Storm in a B Cup Read online

  “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.”

  Brendan comes back to the sofa and picks up a second piece of paper from beside me. It has a heading entitled ‘Sophie’s Funeral’ and a page-long dot-pointed set of requests. His eyes scan the page and he shakes his head again.

  “I’m not playing Bon Jovi at your funeral, Soph.”

  “It’s my funeral. If I want you to play Have A Nice Day as they wheel my body away to be cremated, you’ll do it.”

  “But it’s a rock song.”

  “I know. I want people to be happy. That song makes me happy. Speaking of which, I want U2 as well. Walk On. And P!nk, Bad Influence while you do the photo montage.”

  “People will laugh.”

  “I want them to. People shouldn’t cry because I’m gone. They should have a wake where everyone stands around and remembers the funny things I did and then they get really pissed. I do not want crying and I definitely don’t want you to sprinkle my remains in some tacky rose garden somewhere.”

  “Where will I put you then?”

  “In an urn on the mantel. Then I can heckle you when you put the moves on a new woman.”

  He looks horrified.

  “Joke.”

  He takes another look at the list. “They can’t sew your boob back on after you die.”

  “Why? It’s no good to anybody but me. The surgeon’s going to sew me up anyway, so I don’t see the difference. It doesn’t have to be neat sewing. It just needs to be there so I’m complete and look nice in my death outfit.”

  “Maybe you should discuss that with the doctor next Thursday.”

  I snatch the piece of paper from him. “All right. I will. I might get a sensible answer from her.”

  “Hmm.”

  I put the list aside and glancing at my watch, I pick up the phone. I scrawl another item while I wait.

  Eyebrows.

  “Hello? Anna? This is Sophie Molloy. I was wondering if you could fit me in for a full body wax, mani-pedi and an eyebrow wax and tint before next Thursday?”

  Brendan’s mouth has hit the carpet. “You’re going to hospital, not the Oscars,” he hisses.

  “Shhh!” I hold my hand up and turn away so I can’t see him making faces at me. “One o’clock will be great. Thanks Anna. Yeah, see you then.” I hang up the phone and calmly scratch an item off the list.

  “Sophie.”

  The only thing I need now is luggage. I really need luggage.

  “Sophie!” Brendan snatches the remote from me and turns the TV off. I can see he’s getting annoyed, so I try to give him my attention.

  “Yes?”

  “How much have you spent? So far?”

  I do a quick tally. “Roughly eight hundred.”

  “You do understand that’s two plane tickets to Melbourne?”

  “Says the man who spent a small fortune on technology the other day.”

  He gives me the look.

  “I’m going to hospital. I need to look my best. People are going to see me naked.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’ve seen naked people before. They won’t care if your toes aren’t buffed.”

  “I know, but I will. If I’m going to be unconscious in an operating theatre with a bunch of people I don’t know, I won’t be giving them any excuse to talk about me, except to say how pretty my hair is.”

  My lip starts to wobble when I hear how incredibly shallow I sound and I collapse into Brendan’s arms. Sobbing.

  “It’s okay. I understand. You can’t control the cancer, so you’re trying to control everything else in your life. You don’t like not being in control.”

  “Are you saying I’m a control freak?”

  He pauses for a minute, knowing that his sex life hangs in the balance here. If he says the wrong thing, I could cut him off. For a very long time.

  “I’m saying you like to be organised and this has thrown you for a loop. You can’t orchestrate this part of your life. You have to let the professionals do their job.”

  I understand what he’s saying and he’s perfectly right. I am an organiser. But I like things to be a certain way. That’s me. I reach up and peck his cheek. I feel so much better now I know I’m not having some sort of pre-op breakdown.

  “Brendan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you don’t play Bon Jovi at my funeral, I’ll come back and haunt you while you’re having sex.”

  “That sounds kinky.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  Chapter 8

  It’s Thursday afternoon. I’ve been admitted to hospital. I don’t know whether I’m scared or nervous because I don’t feel anything but numb, as if I’m floating in a weightless capsule and everything is happening around me in muted tones. I’ve packed my bag and prepared for any eventuality I can possibly control, but I know this one is out of my hands. I have to trust my specialist team.

  It’s lunch when I arrive on the ward. The nurse shows me to my bed, whisks the pea green curtain around us like it’s the Cone of Silence and nobody will ever be able to hear what I’m in for. All the while the door to the room is wide open and the woman in the next bed probably has a glass up to the divider. The nurse takes my blood pressure. Then she asks me my weight and the first hurdle appears.

  I haven’t divulged my weight since I was sixteen. I do not talk about how much I weigh. If I go on a diet I tell how much I’ve lost but not what the starting figure was. I swallow and search my brain for a solution to this dilemma. I could lie. But if I lie I might wake up as the surgeon is cutting off my boob. I’ve read those horrifying stories of people waking mid-surgery. I dread becoming one of those statistics, so I swallow my pride and mumble, “Seventy-one kilos.”

  For a minute I’m glad the nurse is so bland because Brendan’s eyeballs have almost popped out of his head. I truly think he believed I weighed sixty kilos. But the nurse simply jots it down along with my bl
ood pressure, then puts wrist and ankle bands on me like she hears bigger weights than that every day of the week.

  I’m feeling a little more nervous now so I make a joke about not being able to escape with the wristband on and she looks at me like I have two heads. I know nurses are trained not to show emotion yet remain empathetic but seriously? She doesn’t even smile.

  “You’re due in Nuclear Medicine at two,” she says by way of reply. “An orderly will come to take you.”

  “In a wheelchair?” I ask, hoping to be spared the embarrassment of being scooted around the hospital when I’m not ill.

  “Standard procedure,” she replies. “We wouldn’t want you to escape.” There’s a hint of a smile, but only a hint. I smile back at her and she picks up my file and leaves.

  Brendan and I sit on the edge of the bed not speaking for a good while after that. Then I hear a knock on the wall and Bev, the Breast Care Nurse I met at my appointment the other day sweeps into the room. Under her arm, she’s carrying a large pink bag like the ones you get at the supermarket, so you don’t have to use plastic shopping bags.

  “Hello darling,” she says, like I’m her long lost sister. “I see you made it.”

  “Like I had a choice.”

  Bev puts the bag on the bed. She bustles around, not actually doing anything but telling me this and that, asking me how I’m feeling, trying to put me at ease. She gives me that special smile, the one I’m positive she practised in the mirror when she was doing her nurse training. “I come bearing gifts,” she says in a whisper. “What’s your bra size?”