He’s like me. He likes to know where he stands. “Will your hair
fall out and grow back curly?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you
have to go to hospital?”
“Yes. But
Brendan will look after you and it won’t be for long. You can visit me every
day after school.”
Now he pouts.
Rory and I are rarely apart. Having lived alone together until Brendan came
along, we have strong mother-son bond. I think even Brendan gets jealous of it
sometimes.
“It’d probably be better if I don’t go
to school,” he says. “Then I can stay with you and hold your hand. You might
get lonely without me.”
“Nice try, buster.
But you’re going to school.”
“But not
when you have the operation.”
I concede
that much. “You can have one day off, then.”
He jumps
down from the couch, accepting of his fate. “Okay. Can we have ice cream now?”
I take him
into the kitchen and as I’m getting the ice cream from the fridge, he’s getting
two bowls from the drawer. He’s telling me about the spelling test he did this
morning. I can’t fathom that he’s processed this so quickly but he doesn’t
appear worried. Shouldn’t he be crying? I bite on my lip and push back a tear
myself. I have to be strong for him. I have to show him I can fight it. I can’t
die and leave my little boy alone. Nobody else knows exactly how to put the
topping on the ice cream the way he likes it. I scoop one heaped spoonful of
ice cream into his bowl and one into mine and as I’m reaching for the Ice
Magic, his hand takes mine. It’s warm and comforting and I know he loves me.
“Don’t
worry, Mum,” he says. “Everything
will be okay.”
And that’s
when I lose it for real.
Chapter 7
The next week,
I’m back at the shop. I’ve had my appointment with the specialist. Even after
she informed me that the lump is bigger than they first believed and I’ll have
to have a mastectomy and follow it up with chemotherapy, I manage to hold my
end up. I don’t collapse in a blubbering heap. I merely accept that it’s one of
those life things. You get on with it. And I have a lot to do between now and
when I go to hospital in a week. Everything has to run smoothly while I’m away
or I’ll have a breakdown. That would be worse than cancer.
As I walk in
the door, Lani greets me with a barrage of messages. Everyone right down to the
postman wants to know how my appointment went. It’s comforting to be surrounded
by such concern at a time like this. I haven’t had this much attention since I
broke my ankle doing my square dancing badge at Brownies when I was nine, not
that it’s the type of attention one craves. I’d rather be noticed for my
ability to cook up a storm or warble out a tune like Rihanna, but I can do
neither of those, so I’ll take these little slices of love and store them for
later.
“There’s a
message from Melinda, too.” Lani hands me a scrap of paper. “Call me dim but I
have no idea what she was on about.”
Having not
been able to reach my friend during the week, I ended up leaving her a voice
message, telling her about my diagnosis. I expected she’d be straight on the
phone after that, but this is the first I’ve heard of her. According to Angela,
people act weirdly when faced with the realisation that we’re mortal and will, therefore,
die. Personally, I don’t see it as an excuse.
I begin to
read.
My prayers go out to you and your family. You
are a strong woman and you’ll fight this beast head on. When my mother had BC the
doctor advised her to eat lots of carrots. The beta-carotene helps. Massage is
good after surgery.
I read the
message again.
Where’s the ‘Ohmigod’,
the ‘I’m on my way with wine’? Why isn’t she asking me if there’s anything she can
do? Who is this unfeeling troll?
“Are you sure you copied this down
correctly?” A further squint at the missive does not bring any changes to its
content.
Lani nods.
“I read it back to her because I
fall out and grow back curly?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you
have to go to hospital?”
“Yes. But
Brendan will look after you and it won’t be for long. You can visit me every
day after school.”
Now he pouts.
Rory and I are rarely apart. Having lived alone together until Brendan came
along, we have strong mother-son bond. I think even Brendan gets jealous of it
sometimes.
“It’d probably be better if I don’t go
to school,” he says. “Then I can stay with you and hold your hand. You might
get lonely without me.”
“Nice try, buster.
But you’re going to school.”
“But not
when you have the operation.”
I concede
that much. “You can have one day off, then.”
He jumps
down from the couch, accepting of his fate. “Okay. Can we have ice cream now?”
I take him
into the kitchen and as I’m getting the ice cream from the fridge, he’s getting
two bowls from the drawer. He’s telling me about the spelling test he did this
morning. I can’t fathom that he’s processed this so quickly but he doesn’t
appear worried. Shouldn’t he be crying? I bite on my lip and push back a tear
myself. I have to be strong for him. I have to show him I can fight it. I can’t
die and leave my little boy alone. Nobody else knows exactly how to put the
topping on the ice cream the way he likes it. I scoop one heaped spoonful of
ice cream into his bowl and one into mine and as I’m reaching for the Ice
Magic, his hand takes mine. It’s warm and comforting and I know he loves me.
“Don’t
worry, Mum,” he says. “Everything
will be okay.”
And that’s
when I lose it for real.
Chapter 7
The next week,
I’m back at the shop. I’ve had my appointment with the specialist. Even after
she informed me that the lump is bigger than they first believed and I’ll have
to have a mastectomy and follow it up with chemotherapy, I manage to hold my
end up. I don’t collapse in a blubbering heap. I merely accept that it’s one of
those life things. You get on with it. And I have a lot to do between now and
when I go to hospital in a week. Everything has to run smoothly while I’m away
or I’ll have a breakdown. That would be worse than cancer.
As I walk in
the door, Lani greets me with a barrage of messages. Everyone right down to the
postman wants to know how my appointment went. It’s comforting to be surrounded
by such concern at a time like this. I haven’t had this much attention since I
broke my ankle doing my square dancing badge at Brownies when I was nine, not
that it’s the type of attention one craves. I’d rather be noticed for my
ability to cook up a storm or warble out a tune like Rihanna, but I can do
neither of those, so I’ll take these little slices of love and store them for
later.
“There’s a
message from Melinda, too.” Lani hands me a scrap of paper. “Call me dim but I
have no idea what she was on about.”
Having not
been able to reach my friend during the week, I ended up leaving her a voice
message, telling her about my diagnosis. I expected she’d be straight on the
phone after that, but this is the first I’ve heard of her. According to Angela,
people act weirdly when faced with the realisation that we’re mortal and will, therefore,
die. Personally, I don’t see it as an excuse.
I begin to
read.
My prayers go out to you and your family. You
are a strong woman and you’ll fight this beast head on. When my mother had BC the
doctor advised her to eat lots of carrots. The beta-carotene helps. Massage is
good after surgery.
I read the
message again.
Where’s the ‘Ohmigod’,
the ‘I’m on my way with wine’? Why isn’t she asking me if there’s anything she can
do? Who is this unfeeling troll?
“Are you sure you copied this down
correctly?” A further squint at the missive does not bring any changes to its
content.
Lani nods.
“I read it back to her because I
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