Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (25 page)

Well, she’s got
that right.

I’m dumfounded.
I guess I might put it to use. One day. Right now, I’m focusing on finishing my
treatment.

“Thanks Mum,
these are great,” I say. I lean across the console of the car and give her a
heartfelt kiss. She might be a bit mad at times but she means well, and she’s
the best mum in the world.

“Right,” she
says, pressing what can only be a tear from her eye. “Let’s get this show on
the road shall we? You’ve got a hot date with an operating table.”

Chapter 25

Monday evening.
Hospital. I’ve had my last meal like I’m being sent to the gallows and I’m
sitting cross-legged on the bed flicking through the channels on TV. I’m
praying for some home renovation show to spring up and take my mind off the
fact that my visitors have gone and I’m alone and feeling very nervous.

I find an old
episode of
The Block
—
suitably distracting as one of the contestants
is quite cute
—
and am taking a sip of my cup of tea when the door opens and Jared swings
into the room followed by a nurse. He’s carrying a permanent marker and wearing
a sky blue rugby jersey and a pair of dark denim jeans. His smile is big and
friendly, and as usual makes me completely forget that I am trying not to be
interested in him.

“How’s things,
Sophie?”

“Fine,” I
reply, thinking he sounds more like an old pal than my doctor. “I’m pretty
nervous, though. I’ve been to the toilet about a thousand times.”

Why did I say
that?

“I’ll order you
a sleeping pill for later, if you like.”

“That’d be
good. Thank you.”

Jared asks me
to take off my top and stand up in front of him. He slides my track pants as
low as is decently possible. His hand lingers on the bare skin of my hip and as
he begins to draw on me with his permanent marker, I imagine him making those
movements with his fingers rather than the pen. God. This is absurd. His head
is bent as he draws ovals on my stomach and a series of dots and dashes around
my chest cavity and I’m thinking about what it would be like if he kissed me
there. It’s so awkward, I have no idea where to look. I must be blushing from
head to toe. Especially, given that there’s a nurse in the room with us.

“Try not to
wash these off,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“The marker.
Don’t wash it off. Or I won’t know where to cut.” He jokes.

I look down at
my naked chest and torso, covered in big black lines. “Oh. Sure.”

Jared puts the
pen on the bed, watching as my spaghetti-like fingers fumble to do up the buttons
on my top. He sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from the nurse. His face
is at eye level with mine. He has a perfect view of my embarrassment.

“Is something
wrong, Sophie? You’re not having second thoughts, are you? It’s a big
procedure.”

“No. Definitely
not. It’s nerves, I think. I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”

The pen rolls
off the bed and we both bend to pick it up.

“You’re not the
only one,” he whispers, as he straightens, pen in hand.

Collecting his
clipboard, Jared turns to leave. “See you bright and early. Get a good night’s
sleep.”

I watch him go.
As if I can do that now. He knows I have a crush on him. He’s going to operate
on me tomorrow knowing how I feel. It’s mortifying.

*****

Tuesday
afternoon. Surgery complete.

I’m lying in
bed with my feet propped up to ease the tightness in my stomach. It’s a few
hours after the surgery and in my euphoric, drug-induced haze, in lieu of
chocolate or wine, sandwiches and a cup of tea sound like a very good idea. The
nurse has scrounged me a mixed plate and has helped me to sit up so I don’t get
crumbs over the mound that is my new boob. I can’t believe I’m looking forward
to eating a plate of sandwiches so much.

There appears
to be one major hurdle, to this plan, however. As the first nibble passes my
lips, I discover the bread tastes like soggy cardboard. In the hours since my
last meal, someone has either removed my taste buds or filled my mouth with dry
plaster. I take another a small bite and, instantly, globs of bread glue
themselves to every possible surface inside my mouth, including the space under
my tongue. I have to use my finger to dislodge them. Even with a sip of tea
taken at the moment of the bite, the result is the same. So I give up, forget
the food and decide to sleep instead. At least, that doesn’t require effort and
suddenly I’m feeling exhausted
— though how you can be tired after being
unconscious for an entire day is beyond me.

As the nurse
takes my tray away, Mum arrives with Rory. She’s collected him from school and brought
him straight here. He wouldn’t hear of going home to change beforehand.
 
He’s positive I’ll be fine seeing him
in his uniform as I do it every day
— o
r so he tells Mum.

“Hey Mum,” he
says, as he leans up over the bed rail to kiss me. He’s a little in awe of the
gadgets and tubes this time; it’s not like when I had the mastectomy.

“Hey buster,
how was your day?”

“Good. Grandmam
let me have a lunch order from the canteen. I got sushi ‘cause it’s more
healthy.”

“Was it nice?”

“Yummy. I had
an ice cream too but it was a yogurt one.” He beams up at me, proud that he’s
made a good choice without my assistance. Then his small hand reaches for mine.
He gives my hand a pat, as he looks me up and down, inspecting me for
differences. “Your hair’s messy.”

“Is it?”

He’s probably
right but at this moment I don’t care. My level of tiredness is on a par with
giving birth and I couldn’t raise a hand to fix it if I wanted to. Physically,
my energy’s going into staying awake and forming a sentence that doesn’t sound
like I’ve guzzled three bottles of Shiraz. Not an easy task, not even when
lying down.

Rory stands up
on the chair next to the bed. “Do you have any new scars?” he enquires, lifting
the bedcovers to see where the cords and drains are going.

“There’ll be a
huge one on my tummy, like the one from where you were born but bigger. Like a
big smile.”

“Can I see?”

Mum lifts him
down from the chair. Clearly, this is a little too intimate, even for her. “Maybe
tomorrow, Rory. Mummy’s had a big day and her tummy is very tender.
 
She needs to lie quietly.”

“Oh. Okay.
Sorry, Mum.”

“It’s okay,
sweetie. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He smiles and I
think he understands.
 
“Hey, Mum?”

“Mmm?”

“I brought my home
reader. And Miss Reynolds said I could have extra so I can read you a bedtime
story. You know, to help you go to sleep?”

Mum and I
exchange a look.

“Not my idea,”
she says.
 
“Completely off his own
bat.”

So, Rory,
perched in the armchair next to the bed, on a pile of pillows to help him reach
eye level and looking every bit the little man, pulls the selection of reading
books he’s brought from school out of his backpack. From then, until the door
opens and Lani appears, along with Angela and Hilary, I am treated to the
adventures of
Fat Pig
and
Jolly Roger the Pirate
, complete with character
voices and the pictures being displayed, teacher-style, at the end of each
page. I never knew reading books could be so entertaining.

As the room
becomes increasingly crowded, Rory gives up his throne and goes to sit on Mum’s
knee. The girls hand over bouquets of flowers, blocks of chocolate and bottles
of wine because everyone knows wine is ‘a far more practical gift’. They ask me
about my surgery, how I feel and generally make me feel very loved. They even
offer to cut up my dinner, which arrives on a tray amidst the flurry. I’m
hoping my sense of taste has returned somewhat because it smells delicious but
after the sandwiches, I’m not confident.

“It’s like a
rock concert in here,” the orderly remarks, as she refills my water jug. “You
can hear the ruckus from down the hall.”

“That’d be
Angela,” Hilary says. “She’s like an air-raid siren when she gets a good laugh
up. The Eagles wanted to use her laugh as the bounce-down hooter at the footy
but she wouldn’t be in it.”

Angela pretends
to be affronted. “At least I don’t snort like you do.”

And as they’re
debating who sounds worse and who is the loudest, Jared and the duty nurse make
an entrance. He’s changed from the scrubs he was wearing earlier in the day and
is now in his familiar post-operating attire of jeans and a striped rugby
shirt, the emerald of which matches his eyes.

“I see you’re
taking visitors,” he says, approaching the bed. His eyes catch mine for a
second longer than can be considered doctor-patient like and there’s a glimmer
of something I’ve never seen before. Though I may be hallucinating. I’m on an
awful lot of meds.

“This is my
mother, Denise,” I say, by way of introduction. “And my son, Rory. The other
ladies are my friends, Lani and Hilary. Angela, you already know.”

Jared nods a
brief hello. He appears embarrassed, as well he may be. You’d think from the
reaction he’s getting he’s said ‘I might strip naked if that’s okay with you’ rather
than ‘hello’. Hilary’s face has gone quite pink and she’s trying not to stare
which means she’s staring at ridiculous things like the curtains. Lani is not
so subtle. Her ogling is so open it’s making
me
feel embarrassed. And Mum? Well, she’s fluffing her hair and
puffing her chest like she’s a teenager again. Bugger the man called Colin she
lives with. Anyone would think they’d never seen a man before. The only people
not affected are Rory, who is staring quizzically at the doctor and Angela, who
has, of course, known Jared since he had pimples. His looks are water under the
bridge to her.

Jared manoeuvres
himself around the side of the bed and the nurse follows, a clipboard in her
hand ready to take any notes. Hilary is now pressed against the wall only
centimetres from his back and is making rather lewd gestures at me over his
shoulder.

“Ouch,” she
squeals, stopping to rub her shin, where Angela has kicked her. “That hurt.”

“Get a grip,”
Angela hisses. “You are a married woman.”

I hear Hilary
mutter something about there being no harm in looking as they’re ushered out of
the room so Jared can perform his examination. I hope the doctor hasn’t heard
but he seems to have blocked their antics out and is focusing on me. I suppose
when you’re a surgeon you become oblivious to people behaving oddly around you.
And being viewed as dessert by four women certainly counts as odd.

“The surgery
went well,” Jared says, after the room is finally emptied. “You should be up
and around in a couple of days. Try to keep still for the moment and let the
nurses do everything for you.”

I nod an okay.

“May I?” He
moves a little closer, indicating the bump on my chest.

“Sure.” I
shuffle up in bed to let him inspect his handiwork while I concoct a fantasy
about him inspecting other parts of me.

Jared takes a
peak and presses gently against the mound. As he does so, his face becomes serious,
filled with concentration. His eyes darken with shadows.

“The room’s not
very warm. Has the nurse turned the heating down?”

Because of the
nature of the surgery, I’m meant to be in a very hot room for two days after.
It keeps the graft warm and hopefully stops my body from rejecting it. Of
course, being mind-fuddled as I am, I am currently unable to recall more than my
own name. I have not remembered this fact. I know Jared explained it to me in
my pre-op consultation but I guess I let it slip my mind. I hope this isn’t
bad.

“I haven’t seen
the nurse for an hour or so,” I tell him.

“No obs?”

I shake my
head. “Not since Mum and Rory have been here.”

Jared goes to
the end of the bed. He takes my chart from the pocket on the wall and opens it,
studying and turning pages rapidly. I’m becoming concerned. His happy smile
from minutes before has been replaced with a scowl, not directed at me but at
my charts. He turns to question the nurse who, in her defence has only started
her shift in the last few minutes. She’s not responsible for what’s gone on
before.

When I sat in
his office yesterday making the final arrangements for this day, Jared told me
a number of things about the after care. Apart from being in a hot room, I
would also have a special nurse to care for me, one on one, until the danger
period was over. I would need to be monitored every fifteen minutes initially
to ensure any changes could be dealt with immediately and because I would have
so many drains and bags attached, I would be unable to care for myself. The
nurse who was meant to be seeing to this, however, is nowhere to be found. And
the doctor’s face is getting darker and darker.