Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (14 page)

“Of course.
I want to talk to your mother for a few more minutes, but you’re more than
welcome to look at my fish.”

“Do they
have names?”

“No. Maybe
you can choose some names for me?”

As Rory hops
from his chair and races out the door, Dr. Downer lifts the phone to ask her
receptionist to keep an eye on him. Then she turns back to me. “That was quite
a grilling.”

“Sorry.” I
smile. “He already knew everything you said. I think he needed to hear it from
‘a doctor’. He thought I was having him on.”

“Understandable
in the circumstances. I hope I’ve allayed his fears.”

“I think
so.”

“Good. Well back to you.” She shuffles a
few papers on the desk and opens up my file. It’s rather thick for such a short
amount of time. “As I said to Rory, I’ll prescribe you a course of Tamoxifen. It’s
a drug therapy, commonly used for treating your type of cancer.
Many Breast Cancers rely on the female hormone
oestrogen to grow. Hormone-positive Breast Cancer cells have proteins called
receptors, which sex hormones attach to, so when oestrogen comes into contact
with the receptors, it fits into them and stimulates the cancer cells to divide
so that the tumour grows. Tamoxifen fits into the oestrogen receptor and blocks
oestrogen from reaching the cancer cells. This means the cancer either grows
more slowly or stops growing altogether.”

“Is there any
other alternative?” I ask. Five years seems an awfully long time to be taking a
drug.

“You can have
your ovaries ‘switched off’ via a hysterectomy or through a course of injections.
It’s painful and quite time consuming.”

I’m not overly
keen on medication but in this case, I guess Tamoxifen it is.

*****

I drop Rory at
school and head back to work. On the way, I stop at the chemist shop down the
road. ‘Friendlies Chemist’ they’re called.
 
We’ll see. The chemist and I are going to be on intimate terms
for the next five years, so he’d better be.

The
prescriptions counter is at the back of the shop, so I wander in that
direction, trying to look as casual as I can. Of course, I probably look
nothing like it. The only time I grace these walls is the twice a year I come
to get my prescription for the Pill and I always feel embarrassed about that,
like I’m being judged because I’m not married.

“What can we do
for you today?”

The chemist is
a tall, jolly looking fellow. His wiry, white hair is thinning on top of his
head. It looks like vermicelli noodles that have dried up in the bowl. He has
little round glasses like the ones John Lennon used to wear and a very white
shirt. I’d say his wife loves bleach. Lots of it.

“I’d like to have
this prescription filled,” I say. I hand the page to him and he opens it,
examining the writing. Then he raises his face to mine
—
very slowly
—
and I know something has changed. His
expression is somewhat confused, like he’s suddenly been rendered illiterate.

“Um… ah… has
she
ever had this medication before?”

She
? Who is ‘she’? I look at him blankly, causing him to peer at me harder.

Then the penny
drops. The chemist thinks I’m getting the tablets for some other poor woman
with Breast Cancer. Clearly, because I have hair and a fake boob, I don’t look
like a Breast Cancer patient. I can’t resist, I have to tease him a little.

“Who?”

“Ah,” he looks
at my name on the prescription. “Mrs. Molloy. Has she had Tamoxifen before?”

He looks from
side to side, as if he’s giving me the combination to a safe containing the
crown jewels, not asking me about a cancer drug. Obviously, the disease I have
is something we don’t talk about in a normal voice. It’s one of those
hushed-tones type of conversations.

“
I’m
Ms. Molloy. And, no,
I
haven’t had the medication before.
Possibly because I haven’t had Breast Cancer before.”

His face goes
quite red. “My apologies.
 
It’s
just that you don’t look old enough.”

“There’s an age
limit? I wish someone had told my boob that,” I say, unsure whether to be
flattered or disgusted.

Suitably
chastised, the chemist takes my prescription and Medicare card and scuttles off
to fill it. I step away from the counter and stand with the other people who
are waiting for their medications. I can hear one or two of them whispering to
each other words like ‘poor thing’ and ‘such a shame’ and I want to jump up and
down and tell them it’s only fucking Breast Cancer, I have an ninety-five per cent
chance of survival and it hasn’t affected my hearing, but I don’t. Instead I
give them a tight smile and turn to inspect the haemorrhoid creams. Who’d have
thought there were so many on the market?

After ten
minutes or so, the chemist returns with my prescription. He’s carrying the
bottle in a little plastic basket and he lowers it slowly to the counter like
it’s going to shatter if he’s not careful. He opens his mouth to call my name. But
wait, he doesn’t, he just looks at me in a knowing sort of way and I approach
to the counter. I’m the only one here who has Breast Cancer. Nobody else needs
Tamoxifen today.

“I can give you
a fact sheet,” he offers as he takes my credit card. “It explains the possible
side effects of the medication.”

“I’m fine
thanks,” I reply. “My doctor has explained everything.”

And I’m
so
looking forward to the hot flushes
and headaches.

Chapter 15

It’s been seven
weeks since my surgery. The experience, so far, has been such a blur that at
times I almost forget it’s happened. I wake up each day and prepare for another
trip to the shop. I make muesli for breakfast and cut Rory’s lunch. We go to
footy and the supermarket. Everything is exactly the way it was before, apart
from only having one boob. It’s almost like I had an injury and now it’s
healed. I don’t feel sick. I don’t feel like there’s this thing in me that
could cause me to have to rearrange my funeral plans. I certainly don’t feel
the attention and assistance I’m receiving are warranted. It’s a sham if I say
I’m feeling poorly. Which I don’t. And I’m still me, just with a bit missing, a
little factor that somehow never leaves my mind. There’s nothing that can be
done. I’m alive; I can’t change that I have Breast Cancer, so I may as well get
on with it.

Brendan,
however, is another story. He appears to have developed a multiple personality
disorder. I fancied, that after the shopping saga, he was beginning to get used
to the idea. But, seriously, it’s like living with two different men. I have no
idea which one I’ll be greeted with at any given time. One minute, he’s loving
and helpful, the next he’s so distant, it’s like I’d have to stand on the sofa
and screech through a megaphone before he’d notice me. Taking my clothes off
wouldn’t work, that’s for sure, because one of the downsides to this whole thing
is that Brendan apparently no longer finds me attractive. Sex is something
other couples have, the ones with symmetrical chests.

I’ve tried
everything I can think of but nothing’s working. I’ve initiated and been
rejected; I’ve attempted discussion on the topic but might as well be talking
to the rug for the response I get. Last week, I was so desperate I even
suggested we watch porn together. The look I received was bordering on disdain.
It appears porn isn’t something that exists in this new Brendan’s world. He’s become
completely non-sexual. It’s sad and tragic and I’ve tried not to blame myself
but who else is there? Everything was fine before my diagnosis.

I’m excited
today, though, as Mum is coming for a visit. Yes, I know I complain about her
interfering and sometimes I think she’s the reason I’m addicted to chocolate,
but it’s the first time I’ve seen her in months. Even though we talk regularly
on the phone, it’s not the same as face-to-face contact.

About an hour
after their designated arrival time
—
if there’s one thing that can be relied upon it’s the unreliability of
the Australian airline system
—
the doorbell rings and Rory dashes to answer it. He’s excited about his
Grandmam and Granddad Colin visiting too, mostly because they bring him
presents and let him drink Coke when I’m not around. They’re typical
grandparents. They spoil him rotten.

“Grandmam!” he
squeals, flinging open the door.

It’s lucky Mum
keeps active and fit. He’s jumped into her arms like she’s a trampoline.

“Rory, my
little man!” She gives him the biggest bear hug before depositing him on the
doorstep. “Look at you. If you get any taller, you’ll be taller than Brendan.”

Rory puffs his
chest out at this, standing as tall as his tiny body will allow. His one aim in
life
—
other than to
meet Willy Wonka
—
is to be taller than Brendan. “I’ve been eating my vegetables, even the
broccoli,” he replies, pulling a face to indicate the absolute disgustingness
of the concept. Then, he holds up a bicep to be felt. “See?”

“Rocks, matey,”
says Colin, giving Rory’s arm a squeeze. “You’ve got guns like rocks.”

Rory grins. “It’s
the push-ups. Mum and I have been keeping fit in the lounge room with the
fitness lady. She does push-ups on her knuckles.”

“Who, Mummy?”
Mum asks. The look she gives me tells me she can’t believe I’m exercising
anything other than my chocolate unwrapping fingers, let alone doing push-ups
with Michelle Bridges.

“No, the exercise
lady.”

“Have you been
exercising, Sophie? Is that safe in your condition?”

“I’m not
pregnant, Mum. Exercise is very good for Breast Cancer patients. Research says
it can lower the reoccurrence.”

And right about
now, I’m into anything that lowers my chances of getting cancer again. Apart
from joining some crazy Christian cult or drinking nasty green drinks.

“Well, you’re
looking good, sweetheart,” she says, as she leans over Rory to give me a kiss.
“Oh my, what’s wrong with your face?”

“Nothing.”

“But your
cheek’s bright red.”

I swivel to
look in the hall mirror. Mum’s right. I look like I’ve fallen asleep on my side
in the sun and gotten an extreme case of sunburn. One side of my face is its
usual pale, skin colour and the other is a shade of red seen only on fire
engines.

“It looks so
angry,” Mum says. She places the back of her hand on my forehead. “You’re
burning up.”

“Must be a
reaction to the housework. Rory and I have been cleaning up a storm this
morning.” I let out an awkward chuckle, realising I do feel hot all of a sudden
and that beads of perspiration are forming below my hairline, which is not like
me. I am not a sweaty person.

 
I lead everyone down the hall into the
lounge. They follow along behind, Colin bringing up the rear as he struggles
with the four massive suitcases he’s attempted to stack one on top of the other
to save time. He wouldn’t stop to drop them at the hotel first. He didn’t want
to pay extra on the taxi. Colin can be quite frugal.

Mum puts her handbag
down on the sofa.
 
She steps closer
and peers at my face in the light.

“Are you sure
you’re okay? Your other cheek’s completely lost its colour.” She strokes the
side of my face. “It’s cold, Sophie.
 
How can one side of your body be hot and the other cold?”

“How would I
know, Mum, I’m not a doctor.”

Though I wish I
was right about now. The perspiration is beginning to trickle and I have this
unearthly desire to strip down to my knickers and open the windows to let the
cool air in. Which I don’t think anyone here would appreciate but me.

Mum looks
worried. “I hope you’re not coming down with something. Your immune system has
got to be low with the cancer and everything.”

“I’m sure it’s
nothing,” I say, as the line of sweat reaches my ear. I wipe it away with the heel
of my hand. “Probably …”

Then it hits me.
I’m having a hot flush. So far, I’ve only experienced aching legs and some
rather heinous bloating as a side effect of the Tamoxifen, so this is
unexpected and just a tad alarming. Thirty seconds ago I
was
fine. Now, my skin’s so slimy, I could pass for a frog in the
dark. And my insides feel hotter than a furnace. I need to change. I have to
get this cardigan off
this
minute, or
I’m going to self-combust.

“Make yourself
at home,” I say. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Dashing to the
bedroom, I rip the top from my body, throwing it onto the bed. It makes no
difference. I still feel like someone lit a bushfire inside me. I race to the
bathroom and turn on the taps. I splash cold water on my burning skin but it
does little good. I’m so hot my skin is practically boiling the water as it
connects with my body. In the mirror, I see the flush has spread across my
whole face, down my neck and over the top of my chest. It’s like I’m in a
sauna. No, I
am
the sauna. Complete with
steaming armpits like water thrown on hot rocks.