Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (8 page)

“Sophie
Molloy?”

I look him
up and down. Is he serious? You’d think he’d know which of us is Sophie by now,
seeing as he’s in here at least once a week delivering things Lani has bought
on eBay. The latest purchase was a box set Harold Robbins novels that looked as
if they hadn’t been opened since they were written in the 80’s.

“
Yeeees
.” I regard the package with
suspicion. “Lani, you didn’t order anything did you?”

“Nope. Well,
not for you.”

I sign on
the tiny screen, completely bemused by what is in the package and where it came
from. “Thanks,” I say and hand it back to the guy who turns and leaves.

Lani comes
over to the counter. “What is it?”

“How would I
know?” There’s no return address on the back.
 
It’s quite puzzling.

We stare at
the package for a second or two longer before Lani has a revelation. “How about
you open it? Then we’ll know what it is.”

“Good idea,
Sherlock.”

The plastic envelope
is not easily undone. As with most items from Australia Post, the wrapping is
designed to make you suffer in anticipation for longer than necessary. They say
it’s for safety in transit but I think it’s a ploy. I haven’t figured out what
for yet but I will one day. Maybe when I’m in hospital. I’ll have a lot of time
to think there.

At last,
with the benefit of scissors, which are far more useful than teeth as a cutting
implement, I slide the parcel from the plastic bag. A note is taped to the
outside. It’s from Mum. I can’t believe it. She hasn’t sent me a care package
since I was nineteen but she feels I might need a little TLC in her absence. It’s
sweet that she’d think to do it now. Gosh, I love her.

I rip the
paper — appropriately adorned with pink Breast Cancer ribbons — open.
Inside I find a pair of Breast Cancer bed socks, a scented lavender candle (for
relaxation), a book about surviving cancer by Olivia Newton John, a Kylie
Minogue CD (it takes me a minute to connect the dots — Kylie had Breast
Cancer too) and the first season of the TV show,
The Big C
. Apparently Mum decided it was a better choice than a kilo
of Cadbury. Chocolate has formerly been linked to cancer, which could explain
everything, or so the note says. There’s also a pink smock thing with buttons
up the front for ‘ease of access’. It looks like something an effeminate French
painter would wear, if he was in drag. Or maybe a blind elderly person. No
seeing person would be seen dead in it. I’m apparently to wear it after my
surgery.

“It’s
hideous,” I say to Lani, as I read the tag that describes it as a thoughtful
and practical gift for the Breast Cancer patient.

Lani’s lips
are pressed together. “Well. You can’t say Denise’s not thoughtful.”

I put the
shirt aside and hold up the socks. They’re fuzzy and look more like something
you’d wash pots with than wear to bed. I can never be seen wearing both these
garments at once. I’ll look like a walking advertisement for Breast Cancer
apparel. Or a big pink marshmallow.

“I’d rather
have had the chocolate,” I say.

“You eat way
too much chocolate.”

“That’s why
I’m so perky.”

Lani picks
up the book and flicks through, stopping at a list of some sort. “You should
read this. It might give you some inspiration.”

“To what?
Take up singing?”

“You know
what I mean. Anyway, I’ve heard you sing. You suck.”

She won’t be
getting any argument from me. I take the book from her and turn to the blurb. I
suppose it could make good reading in hospital, even if sitting up in bed with
it makes me appear like one of those desperate women who’ll do anything for a
cure. I’m not searching for some miracle, especially at the hands of a
celebrity author. My approach to this disease is entirely my own — act
normal, do what the doctors tell me and get it over and done with.

Putting the
book with the other things, I get out my phone and send Mum a text to thank
her. She means well and it’s her way of helping, even if I don’t like to be
helped that much.

With the package
safely stowed, Lani and I go back to our work. A few customers come in and we
make a couple of sales — it seems that even though her window display
isn’t finished, Lani’s on the right track. They’re young girls with vibrant
eclectic style and they want to know when the next shipment of stuff is
arriving and if we’ll be adding clothing to the range. All in all, apart from having
cancer, it’s a good day.

*****

Later that
night, I’m sitting on the sofa, with a glass of red in one hand, a pen in the
other and a pad on my lap. Rory is sleeping over at Angela’s and I’m making a
list of things that need to be done. The list goes something like this.

1. Plan funeral

2. Update will and guardianship of Rory.

3. Get full body wax, manicure, pedicure.

4. Hairdresser. Remove regrowth.

5. Pyjamas. Stylish overnight bag. Matching
toiletry bag? Lani?

6. Good supply of …

Then, as I’m
writing number six, I begin to panic. In six days, I’ll be in hospital. When I
come home I’ll only have one breast. I’ll be lopsided. How will that work for
wearing clothes? There’ll be a whole wardrobe of clothes in my room that are
instantly unsuitable because I’ll no longer have a cleavage.
 
I won’t be able to wear any of my bras
because I’ll only have one boob and that one boob will be swinging low because
it’s not as pert as it was when I was twenty. Gravity and breastfeeding have
definitely taken a toll.

I sit for a
minute contemplating this notion. I know I’m being silly. At my appointment,
the Breast Care Nurse explained about prostheses. She even got out a selection
of bras to show me that I can still wear pretty things. It was when she got out
an actual prosthesis and proceeded to tell me about fittings and sizes that
Brendan felt the sudden urge to re-caffeinate. I can’t blame him. Girl talk
isn’t for everyone.

I start to
cry. Big fat tears plop into my wine and I decide to drain it for fear the rest
will be ruined. I thought I was over this. I thought I was handling myself so
well. I put down my wine glass and race to the kitchen to search for any
fundraising chocolates I may not have eaten earlier on. In a frenzy of sniffles,
I pull out drawers and clear shelves. Then, resigned to the fact that my
sadness is not going to be resolved with M&Ms, I give up and go back to the
couch. It’s not the cancer that’s making me act this way and it’s not the fact
that I’ll only have one boob by this time next week. It’s the fact that I’m so vain.
And I never knew until now. Have I been this shallow for my whole life and not
even known?

I make a
call to Lani.

“Am I
shallow?”

“What?” She
lets out a big grunt. I hear a scuffling sort of sound.

“Am I shallow?
Do I think too much about my looks and myself?”

Now I can
hear the sound of traffic. What is she doing?

“That’s
better.”

“Where are
you?” I ask.

“Until
thirty seconds ago, I was in the middle of a Bikram Yoga class. Damn, but it’s
cold out here.”

“Where are
you now?”

“Standing on
the corner of Vincent and Fitzgerald Streets.”

Hence, the
traffic noise.

“So, what
makes you think you’re shallow?” Lani asks.

“I was
making a list of things—”

There’s a
groan on the other end of the phone.

“Shush. I
was making a list and I started thinking about next week.”

“And?”

“And I discovered
I don’t care about having cancer but I totally care about only having one boob.
I’ll look like a loser. And none of my tops will fit.”

Lani’s end
of the phone is quiet. “They’re going to chop a bit of your body off, Soph. I
think you have a right to be a little bit precious about it.”

“But I’m
vain. I’ve spent the last hour obsessing about how I’ll look with one boob and
no hair. I don’t want to look like a cancer patient. I want to look like me.”

“Are you
worried that you’ll be less of a woman?”

I snort at
that. “Don’t be ridiculous. They could cut them both off, and I wouldn’t give a
fig. I’d still be a woman. I just don’t want to be a lopsided one.”

“We can go
shopping when you feel better. Buy a couple of new outfits. That should cheer
you up.”

“I’ll look
like a cancer patient.”

There’s a
funny whooshing sound on the other end of the phone. It’s drowning out Lani’s
response.

“What’s that
noise?” I ask.

“I’m
jumping.”

“Why?”

“I came from
inside a forty-three degree, heated room. It’s only twelve out here and I’m
wearing a sweaty singlet. I’m cold.”

Of course.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry
about it.”

“Thanks for
listening to my rant. I feel better now.”

“Good. I’ll
see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

I hang up and
go back to my list. Lani has a way of making me feel better. I know I can be a
drama queen sometimes and she lets me vent.
 
That’s what friends are for.

About an
hour later, Brendan arrives home late from squash to find me surfing the net on
the new TV. Having located the last stash of chocolates — which I’d
hidden so well even I couldn’t find them in the first search — I’ve
demolished the lot, washing them down with a bottle of red. I’m feeling a
little bit tipsy. Or it could be a sugar rush.

Raising his
eyebrows at the coffee table, which is littered with wrappers and bearing a
couple of wine rings, Brendan screws the papers into a tight ball and takes
them and the empty bottle to the kitchen. He returns with a sponge, which he
uses to wipe the table before returning it to its plastic bowl under the
kitchen sink.

“Are you
drunk?” he asks, returning to the room.

“Possibly.”

“Is that
wise?”

“Probably
not. I’ll have a massive hangover in the morning.”

“That’s not
what I meant.”

“I realise
that.”

I glare at
him. Since the first traumatic days of my diagnosis, Brendan appears to have
returned to his old self. Yes, he’s sporting a lot of new ties and at odd
moments, I catch him studying me with a sad look on his face, but I think he’s
trying to support me as best he can by acting as normally as he can. Which
would of course, include chastising me for drinking too much and making a mess
on his coffee table.

He bends
over the back of the sofa, kissing the crown of my head. His hand lingers for a
tender moment making me remember why I love him. “What’re you doing?”

“Shopping
for hospital. I need pyjamas.”

“Why? You’re
only going to be there two days. And you don’t wear pyjamas.”

Well, that’s
true but it’s not entirely the point.

“I know, but
it’s a public place. I can’t prance around in my knickers.”

Brendan
raises his eyebrows. I think he likes the idea.

“People will
see me.”

“I don’t see
a problem.”

I pick up a
cushion and hit him with it.

He walks
around the sofa and flops down beside me. His body is clammy from his game of
squash and his hair is standing in jagged spikes on top of his head. Somehow,
he still manages to look devastatingly handsome. I never look good after a
visit to the gym. I usually resemble a beetroot.

“What’s
this?” Brendan picks up my list.

“A few
things I need to sort out.” I try to snatch the list away but he holds it at
arm’s length and begins to read.

“You’re
planning your funeral? Jesus, Sophie!”

“You don’t
think I’d let you be in charge do you?”

I’m
remembering his attempt at throwing a surprise birthday party for me last year.
When we arrived at Lani’s house and she was the only person there, he had to
quickly organise a table at my favourite restaurant for the three of us. Then
he pretended it was meant to be that way. I knew it wasn’t. Lani and Brendan
would never be seen dead looking across a dinner table at each other.

With the
piece of paper in his hand, Brendan gets up and heads for the fridge. He pulls
out a bottle of water and drinks half before wiping his mouth on the back of
his hand. He slings an arm over the open door. “Why are you planning your
funeral?”

“In case I
die on the operating table.”

“You’re not
going to die on the operating table.” Shaking his head, he finishes his water
and takes a three point shot at the recycling bin.

“I know, but
in case I do, I’ve left you a list of requests.”