Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  “Would you like to reschedule?” the receptionist suggests, kindly. For some reason, or maybe because Brendan and I are the only fools left in the place, she’s decided to act like a human. I, on the other hand, am beginning to behave like a banshee.

  “Do I look like I want to reschedule?” I glare at her.

  “Um, no.”

  “I’ve waited this long and I’m not leaving till I see the doctor.”

  “Okay.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page.” I give a loud huff and plonk back into the comfort of my vinyl-clad chair.

  Then I hear the sound of a car. I look out the window and see Dr. Jackson, keys and bag in hand, flicking the automatic lock on her Audi. She wanders towards the back of the building, taking in the new additions to her empire like she’s browsing in a gift shop. I want to scream ‘hurry up’ but Brendan has put his hand on my knee. He knows what’s going on inside my head and is silently soothing me with his hand.

  “Won’t be long now,” he whispers.

  Another twenty minutes pass before the receptionist summons me. “Doctor will see you now.”

  And as I walk down the hall to my fate, I can’t help but wonder what exactly Dr. Jackson has been doing, because if I go in there and smell freshly squirted perfume or see freshly applied lipstick, we won’t have to worry about cancer. I’ll be in jail for murder.

  *****

  “So, what can I do for you today?”

  I stare at the doctor with what, I’m positive, must be an incredulous look on my face. In my lap Brendan’s hand is giving mine another squeeze. I breathe.

  “You asked to see me? About the results of my tests?”

  Dr. Jackson pulls up my file. She clicks a few things, opens them up and scans. “Gosh, it’s been a busy morning,” she says, by way of conversation.

  Like I care.

  She swivels on her chair. “So,” she says again. For a woman of her intelligence you’d think she’d be able to come up with another way to begin a sentence. “The ultrasound shows the possibility of a tumour but we’ll book you in for a biopsy to confirm it.”

  What? Has she been self-medicating?

  “I’ve already had a biopsy. I had it last week. The doctor didn’t give me enough anaesthetic and I could feel every minute of it.” I burst into tears, unsure if it’s the painfulness of the memory or because the doctor clearly has no idea what’s going on.

  She clicks another file. Her face is somewhat contrite.

  “Oh.” She leans closer to the computer, studying the report she’s found. She straightens and is silent for a second.

  “So the tests confirm Breast Cancer. I’m really sorry.” She stares at me like she’s waiting for a reaction but I think I’m out of reactions. I’ve used them up in the past week.

  In my lap, I feel Brendan’s hand, against mine. I know he’s giving it a sympathetic squeeze but I don’t feel a thing. It’s like my body is stuck inside a glass bubble and the world is on the outside.

  “The tumour is invasive but it’s in the early stages so that’s good,” the doctor continues.

  In my mind I’m thinking I should be crying, isn’t that what people do when they get bad news? Shouldn’t I feel something? But I don’t. It’s like I left my feelings in the waiting room. Instead, I do what I always do. I go full steam ahead into organisational mode.

  “So what happens now?”

  “I’ll refer you to a breast surgeon. Do you have any preferences?”

  “Sorry, I left the list of cancer professionals I carry, in case of emergency, at home.”

  She frowns at me. Maybe sarcasm isn’t her thing.

  I try the blunt approach. “I don’t have a preference. I’ve never had cancer before. I want the best. I have private health insurance.”

  “Splendid. I’ll refer you to Dr. Downer then. She’s highly regarded. She can discuss your options with you.”

  I look at her. It’s like I’m underwater and though I know I should understand, I have no idea what she’s talking about because the words are swirling around in front of me.

  “Options? But it’s not bad. You said ‘early stages’, didn’t you?”

  “I did. But the breast surgeon will discuss that with you.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “When you make the appointment.”

  If she’s deliberately being obtuse and trying to rile me up, it’s working. All of a sudden, I feel quite tingly round the tear duct area. I look to Brendan, who is supposed to be supporting me, but he looks more stunned than I feel. Seriously, what’s the use of having him around if he’s not going to join the conversation? He’d better be taking mental notes, because I have no idea what’s going on.

  At last, the doctor does something sensible. Her face softens and she begins to see that this is not an everyday occurrence. It’s not like I’m pregnant or anything. I’m not in shock for a good reason.

  “Would you like me to ring through for you? Tee up an appointment?”

  I nod. “Please.”

  And so it’s set.

  *****

  On the way home — I can’t face the shop now — Brendan is very quiet. His normally olive skin has taken on an ashen sort of pallor and he’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s frightened it might detach itself from the car and roll off down the street. Then, he does something completely uncharacteristic. He pulls into Red Rooster and turns off the car. Surely he’s not thinking about chicken burgers at a time like this?

  “I’m starving. Do you want something?”

  He is.

  “No. Yes. Oh, whatever. I have to ring Lani. Tell her to look after things for a few days.” I can’t make decisions about burgers.

  Brendan gets out of the car and heads into the shop. He really is buying lunch. I thought, for some strange reason, he was trying to make a joke. We both know he hates fast food. Then again, he could be doing an ostrich. You know, sticking his head in the sand? Hoping the lump in my breast will magically be gone when he comes back with his chips and Fanta.

  I open my bag and pull out my phone, dialling the shop.

  “Good afternoon, Heather’s Hats and Bags. Lani speaking.” Lani sounds cheery and it gives me a bit of a boost.

  “Lan. It’s me.”

  “Soph. How’d it go?”

  “I have…” My voice cracks and I gulp, trying to form the words. Words that suddenly seem so inadequate in describing the emotions rushing through me. “I have Breast Cancer.”

  Silence. Then, “Shit.”

  “Double shit, actually. Look, I’m not coming in for a couple of days. I need to get my head around this. I need to figure out how to tell Rory and Mum and well, everyone. Plus, I’ve got to see the specialist and find out what happens now.” The words are muffled. I can hardly talk but I’m keeping it together. Now, I understand about people being on autopilot when tragedy strikes. That’s me.

  “Oh Soph, I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t suppose there’s much else she can say. I mean, what do you say in a situation like this without sounding patronising or fake?

  “Don’t worry about the shop,” she continues. “I’ll look after everything. And Carly will be in tomorrow for her usual Saturday shift. We’ll sort it. Do you want me to tell her?”

  I pause for a moment. “If you don’t mind.”

  “My pleasure. Shit. I didn’t mean it like that. I have such verbal dementia sometimes. You know what I meant. Oh shit. I’m sorry, Soph.”

  “Yeah. I know. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.”

  “Sure. Hugs.” She hangs up the phone.

  I sit staring out the window at the railing flanking walkway of the shop. The surface looks fine but the white paint has begun to bubble. A bit like me. I look fine on the surface. Hell. I feel fine, exactly the same, not sick at all. So how can I have cancer? Shouldn’t I look ill or feel ill or something?

  Then I see Brendan. He’s emerged from Red Rooster with a carrier bag stuffed w
ith food in one hand and two of the biggest drinks they serve in the other. The door is swinging closed behind him and he stops to check his purchases. Clearly, at a time like this, comfort eating is what’s going to get us both through. He looks up and sees me. His face turns an even deathlier shade of white. He’s staring at me as if I’m already dead and tears are pouring down his face.

  *****

  It’s now one o’clock, Friday afternoon. Brendan and I have finished our chicken — well, he’s finished his. I don’t have much of an appetite so I feed mine to Grover, our dog — much to Brendan’s disgust and Grover’s delight. Now we’re sitting staring at the TV under the guise of watching the news. Neither of us has said a word for the past twenty minutes, not even when Grover stuck his head inside the takeaway bag and began to lick the remains of the mayonnaise from the burger cartons. It’s okay, I guess. We’re both trying to digest.

  Then, as if he’s hit on a cure, Brendan leaps from his end of the couch. I haven’t seen him this excited since he won third division in lotto. Which turned out to only be worth forty-seven dollars.

  “That TV’s a heap of shit. Let’s go shopping.”

  At a time like this? I can hardly remember what day it is, let alone have the presence of mind to be able to barter on the price of electrical goods. And Brendan will never buy anything unless bargaining is involved. I think he inherited some sort of flea market gene.

  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, th
en. 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.