Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale by Lindy Dale

there. "See?"
    I stare in
horror at the reflection before me in the mirror. I think I might cry. Seriously,
do women view this as acceptable post-mastectomy underwear? Because I don't and
I will not be wearing it. I’d rather look as lopsided as a three-legged dog. More
to the point I won't be paying for it either, if there's a charge. I swallow
and turn back to Bev. I can’t hurt her feelings. It’s not her fault. She didn’t
design the bra. Mother Teresa did.
    "Yes.
Lovely," I reply. I take the bra off and put it back in the bag hoping it
might magically turn into something pretty by the next time I see it.
    "So,
I'll see you tomorrow after your surgery," Bev says, heading for the door.
“Is there anything you need?"
    "No
thanks. I'm fine."
    Unless you
can give me my boob back without the cancer.
    "Great.
Well, ring the bell if you do."
    And she
leaves me alone. As alone as I can be with that woman in the next bed muttering
to her imaginary friends.

 
 
 
 
    Chapter 9

 
    One journey
along a narrow corridor and up a few floors and I’m lying on a narrow
examination table in a cubicle in the Nuclear Medicine Department. The room is
quiet and darkened. Neat rows of holes punctuate the pre-fab ceiling like so
many other ceilings I’ve seen lately. The curtain to the cubicle moves back and
forth in the faint breeze created as someone walks by in the hallway. It
doesn’t seem real. People with cancer look sickly and pale. They are gaunt from
weight loss and have a greyish pallor to their skin. I am none of these things.
I am simply Sophie and I want this to be over.
    Brendan is
sitting in a chair on the opposite wall, sipping the cup of tea provided by the
nurse while we wait. He’s silent in his support, deep in contemplation I guess,
as he checks his emails on his phone and plays solitaire. I don’t mind that
he’s silent. Being with me is enough.
    The curtain
swings back and a friendly looking doctor, who vaguely resembles the way Santa
would look after a few shots of whisky, enters the room, belly first. He
introduces himself with a handshake and a smile and begins to tell me what’s
going to happen.
    "The
procedure is relatively simple," he says. "We inject radioactive dye
into the tumour and then after twenty minutes or so we pop you under the
machine and see where the dye has gone. It locates the sentinel lymph node
which will be removed during surgery.”
    “What for?” I
know my voice sounds panicky and bordering on a slight case of mania but why
are they removing my lymph nodes? Is the cancer worse than the initial
diagnosis?
    “We test the
nodes to make sure the cancer hasn’t spread any further. If that node is clear,
the others will be too.”
    “So the cancer
hasn’t spread? There’s nothing I’m not being informed of?”
    “This is
precautionary. It’s our way of determining where the cancer is. It doesn’t mean
it’s spread.”
    “But what if
it has?” I ask again, sounding a hint more crazed than before.
    God, what is
wrong with me? This morning I was fine; I was taking this in my stride, being
calm, getting it over with. Now I’m becoming one of those women. I want to be
strong Sophie, the one who makes jokes about cancer. If I keep this up I’ll be
ordering spinach smoothies with a side of chia seeds and giving up caffeine
before I get home. I give myself an internal slap and try to concentrate on
what he’s telling me.
    “If the
cancer has begun to spread your surgeon will remove the affected nodes at the
time of surgery and instead of one drain, you’ll wake up with two. She’ll
discuss the next steps with you after you wake up.”
    I nod slowly
as I attempt to take everything in but I feel like I’m back in that weightless
place again.
    The doctor
holds up a needle and prepares to inject my breast with green liquid. The
needle is small. Seriously, it’s so small, a bee sting would probably be
sharper but as his hand approaches my boob, my body goes into flashback