nipple to access the tumour he spent an afternoon removing. They were the ones who forced themselves into time-occupying shopping missions (flowers, cards, a new charm for my bracelet, a lavender pillow to help me sleep) while my breast was replaced with a deflated, tissue-expanding temporary implant. And they were the ones who waited anxiously at the hospital, jumping at every noise, as my scheduled six-hour surgery sailed past the eight-hour mark. Sometimes, I guess, it’s better to be the one in the shit than the one worrying about whoever’s covered in it.
I don’t remember a lot about the next few days in hospital, which is either to do with the on-tap morphine or the fact that it was so mind-numbingly boring – BBC Glastonbury coverage aside – that my brain immediately erased the lot, but what I do recall are the looks on the faces of my visitors as they sheepishly peered around my hospital door. It became clear that Jamie’s teasing tactics weren’t going to be everyone’s style, and I could see that I was going to have to become skilled in figuring out within fifteen seconds of a visit how other people would want to play it. One friend immediately burst into tears, so I comforted her as best I could. Another’s face drained of colour, so I offered him some of my many chocolates. Another was a terrifyingly animated version of her usual chirpy self. One mate’s opening line was, ‘Crikey, your hair looks good.’ Another’s was, ‘All right, sicknote.’ And another threw a packet of Monster Munch at me as he walked into the room.
Lovely as it was to be so inundated with well-wishers, it was my first taste of feeling like a museum exhibit; a freak-show to be viewed in single-file. (Roll up, roll up, for the one-breasted woman!) But rather than play the part of the ill person or feel conscious about my new, wonky-looking chest, I gave the people what they wanted, patting my non-tit whenever it was mentioned, waving around the drainage bottles that were collecting the excess blood from my wounds, and cracking as many cancer jokes as I could (the aforementioned ‘whizzed off my tit’ became my personal favourite ). It made me feel better. It made them feel better. And it was the best weapon I had in my cancer-beating arsenal.
During one visit, though, the jolly stuff didn’t come quite so easily. It was the afternoon after my surgery when Smiley Surgeon first came to see me, and it was Mum’s turn to be on keeping-me-company duty. In walked my hero, all beaming pleasantries and ear-wide smile, demonstrably pleased with his work.
‘You look really well,’ he said cheerily as he greeted me and Mum.
‘Ha, cheers,’ I blushed as Mum moved to stand beside my bed, offering him a captive audience for whatever it was he was about to say.
‘So the operation went well,’ he continued as we nodded along like two plastic dogs in a rear windscreen. ‘However, the sentinel node biopsy showed a spread to your lymph nodes, so I removed them immediately,’ he revealed.
I gulped, shooting a sideways glance at Mum, who was equally stumped for words. I wasn’t shocked, necessarily. Hell, I was maxed out on shock – I reckon if he’d revealed that a blind work-experience volunteer had operated on me, I’d have stayed reasonably unruffled. Perhaps it was more disappointment. ‘So it
did
spread,’ I conceded calmly, though I’m not sure to whom.
‘It did, yes.’ He nodded. ‘But I’m very optimistic. Remember, it has all gone now; it has all been removed. And the chemotherapy will mop up any rogue cells that are too small to operate on.’
As was fast becoming the case during these bombshell moments, I stopped listening, leaving it to Mum to ask questions and talk prognosis and histology reports (thanks to working in a hospital, she’s down with that kind of language). While they talked, I tried to reason with the news in my mind. ‘Let’s look at the facts,’ I told myself. ‘First it was in my
I don’t remember a lot about the next few days in hospital, which is either to do with the on-tap morphine or the fact that it was so mind-numbingly boring – BBC Glastonbury coverage aside – that my brain immediately erased the lot, but what I do recall are the looks on the faces of my visitors as they sheepishly peered around my hospital door. It became clear that Jamie’s teasing tactics weren’t going to be everyone’s style, and I could see that I was going to have to become skilled in figuring out within fifteen seconds of a visit how other people would want to play it. One friend immediately burst into tears, so I comforted her as best I could. Another’s face drained of colour, so I offered him some of my many chocolates. Another was a terrifyingly animated version of her usual chirpy self. One mate’s opening line was, ‘Crikey, your hair looks good.’ Another’s was, ‘All right, sicknote.’ And another threw a packet of Monster Munch at me as he walked into the room.
Lovely as it was to be so inundated with well-wishers, it was my first taste of feeling like a museum exhibit; a freak-show to be viewed in single-file. (Roll up, roll up, for the one-breasted woman!) But rather than play the part of the ill person or feel conscious about my new, wonky-looking chest, I gave the people what they wanted, patting my non-tit whenever it was mentioned, waving around the drainage bottles that were collecting the excess blood from my wounds, and cracking as many cancer jokes as I could (the aforementioned ‘whizzed off my tit’ became my personal favourite ). It made me feel better. It made them feel better. And it was the best weapon I had in my cancer-beating arsenal.
During one visit, though, the jolly stuff didn’t come quite so easily. It was the afternoon after my surgery when Smiley Surgeon first came to see me, and it was Mum’s turn to be on keeping-me-company duty. In walked my hero, all beaming pleasantries and ear-wide smile, demonstrably pleased with his work.
‘You look really well,’ he said cheerily as he greeted me and Mum.
‘Ha, cheers,’ I blushed as Mum moved to stand beside my bed, offering him a captive audience for whatever it was he was about to say.
‘So the operation went well,’ he continued as we nodded along like two plastic dogs in a rear windscreen. ‘However, the sentinel node biopsy showed a spread to your lymph nodes, so I removed them immediately,’ he revealed.
I gulped, shooting a sideways glance at Mum, who was equally stumped for words. I wasn’t shocked, necessarily. Hell, I was maxed out on shock – I reckon if he’d revealed that a blind work-experience volunteer had operated on me, I’d have stayed reasonably unruffled. Perhaps it was more disappointment. ‘So it
did
spread,’ I conceded calmly, though I’m not sure to whom.
‘It did, yes.’ He nodded. ‘But I’m very optimistic. Remember, it has all gone now; it has all been removed. And the chemotherapy will mop up any rogue cells that are too small to operate on.’
As was fast becoming the case during these bombshell moments, I stopped listening, leaving it to Mum to ask questions and talk prognosis and histology reports (thanks to working in a hospital, she’s down with that kind of language). While they talked, I tried to reason with the news in my mind. ‘Let’s look at the facts,’ I told myself. ‘First it was in my
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