
box for my inspection. There’s a lasagna, a barbeque chicken pizza and a fish
pie, not to mention an assortment of pre-prepared vegetables and three blocks
of Cadbury.

“You’ve been
cooking then?” I grin.

She gives me a
look. “Of course not. I got it from Herdies. Someone has to keep the local
economy afloat. It might as well be me. I’ll stash this stuff in the kitchen,
shall I?”

“Great. And
thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I
wanted to. Speaking of Herdies, guess who I met in the fresh produce aisle?”

“Jamie Oliver.”

“Ha ha.
Melinda. Her trolley was chock full with things I know for a fact never pass
her lips
—
bread,
bananas, pasta. She asked how you were.”

I crane my neck
over the top of the couch. “What did you say?”

“That she
should ring and ask you herself. I said you were really upset that she was
freezing you out.”

“What did she say
to that?”

“She said she’d
lost your number. Stupid cow. Nobody loses numbers off an iPhone. You have to
delete them and even then they’re stored in the iCloud. Anyway, I texted your
number to her while we were standing there. I watched her open it.”

“You didn’t!”
I’m stunned Angela had the guts to stand up to Melinda. She can be pretty full
on when she gets going.

“She hasn’t
rung, has she?”

“Nup.”

“She’s such a
two-faced bitch. I knew she wouldn’t. It was worth it to see her squirm, though.”

After packing
the supplies away, Angela returns with a bottle of Shiraz. She pops the cork
and offers me a glass.

“Can’t,” I say.
“I’m still on painkillers.”

“That’s a
bugger.” She lifts her glass to take a sip. “Oh well, more for me. Do you want
me to make you a cup of tea?”

I indicate the
large bottle of water on the floor next to the couch. “I’m good. So, tell me
the latest.”

We chat for a
while about the nanny, Jeff’s new secretary
—
who Angela is in love with because she’s at
least fifty and looks like
Mrs. Doubtfire
—
 
and the new instructor at the gym. He apparently makes
sweating it out in a pump class worthwhile.

“When do you
get the all clear to exercise?” Angela asks.

“I have a follow
up next week. I’ll find out then.” Since beginning my exercise regime again,
I’m keen to maintain my level of fitness, though I loathe the gym. It’s about
as much fun as sitting in a vat of boiling oil.

“And what’s
going on with the house?”

“There’s a
couple of interested parties. I’m hoping if they make an offer I can string the
settlement out for a couple of months. I’m in no condition to be moving house.”

“Surely Brendan
will make that small concession or at least help with the move?”

I release an
exasperated sigh. “I doubt it. He’s been on my case almost every day since I
got home. I don’t even know how he got my new number.”

“What does he
want? Surely, he can’t want money. It’s not like he’s destitute.”

“He’s up to
something. You haven’t heard anything, have you?” Angela and I move in
relatively the same circles.
 
And
she knows everything about everyone, right down to the colour of their undies.

“Not a
scrap.
 
He’s been off the radar
since the spilt.”

“Which makes me
think, he has a new girlfriend.”

“Do you care?”

“Not really. Good
luck to them. I just wish he’d leave me alone. He rang four times yesterday. I
was this close to telling him to go fuck himself.” I hold up a pinch of
fingers.

“From what I’ve
heard, he wouldn’t be that good at it.” Angela lets out a guffaw and I hold my
stomach and try not to laugh.

“Don’t say
stuff like that! It hurts if I laugh.”

After we settle
down, and Angela has had another sip of wine, she changes the subject. “You
haven’t spoken to Jared since you got home, then?”

I’m wondering
where she’s heading with this line of questioning. Why on earth would I have
talked to Jared? I’m sure he has far more pressing things to worry about than
my failed breast reconstruction. Besides he wasn’t exactly Mr Conversation
during my last days in the hospital. He seemed so pre-occupied. And distant.

“No. Why?”

“No reason.”

Which, of
course, means there is a reason and she’s dying for me to ask so she can tell
me the secret without looking like she is.

“Tell me.”

“Well.” The
word is long and drawn out for effect.

“Yes?”

“Jared rang
Jeff. He was asking questions about you, personal questions.”

“It could be
he’s simply trying to piece together what happened. He was very cross about the
whole thing. The last time I spoke to him at my discharge, he put me in the
care of a blood doctor. They took so much blood to test, it’s a wonder I didn’t
need another transfusion.” I shove up my sleeve, revealing a left arm that is
yellowish-bluish from wrist to elbow.

“This
conversation was nothing to do with the reconstruction. Jeff said he was asking
about Brendan and Rory and those sorts of things, the types of things people
ask when they’re ‘interested’.”

It’s an effort
but I push myself up on the couch. “Don’t be silly.
 
Jared Hanson isn’t interested in me.”

And if she’d
seen the way he behaved during my last week in hospital, there’d be no way
she’d entertain the thought.

“You know he
slept at the hospital while you were in ICU?”

“You’re
kidding?”

“No. He made
the nurses organise him a bed. Practically threatened to sue someone if it
wasn’t done by the time he came out of theatre.”

That would
explain his rumpled appearance and how he got to my bedside so quickly with
each progressive failure.

“I’m sure that
doesn’t mean anything. He was concerned. And time was of the essence. If he
hadn’t been there, things might have been a whole lot worse.”

“There’s
concern and
concern
, Sophie. I’m
pretty sure he doesn’t sleep at the hospital for every patient in difficulty,
seeing as he only lives five minutes away.”

“The circumstances
were extenuating.”

I’m trying to
justify his actions now because I can’t comprehend what Angela is trying to say
can be true. Jared can’t possibly like me as more than a patient. Not after the
way he’s acted recently. He was concerned for my wellbeing, that’s all. He
needed to be close in case I had to go for more surgery.

“It wasn’t that.
I think he likes you.”

“You sound like
we’re in high school. Perhaps you could get your friend to ask his friend and
then let me know?”

“Don’t be facetious,”
Angela chuckles, “wait till your next appointment. I bet you’ll see him in a
new light.”

I hope not. All
these different lights are making my head spin.

I change the
subject. “I got my ticket for the quiz night at school.”

Angela does a
refill on her wine. Then she hops up, goes to the pantry and comes back with
one of the blocks of chocolate she brought with her. She undoes the foil and
breaks the squares into bite-sized pieces. “It’s in a fortnight, yeah? I bought
ours ages ago but I haven’t even got them out of the envelope. I’ve organised
our table, though. Do you think you’ll be up to it?”

“It’ll be good
to get out of the house. See some familiar faces. I can’t come to any harm
sitting at a table all night, can I?”

“I dunno. Those
quiz nights can get pretty heated. Don’t you remember last year?”

I let out a
giggle at the memory. The image of Hilary and Melinda who were seated at
opposing tables, rushing to the front to sing the final line of
It’s Raining Men
and score extra points
was a highlight of the evening. They set a new land speed record for running in
stilettos. And when Melinda tried to hip and shoulder Hilary and grab the
microphone, I was convinced there was going to be a catfight.

“Is Melinda
going this year?” I still haven’t seen hide nor hair of my so-called friend.
Not since the party at Hilary and John’s.

“As far as I
know.
 
She’s sitting with the Cressleys.”

As she would
be. If there’s one family in the school who take quiz nights more seriously
than a Korean nuclear strike, it’s the Cressleys. They train for weeks
beforehand by playing Trivial Pursuit and gate-crashing quiz nights around
Perth. They don’t like to lose. And Melinda’s renowned for her competitive
streak. A few years back, she bought a new house merely because one of her
other cronies had done a complete renovation. She was never that way with me,
though. Possibly because she knew I wouldn’t enter into her one-upmanship.

“I still don’t
know what I’ve done to upset her,” I say. “She’s been avoiding me for months.”

“I wouldn’t
worry about it. You know Melinda’s hot and cold. She’s probably pissed off that
your stomach is flatter than hers now.”

“But she was
one of my best friends.”

Angela shrugs. “I’m
sure some people thought that about The Backpacker Murderer too.”

*****

“How are you
feeling, Sophie?”

I’m sitting on
the edge of the examination bed, my feet dangling towards the floor.
 
Today is the first day I’ve worn jeans
for about three weeks so I’m feeling pretty good, especially because they’re way
looser than they were before the surgery. A baggy pair of jeans will do
mountains for a girl’s confidence.

“I’m good,” I
admit, realising that I am. “On the mend. If you discount the massive chunks of
hair that seem to be falling out of my head. If I keep losing it at this rate,
The Christmas Shop might mistake me for a bauble.”

“It’s your
body’s reaction to the amount of anaesthetic you’ve had and possibly the
stress. Give it three months or so and your hair should be back to normal.”

“Excellent. In the
meantime, I’ll go around wearing a beret or looking like a shagpile carpet
that’s worn thin in patches, shall I?”

Ignoring the sarcasm,
Jared swings away to check something on the computer and I let out a breath
that I hadn’t even realised I was holding in. I should be pleased that he’s
returned to acting like a doctor and not a friend, shouldn’t I? I mean, the
only thing he’s supposed to show interest in is my boobs, or lack thereof. And
maybe my back fat and love handles. He can show interest in those if he’s going
to suck them away with his lipo machine. But what about Angela’s admission the
other Friday night? Why would he ask questions about me if he’s not interested?
And now I’ve decided I’d like him to be interested, it’s rather annoying that
he’s only playing doctor. He hasn’t even broken into a smile.

I shuffle on
the bed. “I’m a bit tired and stiff but apart from that, okay.”

“That’s to be
expected.”

Jared stands up and moves towards me, studying me more closely. His
muscular thigh brushes against my knee as he directs me to unbutton my top and
jeans. A hint of very manly cologne wafts into my nostrils. A tingle of
something rushes through my veins and I try to crush it.

He’s your
doctor, he’s your doctor, I keep repeating to myself.
 
He’s not coming on to you. He has to be close so he can look
at you.

I pull my top
aside and allow him access to my torso. While he examines me, I concentrate on the
thin white stripes in his shirt, outlined with an even thinner navy stripe. This
is so awkward. I wish he wouldn’t peer at my skin like that. I wish Angela had
kept her big mouth shut.

“The wound on
your stomach is healing nicely,” he says, his fingers carefully lowering my
knickers a discreet amount so he can analyse the area. “The scarring should be
minimal.”

Pity I can’t
say the same for the embarrassment factor, because right about now that’s going
through the roof. His fingers have barely grazed my abdomen and I’m imagining
all sorts of unspeakable things. He, on the other hand, is the picture of
impassive concern. Why did Angela have to tell me? I could kill her for planting
this seed. I was handling my crush well. I wasn’t bothered by him in the least.
Well, only a little. But certainly not to this extent. Since she told me, I’ve
been unable to get him out of my head. I don’t want him to just be my doctor. I
want him to be my lover but I know a snowball would have more chance in Hell.

Jared finishes
his examination and snips the stitches away. “I’ll get Catherine to fix you up
with some cream for this. Put it on every day, after your shower. It’ll keep
the scar nice and soft.”

Nice and soft.
God, he makes that sound so erotic.

“Um. Thank
you.”

He moves away and
I feel a little deflated. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like he was going to
throw me over the examination bed and kiss me, now was it?

“And
emotionally?” he asks. “I know what happened must have been difficult. Have you
had time to process it?”

“I’m okay with
it. I guess I just have to realise it wasn’t for me and move on.”

“A lot of women
wouldn’t be able to do that, you know. You’re very brave. The ICU nurses
couldn’t believe that someone in such trauma could make jokes and laugh all
day. Such a positive approach can only be a good thing for healing.”

A hint of a
smile passes over his lips. It’s small but it’s definitely there.

I finish
dressing and come to sit in the chair next to his desk. “So what happens now?”
I ask. “Clearly, we won’t be doing the graft thing again.”

“I wouldn’t
advise it.
 
Let’s wait till we get
the results of your blood tests. I’m not keen to proceed with more surgery
until we know for sure what caused the trouble in the first place. Come back in
three months and we’ll discuss the options.”

What he means
is
 
‘we’ll discuss the ‘new’
options’.

Chapter 28

There’s nothing
like a good musically themed quiz night to bring out the inner idiot in people
and the one at Rory’s school appears to be no different. It’s seven-fifteen in
the evening; the official games don't commence for another fifteen minutes and
yet people are running frantically around the room, swapping place cards and
doing deals. Most of them appear to be arguing about the seating arrangements.
Nobody's seated because nobody is certain of where their table is anymore,
given that the numbers have been switched and no longer match the seating chart
in the foyer. It seems the Cressleys amended the list of who’s acceptable to
sit in their near vicinity this year, and a couple of the older families of the
school are not happy. Tonya Thompson should have seen it coming. She did
inadvertently call Cressida Cressley a heifer at the school fair last
term.
 
Now she’s being punished.

I make my way
through the circle of tables to table seventeen. Angela and Jeff have assembled
our players including a few of the regular quiz goers and a couple of new
faces. I’m hoping whoever they are, they know a lot about music otherwise I’ll be
stuck answering the questions. Angela’s already informed me everything after
1990 is a blur and Jeff is about as musically inclined as a set of golf clubs.

“Hey everyone,”
I say, as I pull out a chair next to Angela and put my supper offering on the
table.

Jeff looks up,
giving me the once over. I haven’t seen him since he came to visit me in
hospital where he caused havoc by telling the nurses he was a polygamist and I
was his fourth wife. Thank heavens Jared was able to set them straight. The
nurses got to the stage of eyeing every female visitor in the hopes of meeting
the other three.
 
It was very
embarrassing.

“Hey, Sophie,”
he says.
 
“You’re lookin’ fine
tonight.”

“Thank you,
Jeff. I made a special effort, just for you.”

After we finish
teasing each other, Angela introduces me to a couple I haven’t met before
— Babs and Mike. They’re an odd-looking pair. He’s quite short, with
shoulder-length, sandy coloured hair and a beard that reminds me of Jesus. Babs
is taller than him and buxom, with huge, obviously natural, breasts that are
accentuated by a body-hugging top cut in a deep V at the cleavage. She has hair
the colour of grapes and red-painted lips that match her booming voice, but she
seems friendly.

“They’re our
secret weapon,” Angela whispers. “Babs sings with Beryl and the Bootymen and
Mike is a music tutor at the Performing Arts Academy. He taught that boy who
plays guitar in that band.”

I look at her
blankly.

“You’d know him
if you saw him. Anyway, between them Babs and Mike have got every genre from
punk to rap sewn up.”

“Cool.” I smile
at Babs. “I was beginning to think I might be the only person at the table
tonight who associates
The Beatles
with a band and not a bug. Angela’s not exactly renowned for her musical
knowledge.”

“Hey! I know a
lot about
Hi 5
and
The Hooley Dooleys
.”

“Kid’s bands. I
rest my case.”

Babs pulls a
bottle of bubbly from the Esky she has hidden under the table and pops the
cork. Next, she whips a set of Waterford crystal stem glasses from heaven knows
where and proceeds to fill each one. “Anyone for a tipple? I think it’s time to
get this party started.”

I take my glass
with a thank you.

“Help yourself
to nibbles,” I say, pulling the plastic off the plate of spring rolls and money
bags. “I made them myself.”

Angela begins
to laugh. She recognises them from the
Herdsman
Fresh
. She's bought them herself on many an occasion.

At last the
room is quiet. Everyone seems to have found their seats and has their heads
together plotting strategies on how to win the most spot prizes and who will do
the running. Over at the Cressleys’ table, two empty seats remain next to
Cressida, one of which I gather is Melinda’s. She’s always running late. You
could almost set a stopwatch by her tardiness.

Our table has a
spare seat too, so I lean toward Angela to enquire as to its owner.
 
Angela goes red. Puce in fact. “Ah,
that would be for Jared,” she mutters, rather sheepishly.