Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (5 page)

This is not
how I thought she’d be.

“Yeah.
Maybe.”

“You’re
still concerned?”

“I guess so.
The doctor doesn’t ask to see you if nothing is wrong.”

“They do
like to get their billable hours up though. He probably wants to see you to tell
you it’s clear. I wouldn’t put it past him. You know they did that to Colin not
long back. He was having terrible problems in the weeing department. Four
visits it took for them to decide it was only a urinary tract infection. He was
convinced he had prostate cancer.”

“Mum.” I cut
her short. Colin’s privates are not something I like to think about, even when
they’re healthy.

“The poor
man,” she continues. “If it wasn’t bad enough that he had to get Viagra, then
this. Works a treat now, though. He’s like a bull in bed.”

“
Muuum
.”

“And your
cousin Debbie, well if that’s not a case for negligence, I don’t know what is.
She went to get results of her pap smear and they told her nothing apart from
the fact that she needed to lose a little weight.”

“She does
weigh a hundred and eighty kilos, Mum. The doctor most likely thought it was
his duty to tell her.”

“Beside the
point.”

“She can’t
get out of a chair without a hoist.”

Mum gives a
little chuckle. “Look, I’d best be going. Colin and I have our Morris Dancing
class in half an hour.”

“White
outfits and ribbons and bells, Morris Dancing? And wooden sticks and… and
skipping?” I stifle a giggle. The picture being conjured of Colin and my mother
skipping is priceless.

“Colin
happens to be very good.
 
And it’s
wonderful exercise.”

“I’m sure it
is.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Bye, Mum.”

“Bye, darling.
Do ring me and let me know as soon as you find out. And don’t worry. There’s no
point worrying till you know for sure. It’ll only give you grey hair.”

I hang up
the phone. I guess she’s right. There’s no point in worrying until I know for
sure. But there’s this little voice inside me. And it’s not singing ‘Don’t
Worry, Be Happy.’

Chapter 5

It’s eleven
o’clock, Friday morning. Brendan has taken an hour off work. He and I are
sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery and, surprise of surprises,
she’s running late. In fact, the doctor is not even in the surgery. Maryanne, the
receptionist, has informed me that she’s still doing house calls. Who does
house calls in this day and age? If I’d known that was an option, I would have
got her to come to me at work.

“She
shouldn’t be long,” Maryanne says. “She knows she has appointments.”

We wait for
another half an hour. By this time, the other not-so-sick people have given up
and gone home and I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t a ploy to get rid of
unwanted patients. Doctor’s offices always seemed to be littered with people
who don’t look ill. They have nothing better to do with their day. Well, I’m
not one of them. And I’m not leaving until I have a diagnosis and a plan of
action.

Forty-five
minutes. The doctor has called in to say she’s delayed but should be back
within half an hour.

“Would you
like to reschedule?” the receptionist suggests, kindly. For some reason, or
maybe because Brendan and I are the only fools left in the place, she’s decided
to act like a human. I, on the other hand, am beginning to behave like a
banshee.

“Do I look
like I want to reschedule?” I glare at her.

“Um, no.”

“I’ve waited
this long and I’m not leaving till I see the doctor.”

“Okay.”

“Glad we’re
on the same page.” I give a loud huff and plonk back into the comfort of my
vinyl-clad chair.

Then I hear
the sound of a car. I look out the window and see Dr. Jackson, keys and bag in
hand, flicking the automatic lock on her Audi. She wanders towards the back of
the building, taking in the new additions to her empire like she’s browsing in
a gift shop. I want to scream ‘hurry up’ but Brendan has put his hand on my
knee.
 
He knows what’s going on
inside my head and is silently soothing me with his hand.

“Won’t be
long now,” he whispers.

Another
twenty minutes pass before the receptionist summons me. “Doctor will see you
now.”

And as I
walk down the hall to my fate, I can’t help but wonder what exactly Dr. Jackson
has been doing, because if I go in there and smell freshly squirted perfume or
see freshly applied lipstick, we won’t have to worry about cancer. I’ll be in
jail for murder.

*****

“So, what
can I do for you today?”

I stare at
the doctor with what, I’m positive, must be an incredulous look on my face. In
my lap Brendan’s hand is giving mine another squeeze. I breathe.

“You asked
to see me?
 
About the results of my
tests?”

Dr. Jackson
pulls up my file. She clicks a few things, opens them up and scans.
 
“Gosh, it’s been a busy morning,” she
says, by way of conversation.

Like I care.

She swivels
on her chair. “So,” she says again. For a woman of her intelligence you’d think
she’d be able to come up with another way to begin a sentence. “The ultrasound
shows the possibility of a tumour but we’ll book you in for a biopsy to confirm
it.”

What? Has
she been self-medicating?

“I’ve
already had a biopsy. I had it last week. The doctor didn’t give me enough anaesthetic
and I could feel every minute of it.” I burst into tears, unsure if it’s the
painfulness of the memory or because the doctor clearly has no idea what’s
going on.

She clicks
another file. Her face is somewhat contrite.

“Oh.” She
leans closer to the computer, studying the report she’s found. She straightens
and is silent for a second.

“So the
tests confirm Breast Cancer. I’m really sorry.” She stares at me like she’s
waiting for a reaction but I think I’m out of reactions. I’ve used them up in
the past week.

In my lap, I
feel Brendan’s hand, against mine. I know he’s giving it a sympathetic squeeze
but I don’t feel a thing. It’s like my body is stuck inside a glass bubble and
the world is on the outside.

“The tumour
is invasive but it’s in the early stages so that’s good,” the doctor continues.

In my mind
I’m thinking I should be crying, isn’t that what people do when they get bad
news? Shouldn’t I feel
something
? But
I don’t. It’s like I left my feelings in the waiting room. Instead, I do what I
always do. I go full steam ahead into organisational mode.

“So what
happens now?”

“I’ll refer
you to a breast surgeon. Do you have any preferences?”

“Sorry, I
left the list of cancer professionals I carry, in case of emergency, at home.”

She frowns
at me. Maybe sarcasm isn’t her thing.

I try the
blunt approach. “I don’t have a preference. I’ve never had cancer before. I
want the best. I have private health insurance.”

“Splendid. I’ll
refer you to Dr. Downer then. She’s highly regarded. She can discuss your
options with you.”

I look at
her. It’s like I’m underwater and though I know I should understand, I have no
idea what she’s talking about because the words are swirling around in front of
me.

“Options?
But it’s not bad. You said ‘early stages’, didn’t you?”

“I did. But
the breast surgeon will discuss that with you.”

“And when
will that be?”

“When you
make the appointment.”

If she’s
deliberately being obtuse and trying to rile me up, it’s working. All of a
sudden, I feel quite tingly round the tear duct area. I look to Brendan, who is
supposed to be supporting me, but he looks more stunned than I feel. Seriously,
what’s the use of having him around if he’s not going to join the conversation?
He’d better be taking mental notes, because I have no idea what’s going on.

At last, the
doctor does something sensible. Her face softens and she begins to see that
this is not an everyday occurrence. It’s not like I’m pregnant or anything. I’m
not in shock for a good reason.

“Would you
like me to ring through for you? Tee up an appointment?”

I nod. “Please.”

And so it’s
set.

*****

On the way
home — I can’t face the shop now — Brendan is very quiet. His
normally olive skin has taken on an ashen sort of pallor and he’s gripping the
steering wheel like he’s frightened it might detach itself from the car and
roll off down the street. Then, he does something completely uncharacteristic. He
pulls into Red Rooster and turns off the car. Surely he’s not thinking about
chicken burgers at a time like this?

“I’m
starving. Do you want something?”

He is.

“No. Yes. Oh,
whatever. I have to ring Lani. Tell her to look after things for a few days.” I
can’t make decisions about burgers.

Brendan gets
out of the car and heads into the shop. He really is buying lunch. I thought,
for some strange reason, he was trying to make a joke. We both know he hates
fast food. Then again, he could be doing an ostrich. You know, sticking his
head in the sand? Hoping the lump in my breast will magically be gone when he
comes back with his chips and Fanta.

I open my
bag and pull out my phone, dialling the shop.

“Good
afternoon,
Heather’s Hats and Bags
.
Lani speaking.” Lani sounds cheery and it gives me a bit of a boost.

“Lan. It’s
me.”

“Soph. How’d
it go?”

“I have…” My
voice cracks and I gulp, trying to form the words. Words that suddenly seem so
inadequate in describing the emotions rushing through me. “I have Breast Cancer.”

Silence.
Then, “Shit.”

“Double
shit, actually. Look, I’m not coming in for a couple of days. I need to get my
head around this. I need to figure out how to tell Rory and Mum and well,
everyone.
 
Plus, I’ve got to see
the specialist and find out what happens now.” The words are muffled. I can
hardly talk but I’m keeping it together. Now, I understand about people being
on autopilot when tragedy strikes. That’s me.

“Oh Soph,
I’m so sorry.”

I don’t
suppose there’s much else she can say. I mean, what do you say in a situation
like this without sounding patronising or fake?

“Don’t worry
about the shop,” she continues. “I’ll look after everything. And Carly will be
in tomorrow for her usual Saturday shift. We’ll sort it. Do you want me to tell
her?”

I pause for
a moment. “If you don’t mind.”

“My
pleasure. Shit. I didn’t mean it like that. I have such verbal dementia sometimes.
You know what I meant. Oh shit. I’m sorry, Soph.”

“Yeah. I
know. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.”

“Sure. Hugs.”
She hangs up the phone.

I sit
staring out the window at the railing flanking walkway of the shop. The surface
looks fine but the white paint has begun to bubble. A bit like me. I look fine
on the surface. Hell. I feel fine, exactly the same, not sick at all. So how
can I have cancer? Shouldn’t I look ill or feel ill or something?

Then I see
Brendan. He’s emerged from Red Rooster with a carrier bag stuffed with food in
one hand and two of the biggest drinks they serve in the other. The door is
swinging closed behind him and he stops to check his purchases. Clearly, at a
time like this, comfort eating is what’s going to get us both through. He looks
up and sees me. His face turns an even deathlier shade of white. He’s staring
at me as if I’m already dead and tears are pouring down his face.

*****

It’s now one
o’clock, Friday afternoon. Brendan and I have finished our chicken — well,
he’s finished his. I don’t have much of an appetite so I feed mine to Grover,
our dog — much to Brendan’s disgust and Grover’s delight. Now we’re
sitting staring at the TV under the guise of watching the news. Neither of us has
said a word for the past twenty minutes, not even when Grover stuck his head
inside the takeaway bag and began to lick the remains of the mayonnaise from the
burger cartons. It’s okay, I guess. We’re both trying to digest.

Then, as if
he’s hit on a cure, Brendan leaps from his end of the couch. I haven’t seen him
this excited since he won third division in lotto. Which turned out to only be
worth forty-seven dollars.

“That TV’s a
heap of shit. Let’s go shopping.”

At a time
like this? I can hardly remember what day it is, let alone have the presence of
mind to be able to barter on the price of electrical goods. And Brendan will
never buy anything unless bargaining is involved. I think he inherited some
sort of flea market gene.