Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (33 page)

“My point
exactly.”

“But you’re
still going to see him tomorrow aren’t you?”

“You saw that
thing on my stomach, didn’t you? I have no intention of spending any more time
than necessary looking like a walking horror movie. I’ll be in there first
thing.”

“And the almost
kiss?”

“I’m going to
ignore it.”

At least until
Jared finishes treating me. Who knows? The attraction we feel may only be
because it’s forbidden. Not being able to have something only makes you want to
have it more. He might not even like me when I’m merely another Breast Cancer
survivor.

Chapter 33

“I’m glad you
came in, Sophie.”

Jared is
sitting at his desk, tapping his pen on the desk calendar. He’s looking very
handsome today, with his dark rimmed glasses framing his eyes and a pale blue
shirt rolled up to the elbows. The stone coloured trousers he has on are
particularly manly too, and I don’t generally like pale pants on a man.

“I wanted to
discuss a couple of things with you in regards to the rest of your treatment.”

Oh no. It’s
coming. He’s going to say he wants me to go to another Plastic Surgeon.

“I’ve tried to ignore
it, to be professional and show self-control, but well, I’m very attracted to
you….”

I look at his
fingers, caressing the pen and I begin to fantasise about them caressing other
things. I picture myself taking off his glasses and some new uses for that
examination bed in the corner.

“Sophie?”

“Huh? Sorry,
yes?” I can feel my face burning with the embarrassment. I hope he doesn’t know
what I was thinking. He’s very astute. Reading minds wouldn’t be out of the
question.

“I said, I
think I should refer you to another surgeon.”

“Because you’re
attracted to me?”

He leans across
and takes my hands in his. “Extremely.”

“Oh.”

“You seem to
have implanted these rather lewd daydreams in my head. I’m finding it very hard
to think straight.”

He’s not alone
there.

I straighten in
my chair and cross my leg, adopting what I hope is a sensible, not non-seductive
pose. “As an aside, if you send me to another specialist, will you be doing
anything to act on these
—
uh
—
 
daydreams? It seems
pointless changing doctors if I’m not going to get anything out of it. Just
saying.”

Jared stares
into my eyes. He’s trying not to smirk. “That was my intention, yes.”

“And if I don’t
want another doctor?”

“I’m still
going to have to refer you on. I could be struck off for beginning a
relationship with a patient while treating them.”

“But we’re not
in a relationship. All you did was almost kiss me. And tell me your deepest
darkest fear.”

He looks at me like
I’m a five-year old. I know I’m splitting hairs but, seriously, I’m not going
to tell anyone he thinks he’s a failure and I’m positive he’s going to be able
to concentrate once he’s got me cut open. The sight of blood and guts have a
way of bringing a person back from the clouds.

“It makes no
difference, Sophie. I can’t treat you, but I can refer you on to my colleague
Dr. Clifford. He’s extremely good. And he won’t abide any of your eyelash
batting and come hither looks.”

“I do not bat my
eyelashes!” I give a huff.

“Well, maybe
you only do it with me. Anyway, I’ve already spoken to him about your case and
he has an opening later today.”

I feel my lip
beginning to wobble. Suddenly, I feel as if the rug is being pulled from under
me, that someone has changed the goal posts and forgot to let me know. “But…”

“We can’t
continue this way, Sophie. You know it as well as I do.”

I do, too, but
that doesn’t mean I like it. I have an attachment to the way Jared cares for
me. Forming a new attachment at this stage will seem weird. But there’s no
choice. He could get into serious trouble if I don’t go along with his plan. I
gather my purse and stand up ready to leave. Jared hands me a piece of notepaper,
containing Dr. Clifford’s details and my appointment time.

“What about my
hernia? Is there anything I can do to alleviate it until I have surgery? It’s
really uncomfortable having what I ate for lunch bulging out the side of my
stomach.”

 
Plus, my wardrobe choices are limited
enough already. I’m not adding neck to knee kaftans.

Jared gets up
and goes to a cupboard in the corner of the office. He opens the door and
begins to rummage around. “What size are your hips?”

“Is that a
professional question?”

“Yes.”

“I’m about a
36.”

He reappears
with a large plastic package. Inside it is the biggest piece of elastic known
to man. It’s at least a foot wide and has a large strip of Velcro on one end.
“This is an abdominal binder. You can wear it under your clothes. It’s
adjustable so you can make it any size you like but it’ll hold your stomach in
place and relieve some of the uncomfortable sensation.”

It’s a good
thing we’re not in a relationship yet. If Jared saw me wearing this and the nana
bra, he’d probably die laughing. I take the thing and shove it in my bag. If it
means my stomach stays where it belongs, I guess I’ll wear it.

“Give me a call
later,” he says, adding a smile. “Let me know how you get on with Dr. Clifford.”

“I don’t think
I will, not now that you’ve practically called me a hussy.”

I leave his office
with an odd feeling inside that I can’t explain. It’s like someone has filled
me with air and I’m floating down the street to the car. I’m giddier than the
night I got Jon Bon Jovi’s autograph, a major moment in my life. I feel like
I’ve been dumped, which I sort of have, and yet somehow, I may have ended up
with a boyfriend out of it. And a rather dishy one at that.

*****

I arrive at the
shop to find Lani on the computer. It’s early morning still, and I’m loathe to
have a go at her now she’s my partner. Besides, I can’t see the screen. She
might well be doing the orders for the online storefront, though the way she’s
chuckling to herself it appears unlikely.

“How’s it
going?” I ask, plonking a takeaway coffee down beside her. She’s so engrossed,
she doesn’t even notice I’ve come into the room. Seriously, I could shoplift
the entire vintage bag collection and she wouldn’t even realise.

Lani looks up.
“Oh, hi. I’ve printed out the online orders. I’ll start boxing them up for
posting now you’re here. Have you seen these t-shirts?”

I lean my head
over her shoulder. She’s on eBay, of course, and has somehow managed to find a
store selling custom designed cancer t-shirts, made somewhere in Perth. They
have quirky
— some might say offensive —
slogans styled like 50’s cartoons and reading,
‘Chemo Whore’ and ‘Grope your Wife, Save a Life.’ They bring back memories of
the pink glittery thing Mum gave me.

“We’re not buying
them, Lani. No matter how you think you can justify the purchase, they are not
setting foot in this shop. We sell hats, bags and accessories.”

“But they’re
funny and look at the colours. They’re super retro and that cartoon style is so
vintage it’s practically antique.”

“Would you wear
one?”

Lani swivels to
face me. Her outfit for the day is comprised of huge yellow plastic earrings, a
neon yellow t-shirt, knotted at the hip and a knee-length black boucle pencil
skirt, topped off by white ankle socks and hot pink sneakers. The very proper
woman on the front of her t-shirt has a speech bubble exploding from her mouth
that says, ‘My other breast is a prosthesis,’ in comic black font.

I arch my
eyebrows.

“What?” Lani
says.

I’m unsure
whether it’s in poor taste. At the moment, I’m too busy being shocked.

“I got one for
you,” Lani adds, whipping a cream shirt from under the counter. “I love this
one.”

She holds the
top up in front of her chest for me to admire. It has a picture of a 1940’s pin
up girl languishing over the top of the slogan in her underwear, ‘
Dear Cancer, I hope you get cancer and die.
Love Sophie.’

“Try it on,”
Lani suggests.

“It’s not
really me, Lan.” Even with my name across the chest.

Lani looks
deflated so I take the shirt from her, pull it over my top and straighten it,
giving a twirl to display it from every angle. It is cute but I still can’t
wear it.

“What do you
think?” she asks, as I look at myself in the reflection of the window.

“I don’t think
I can bring myself to wear it. It’s like I’m asking for sympathy. It’s pretty
though, in a sick sort of way.”

“I never
thought of it like that.” Lani’s lip twists in thought.

At that moment,
a woman walks into the shop. She’s thin and her face is hollow, yet she has a
lady-like air about her. She approaches the counter where I’m standing,
awkwardly trying to hide the inappropriate t-shirt I’m wearing at ten a.m. in
the morning.

“I hope you
girls don’t mind me interrupting,” the woman says, “but I was walking past and
I noticed your t-shirts through the window. Are they something you stock?”

Oh no.
Upsetting potential customers isn’t my idea of good business. The poor woman is
probably disgusted.

“Ah…” I begin.

“Not yet,” Lani
interrupts, digging me with her elbow. “We’re road-testing them to gauge
customer reaction. What do you think?”

The woman looks
us up and down. I have no idea if she’s annoyed that we’re taking the piss out
of cancer or if she finds it funny.

“It’s rather irreverent,
but that’s the point, isn’t it?” She flashes the most gorgeous smile I think
I’ve ever seen. Her bright blue eyes come alive.

“Definitely,”
Lani agrees.

“And if you
can’t laugh in the face of adversity like that, what hope have you got? My only
problem would be not having the breasts to fill such a gem out.” She points to
her lack of cleavage. “I used to have such great tits.”

“You’re a Breast
Cancer sufferer?” I ask.

“The lack of
hair and gaunt expression usually gives it away, if the stylish handbag doesn’t.”
She holds up the bag I recognise as a drain bag. At least I’m not the only
person who thinks they’re hideous.

“Mine was such
a pain in the bum,” I say. “I was always forgetting to pick the stupid thing up
and walking off without it.”

She begins to
laugh. “I know. It’s a wonder I haven’t left bodily fluids all over Perth. You’re
a survivor, too?”

“I think you’d
say I’m in the reconstruction phase. Which, for me, has been worse than the
cancer itself.”

We chat for a while
longer, and the woman, Jessica, tells me how she’s been battling this disease
for twelve years and that this is her second bout of Breast Cancer. She
describes the way her life has changed since her diagnosis
—
how her business almost collapsed because she took
so much sick leave, the infections in her wound site that recur month after
month, the botched reconstruction that left her with one breast under her chin
at the other at her navel. And the effects on her family were enormous too. The
stress and financial burden almost turned her husband into an alcoholic and her
children became clingy and needy because of the constant reminders she might
die. How does she keep on smiling and joking? My own journey’s been far
smoother than hers and even I have a moan now and again.

“Gosh, you poor thing.”

“Hey, I’m not dead, so that’s a bonus.
I still have a loving husband and two beautiful
children. When I get a bit whiny and annoyed with the world, I remind myself of
that.”

“I tell myself
that, too. I mean, there’s a heap of things worse than having no boobs, isn’t
there? So many people are worse off than me. At least I have a family and
friends and a roof over my head.”

Jessica writes
her number on a piece of paper and hands it to Lani. “If you do decide to get
more of those shirts, can you give me a call? I have a whole network of women
friends who’d love to tell cancer to ‘fuck off.’” She exits the shop with a
wave and a promise to return.

“Well,” Lani
says, as the doorbell tinkles with the closing of the door. “She was a bit of
an inspiration, wasn’t she? All that positivity. Kicking cancer in the guts.”

“I wouldn’t
call her inspirational,” I reply. “She’s just a woman getting on with it.
There’s nothing brave or inspirational about it when you have no choice. It’s
either do it or die.”

“You’re so
blunt sometimes.”

Lani may think
that but it’s true. People with cancer get called brave and inspirational all
the time. But I’m neither. It’s not like I chose to get cancer; it chose me. If
it had been a choice and I’d still managed to save the world, that would be an
inspiration.