Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (18 page)

“Have you asked
him about it?”

“How can I talk
to him? Every time I mention it, he gets this glazed look on his face and tells
me it’s time to get over it. He’s not over it, though. I think he’s getting
worse.”

“What about
counselling? The cancer people have lots of resources for families and loved
ones.”

If I weren’t bawling
my eyes out, I’d laugh.

“As if Brendan
would ever go to counselling. Talking about your feelings is a sign of weakness.
He’d never admit anything was wrong. He’d rather take it out on me.” My voice
is getting higher and higher and I know I’m starting to sound like a fishwife
but isn’t it time for him to move on, too? Why do I have to be the one to deal
with everything?

Lani is silent
for a minute. “You need to calm down and think this through logically. Firstly,
you’ve both had a big scare recently. Cancer alone would be enough to freak
anyone out. Secondly, you look different. It’s probably taking some getting
used to. It’s common for women to have body issues after a mastectomy and
there’s research to show it affects partners in a number of ways.”

“Have you been
Googling again?”

“I joined the Breast
Cancer Network. They have a forum for loved ones. Anyway what I’m saying is,
the women there say you have to give him time. One woman I spoke to said her
husband went completely off the rails, like he was having male menopause or
something. It lasted over a year. Give Brendan some space. He’ll come round.”

Male menopause?
I hope Brendan’s not suffering from that. One set of crazy hormones in the
house is enough. I let out an exasperated groan. “I guess so. Look, I have to
go now, but thanks for listening, hon. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“That’s what
friends are for,” Lani replies. “See you tomorrow.”

“And don’t
forget I have my appointment with the plastic surgeon at two, so I’ll be out
for the rest of the afternoon.”

“In the
calendar already.”

I hang up the
phone and sit for a minute. Gosh, I love Lani. Despite her silly outfits and
ditsy ways, she’s a stronghold in my life. I’d never cope without her.

Chapter 18

Well,
la de dah
, I think to myself as I enter
Dr. Hanson’s rooms for the first time.
 
This is a bit swanky.

I’ve never had
to press a button to enter an office before. I feel like I should have more
money or be wearing a classy pair of jeans and heels, not my Levis with the
faded knees and my favourite boots.

The waiting
room has leather armchairs with poufy cushions that coordinate with the obviously
expensive carpet. The walls and reception desk are chocolate timber-panelled and
in the thirty seconds since I’ve entered, one man has arrived with a fresh
flower delivery for the console and another with take away coffees for the
staff, including what looks to be homemade biscuits. Fancy having your
afternoon tea delivered every day. Fancy having the money to be able afford it.
Clearly, being a plastic surgeon is a lucrative business.

After
announcing myself to the receptionist, who by the way looks like she’s never
had a lick of cosmetic surgery, I find a chair opposite a corridor that leads
to a series of doors. I put my purse on the empty seat next to me. Brendan should
be here at any moment. He’s taking an hour or so off work this afternoon and
the plan is for him to meet me here so he can return to the office when we’re
done. I glance at my watch, not concerned that he’s a couple of minutes late. Everyone
knows attempting to find parking in the inner city is like expecting there’ll
be milk left in the fridge on the only morning you want to eat cereal.

Another few
minutes pass and I pick up a magazine from the coffee table and begin to sift
through the contents. As I’m reading my horoscope from 2011 in the
New Idea
and realising how totally wrong
they got it, a tall man in a pair of charcoal-coloured pants and a cream shirt
comes striding along the hall toward me. There’s a gorgeous looking woman with
him, who’s wearing the exact outfit a girl should be wearing in an
establishment like this. She’s tall and lean and quite beautiful.

“Thanks so
much, Jared,” she says throatily, placing her cheek in front of him to be
kissed. “You’re a doll.” She says the ‘doll’ slow and sultry-like, as if she’s
having sex with it, or the man next to her. Then, her hand grazing along his
forearm, she sashays from the office. Wow.

“Sophie
Molloy?” In front of me, the man in the charcoal pants has stopped at the edge
of the waiting room and glanced to the name on the file in his hand. When I don’t
respond
—
I’m too busy imagining
being a commanding presence in a room, like that woman
—
he looks at me expectantly. I guess I look more
like a Sophie Molloy than the two elderly people sitting next to me.

“Sophie?”

“Oh, yes,
sorry,” I say, putting put my magazine down and collecting my purse.

“I’m Jared
Hanson.”

I stand and
walk towards him. He holds out a large, smooth hand and I shake it. It feels
like he uses hand cream. Every day. Very nice hand cream.

I follow him
along the narrow hall towards his office. “Um, my partner is meant to be
meeting me here. He must be running late. Do you mind if I give him a quick
call?”

Dr. Hanson opens
the office door and offers me a chair beside his desk.
 
“Sure,” he says. “We can wait a minute
or so, if he’s almost here.”

He opens my
file, discreetly turning away from me so I can make the call. I locate
Brendan’s number in my recent calls and when there’s no answer, I send a quick
text. I can’t understand it. When we spoke about the appointment this morning
at breakfast, Brendan was set to come. He wanted to be here to support me. At
least that’s what he led me to believe.

“I don’t know
what’s happened,” I tell the doctor. It’s so unlike Brendan to bail on an
appointment. He has such high standards about punctuality and manners.

“We can
reschedule if you want your partner here. It’s no drama.”

I think about
the things that will need to be rearranged if I do that.

Nightmare.

Then I decide
if Brendan’s late or not showing for some reason it’s not my fault. For once
I’m making this about me. I’m tired of always doing what everyone else expects.
“No. It’s okay. I can fill him in at home.”

“And if he
arrives, Catherine will show him through.”

“Great.”

We begin the
consultation.

Dr. Hanson asks
me what’s been going on since the mastectomy, and why I needed a mastectomy in
the first place, given that the cancer was not as bad as first suspected. He
questions me generally about my health. He sits and listens as I blither on,
unloading my medical baggage on him. Baggage he doesn’t need to know, I’m sure.
Yet, somehow, I feel as if he wants to hear, as if he understands completely
the trauma I’ve suffered.

At last, we
begin to discuss reconstruction procedures and which, in his opinion, would be
best for me. He tells me how he’ll do a small breast lift on my remaining
breast so that it matches the new one he’s going to make. I sit, absorbing the
information as he shows me implants and photos of previous patients but it’s
not until he says the words ‘tummy tuck’ that my ears prick up with excitement.

“You mean you
can take fat from my stomach and make it into a boob?”

I’ve died and
gone to heaven. Not that my stomach is massive or anything but, since Rory was
born, it’s never bounced back to its former glory. No matter how many sit-ups I
do or how much wheat I don’t eat, I still have a bullnose veranda from the caesarean.
Which severely limits the choice of knickers, let me tell you.

“I think you’d
be a suitable candidate for a Tram Flap procedure.” Dr. Hanson nods. “Let me take
a few measurements and we’ll see what we can do.”

This is
unbelievable. A flat tummy
and
new perky
boobs? I’ll be able to model bikinis by the time he’s finished. Having cancer
isn’t all bad, it seems.

I strip off my
top and bra and stand semi-naked before a man I’ve never met before. Strangely,
I don’t feel self-conscious, not even when he cups my left breast in his hand and
gently lifts it. Okay, well maybe I’m a tad turned on. I mean, he’s incredibly
good looking. The mastectomy didn’t render me blind. Any woman would be turned
on by this. In an attempt to ignore the rising feeling of desire, I gaze over
his shoulder at the paintings on the wall, done by children. I contemplate what
to cook for dinner, without success. The only thing filling my mind is the
gentle way he’s touching me.

Dr. Hanson gets
out a measuring tape and measures the width of my breast, the distance from my
navel and how far my nipple is from the centre of my ribs.
 
He asks me to undo my jeans and he
assesses the amount of fat I have on my stomach to see if I’m suitable.

“I knew I’d
been storing that fat for a reason,” I say with a laugh. “It wasn’t there to
make me look bad in pants.”

He ignores the
comment and sits down in his big leather chair. Or at least, I think he does.
When I turn back, I notice he’s trying not to laugh.

Dr. Hanson
scribbles a few things while I finish dressing and then, after I join him, he
closes the file and swings towards me. It’s then I notice his eyes.
 
They’re large and green like the
deepest, clearest part of the Great Barrier Reef, the part where you can see
the bottom even though it’s tens of metres away. I want to dive into them. I want
to swim in my doctor’s eyes.

Gosh. This is
not good. I can’t develop some schoolgirl crush on my doctor. I can’t. It would
be very immature. I sneak another peak at him, while he’s bringing up photos of
other reconstructed breasts to show me. I note the way his dark lashes frame
his eyes and the chiselling along his cheek. I think it may be too late. From
the way my heart is pounding, the crush is well and truly established.

“So, Sophie,”
he says
—
though in his defence
he may have said heaps before that and I didn’t hear because I was so busy
ogling.

“Yes?”

Please say I
can have the tummy tuck. Please.

“What size
breasts would you like to have?”

This is like
shopping, except for body parts. Next, he’ll be whisking out a catalogue for me
to pick from.

“A bit smaller than
I have now, maybe? Can you do that?”

“I can. I can
build you a breast slightly smaller your current one and then later on we can
do a minor reduction and breast lift on the left breast so that it mirrors your
new one. Or we can model a new breast with an imlpant, then do a small
reduction on the other.”

“So I’ll have
two perfect boobs?”

He smiles
again. A dimple forms on the right side of his cheek. I try not to notice it
but it’s clearly too late. “That’s the aim.”

This is like a
dream. It’s easy to see how women become so addicted to cosmetic surgery.
 
I’m asking and he’s agreeing to
everything.

Dr. Hanson
makes a few more notes. Then he moves to the computer, where he opens his
calendar and we begin to discuss dates, fat transfer and follow up procedures to
complete the reconstruction.

“So what
happens now?” I ask him.

“I want to you
to have an MRI, to check out your blood vessels. In some cases, a Tram Flap is
not an option if the vessels are small.”

We spend a few
more minutes talking about costs and dates and amounts of time spent in
hospital and despite my discovery the bill is going to be close to eight
thousand dollars, I leave his rooms with a tentative date for surgery in two
months’ time and a grin so wide it could be mistaken for an off-ramp on the
Mitchell Freeway. The cancer phase is over. Now I’m into rebuilding. Bring on
the boobs.

*****

At precisely four-thirty,
I arrive home with Rory in tow after our trip to the supermarket. He’s
chattering away as I swing the car into the garage and switch off the engine.
He’s had a good day at school, been promoted into the highest group for
spelling and kicked three ‘goals’ during a lunchtime game of footy. He’s
animated as he tells me about the clay dragon he’s making in art class. I like
to see him happy. His little face was way too long when he thought I was going
to die.

But I know he’s
not entirely over it. Every now and then, he’ll run up to me and give me the
biggest cuddle, for no reason. Rory’s always been an affectionate child but he’s
never done things like that. The other night he snuggled himself into my lap
while we were watching TV, something he hasn’t done since he declared himself a
big boy at age four. It was nice to feel his little body next to mine again,
though he does weigh a deal more than he used to. My legs were asleep after ten
minutes.

 
I flip the boot open and Rory collects
his schoolbag and runs into the house, picking up a tennis ball and tossing it
to Grover on his way past. I collect the two bags of groceries and trail along
behind him, deftly avoiding Grover’s slobbery tongue as he deposits the ball at
my feet ready for another throw. It’s about this time of day that Brendan calls
or texts to let me know what time he’ll be home but, so far this afternoon, there’s
been no communication. I’ve tried to reach him numerous times since I left Dr.
Hanson’s rooms and sent a number of texts to which I’ve not got a reply so, frankly,
I’m getting a little worried. Brendan always replies to texts. I hope he hasn’t
had an accident or something.

As I round the
bench in the kitchen, I catch a strange sight out of the corner of my eye. The
sofa, coffee table and dining suite are gone. The painting above the mantel is
missing too and the large cowhide rug Brendan would not part with when we moved
in together is nowhere to be seen. My eyes take in the details around me, or
lack thereof. The missing items belong to Brendan, which is most puzzling. Why
would a burglar take only Brendan’s things? We couldn’t have been burgled. We
have an alarm and the security company would have called us if it were
triggered. I would have known.

A cold feeling
crawls over my skin as the realisation hits my Tamoxifen-fuddled brain and the
pieces begin to slot together. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I feel
the weight of the grocery bags dropping from my hands as they fall to the floor
at my feet. I feel the milk, where the carton has smashed, splashing over my
foot and I faintly register as the bag of oranges rolls through the milk and
across the timber floor towards the fridge. I can’t breathe. I cling to the
kitchen counter trying not to faint. Now, I know why Brendan didn’t appear for
the appointment today.

Rory looks up
at me questioningly. “Where’s our stuff, Mum?”

I can’t answer,
it’s taking every ounce of energy I have to stand upright. Brendan is gone.
Without a word. How could he do this?
Why
would he do this?

“Mum?” Beside
me, Rory is beginning to tear up. His lip is wobbling. He knows something bad
is happening but he has no clue what.