Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (6 page)

He grabs me
by the hand, shoves my handbag into the other and drags me towards the front
door.

“But…”

It’s pointless
arguing. Within seconds he has me buckled into the passenger side of the
Mercedes.

As we zoom
up the freeway to Osborne Park — breaking a number of speed limits and
traffic laws in the process — I turn to him and ask, “Is there any need
to drive quite this fast? I’d like to make it to my thirtieth birthday if
possible.”

“Don’t be
sarcastic, Sophie,” he says, but he slows the pace to one where I can actually
make out the shapes of the trees as we whizz by.

“Why the
sudden urge to buy a TV, anyway?” I question him.

“Digital TV has
been phased in for ages now. We need to upgrade for better viewing quality.” He
says this as if digital TV is akin to the zombie apocalypse and we’re getting
our bunker organised. I don’t like to mention that he rarely watches TV. He
detests most TV apart from the sport show and the one where people buy storage
containers at auction, then spend the rest of the show lamenting that they’re
filled with rubbish and worth completely nothing.

“But we
don’t have to have a new TV today. The old one works perfectly well with the
set top box you hooked up to it.”

“Well, I
want one and if I want to spend some of the money I work so bloody hard to earn
on a new TV, I will.”

His eyes
haven’t left the road but I’m getting the message. This is not about TVs. This
is about retail therapy. Man style.

“Fair
enough.”

We arrive at
the car park of the furniture and electrical megastore. They appear to be
having some type of end-of-something sale and while Brendan is perusing the
bargains strung above us on huge balloons, an elderly lady in a smart car pulls
into the one and only vacant spot in the place, totally disregarding that Brendan
had his indicator on to turn into it himself. A string of expletives fly in her
direction, which I’m fairly positive she can’t hear. Smart cars probably have
smart soundproof windows, too.

“Holy fuck,”
he mutters, his palm slapping the steering wheel in frustration.

“How about
if I park the car and you go inside?” I suggest.

“Are you
sure?”

“Yep. I’ll
meet you in the TV department.” Heaven forbid, those swanky, high definition,
3D, wifi, internet ready TVs might be sold before he gets there if I don’t.

Brendan
smiles and leans over to kiss my cheek. “Thanks, babe. You’re an angel.”

As I arrive
at his side, having safely navigated the car into a now empty spot next to the
smart car lady, I discover it was a mistake leaving Brendan alone for ten
minutes in the shop we call ‘man heaven’. Brendan has decided a new TV, with
remote swivel function so it can be seen from anywhere in the room, is not the
only electrical item we need. Apparently, we also need a new computer with
retina display, a DVD recorder, a set of waterproof speakers for listening to
music in the spa and a remote control helicopter that can be controlled via the
bluetooth on one’s phone. I don’t need to ask if that’s a gift for Rory. I know
it’s not.

“So you
chose a TV?” I ask, thinking he may have forgotten his original intention.

“Yep. One of
those ones that’s like a computer. You can surf the net on it.”

Of course. I
don’t dare remind him he bought a new Mac for surfing the net.

Brendan
hands his credit card to the salesperson. He’s even managed to negotiate a bargain
price before my arrival so I can only hazard a guess at how much this short
shopping trip has cost.

“What?” he
says, obviously noticing my dismay when I see the total on the screen.

“Nothing.
Are you positive we need this stuff?”

Again, I get
the look
, the one that says I’m a
raving lunatic for considering such a possibility.

“Will we be
home in an hour?” he asks, ignoring my question.

“Yes.”

“Good, the
delivery van is arriving in an hour.”

For once I
don’t need to look surprised. Of course, delivery is essential. There’s no way
we can fit his purchases into the Mercedes.

Chapter 6

So, it’s
real. I officially have Breast Cancer — an Invasive Ductal Carcinoma to
be exact. Which is fine. I can cope with that. I can organise hospital stays
and trips to surgeons and babysitters. I can ring around the suppliers and
instruct them that under no circumstances are they to sell anything to Lani
while I’m gone. But what about everyone else? How will they cope with this news?
I hope they don’t fall to pieces. I’ve no idea how I’ll cope if there’s crying.

I don’t need
to worry about Brendan, of course. He’s managing quite well since the delivery
van arrived. He has so many new gadgets to program and learn how to run, he doesn’t
have time to be upset. And it’s nice to see him occupied. When he’s not, he’s
giving me a new kind of look. I haven’t fathomed what it means yet, and I
daren’t ask, but at least I know he’s getting along okay. Well, he will be
after he figures out how to surf the net from the new TV.

 
But what about Rory? What about Mum? And
Dad? I have to break this news to the rest of my family. I toss ideas about in
my head for ages, pacing the length of the family room. Back and forth, back
and forth. I pace for so long, I think I’ve actually worn a groove in the
floorboards. And the only thing I come up with, apart from moving to another
country and ignoring it, is to bite the bullet. I’m just going to have to tell
them straight up. They have to know. But I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t
want to cause them pain.

First up is
Mum.

“Hi Mum.”

“Hello sweetheart.
To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She’s
obviously forgotten she asked me to ring. “I’m calling to let you know. I, um, I
got the results. It’s cancer.”

“Oh, Sophie.
Are you sure?”

“Yep. Invasive
Ductal Carcinoma. Early stage. I’m booked in to see the breast surgeon next
week. I’ll know more then.”

“Will you be
okay till then? You don’t want me to come and stay with you?”

The only
thing worse than having cancer would be my mother coming to stay for an
indefinite period. The last time she did, we came to blows over the pearl
encrusted g-string and bra she’d left to dry on the shower rail after hand-washing
them in the basin. The same basin I clean my teeth in.

“I’ll be
fine, Mum. Honestly. And what can you do? It’s only a doctor’s appointment.
Brendan will come with me.”

Mum gives a
sort of a snort. She doesn’t like Brendan that much.

“Make sure
you ring me as soon as you know what’s happening, then. What time’s the
appointment?”

“It’s at
eleven. Look, I have to go. I have to pick Rory up.”

“We’ll speak
next week then. Love you.”

“You too,
Mum. Bye.”

I hang up. A
wave of something like relief rushes through me. Maybe it’s because I’ve
admitted I have cancer. Then again, I could simply be happy to have averted a
visit from my mother.

*****

By
three-thirty, I’m standing at the gate with the other mothers waiting for our
children. Rory’s school is in a good area and the mothers are always dressed
like they’re off to a fashion parade, even if they’re in gym gear. Apart from
Angela, Melinda and I, none of them have ever worked, that I know of. The only
occupation they have is gossiping. Or fundraising for little African children
who need limbs.

As the
mothers chatter on, I look up into the canopy of the huge oak tree above
us.
 
I’m feeling okay about the
whole cancer thing now. It’s not like there’s anything I could have done, is
there? I mean, I didn’t give myself cancer. Did I?

I zone out
for a bit wondering if it was something I did that caused this to happen. I
know I don’t exercise enough but surely that didn’t give it to me? And I know I
like a glass of wine but if the doctor says it’s the root of my problem, I’ll
give it up. I eat reasonably well. Apart from my chocolate addiction. I have
friends and a family. My city is not filled with cancer inducing fumes and I
don’t smoke. So, why me? I’ve no idea what I did to deserve this. The only
thing I do know is, moping won’t make it go away. So basically, I have to forget
that idea, right now.

Pulling my
phone from my pocket, I decide to give Melinda a call. She’s only on the school
run two days a week — the au pair does the others — so there’s
little possibility she’ll be here this afternoon. I want to tell her what’s
happened because out of everyone I know, she’s the one who’ll understand. Melinda’s
reaction the other Saturday was most likely based on the fact that her mother
and sister both had Breast Cancer, but hey, they survived, they’re still here.
And right now, I could do with her support. I dial her number and wait. It goes
straight to voicemail and I don’t like that it does because, in Melinda’s case,
it means she’s avoiding me. Calls never go to voicemail on her phone.
 
She could be having a Pap smear and
she’d still answer my call. I send her a text asking her to ring me. There’s no
reply.

“What’s up?”
Angela asks.

“I’m trying
to ring Melinda. She’s not answering.”

“That’s unusual.
She’d answer her phone if she was in the middle of fellatio.”

Exactly. But
giving her the benefit of the doubt, I slip my phone into my pocket and join the
conversation.

 
Next to me, one of the mums, Jodie, is
regaling the group with a list of the inadequacies in her nanny. She’s going on
and on and on. I really couldn’t give a toss.
 
There are more important things to worry about, though I
guess if you’ve nothing else, such things tend to become a little bit
important.

“So, I
bought the triplets’ entire new season wardrobes from Pumpkin Patch and what
does that retard do?” She waits expectantly for us to guess. Her eyebrows have
risen into her hairline and she’s glaring at me like I was the one who did whatever
it was. She’s clearly distressed about this state of affairs but then Jodie gets
riled about anything.

“I don’t
know,” Angela answers. “What
did
she
do?”

“She washed
them together on a bloody hot wash. Turned the every single piece either pink
or shrunken to the size only a Barbie could wear. I mean, honestly.”

“What did
you do?” I ask, if only to shut her up.

“I had to
sack her, of course. Last week she burnt holes in their undies while attempting
to iron them. I wouldn’t even have known if I hadn’t spotted Augustus running
commando round the back yard. Who irons undies? I’m positive she was doing it
to piss me off because I asked her to clean the toilet.”

“How
dreadful,” Angela says, rather mockingly. “Have you gotten a new nanny yet?”

“Monday.
She’s Mormon. They’re meant to be great with kids and they have no life so I’m
hoping she won’t be as hopeless as the other four. At least she’ll stay home.
Seriously, how these girls can advertise themselves as nannies is beyond me.
One of them practically drank the wine cellar dry. If this one’s no good, I have
no idea what I’ll do.”

And that’s
when I snap. It’s not like I have any connection to the Mormon faith or any
reason to be offended but Jodie’s behaving like a cow. Some of these women are
way too entitled.

“Gosh,” I
say, “it might mean you have to do your own laundry.”

Jodie
freezes. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Um, that
there are more important things in life than finding a nanny who can wash
clothes. Maybe if you weren’t so horrid to them, they wouldn’t be nervous and
keep stuffing up.”

“And you’re
so perfect, I suppose?”

“Of course
I’m not. I’m just saying…”

She puts her
hand up in my face, turning her head away like she’s five. I’m fully expecting
her to stick her fingers in her ears and begin to sing. No wonder her eldest is
such a brat. It’s clearly genetic.

“I don’t think—”
Angela interrupts.

“Oh shut up,”
Jodie screams. “You’re life isn’t so perfect, either. The whole city knows Jeff’s
bonking that skinny little secretary of his.”

Now, I do
crack. “Enough! Stop it. I have Breast Cancer and that’s a teeny bit more
important that who’s bonking who.”

They stop
fighting and stare at me like the cancer is growing on my face. Jodie goes
limp, as if I’ve physically knocked the stuffing out of her. She bursts into
fits of tears. “Why didn’t you say something? There I was harping on like a
diva and you’re dying. I’m so sorry.”

 
I try to be flippant. “We don’t know if
I’m dying yet. Look at it this way, it’s a good way to drop a couple of kilos.”

“Oh my God,
don’t be ridiculous. Go for a jog if you want to lose weight.”