The Bus on Thursday Read online

  And then we get on to the nightmares I’ve been having and how the tamoxifen may or may not be causing them, and he says, “Well, what are the nightmares about?” And I say, “What do you think they’re about? They’re about the cancer coming back, of course.” And he says, “That sounds like anxiety to me, Eleanor. How about you check in with the counselor or go back to the support group?” And I’m like, “Are you kidding me? After last time?” And then his phone beeps with obviously some kind of prearranged cue from his secretary and he glances at it and makes an apologetic face, and I realize he’s trying to think how he can wind things up with me so he can see his next patient, on account of the fact that as always he is double-booked. So I say, “Are we finished?” in a kind of offended voice. And he says, “Unless there’s anything else you need to ask me?” So I say, “Well, when do I see you again?” And I realize that I sound extremely needy, and not appealingly patient-in-distress needy but actual bunny-boiling psycho-stalker Play Misty for Me needy. So he says, “Come and see me in six months. Book an appointment with Liz on your way out.” And here he puts his hand on the small of my back, because (I realize now) what he is actually doing is ushering me to the door. But I’m absolutely gutted that I don’t get to see him for six months, and I’m interpreting his hand on my back as him subconsciously conveying that he’s gutted also. So I say, “Am I still your favorite patient?” trying to sound jokey but actually sounding desperate and pathetic. And by now he has his other hand on the door handle. And he smiles at me and says, “Always,” and as he’s opening the door, I lunge in to kiss him. That’s right, I lunge. For the lips. And he deftly moves his head just in the nick of time so I kind of connect with his jaw, but not before everyone in the waiting room has witnessed the entire thought-provoking spectacle. Of me lunging at Doc. And him ducking to avoid it. So I bolted.

  Started crying in the lift, which was chock-full of interested bystanders. Realize amid my tears that because I am coming from Oncology, everyone assumes that I’ve just been given six weeks to live, because they keep throwing me compassionate glances. One nice lady surreptitiously opens her handbag and passes me one of those mini-packs of tissues, which I accept, feeling fraudulent. Little does she know that I am crying because I just lunged at a balding, paunchy fifty-seven-year-old who feels sorry for me at best and rebuffed me. Continued crying all the way home. Went straight to my room and cried for another four or five hours. Refused dinner, then got up later after Mum had gone to bed and ate an entire packet of chocolate biscuits from Aldi.

  Lesson to be drawn from this: no more lunging.

  On the bright side, he did say, “Always.”

  Why blog? Good question!

  To which I can only respond: Well, it is better than scrapbooking. These were two of the suggestions offered at the breast cancer support group I went to once and one time only. Those poor buggers whose cancer has metastasized got nudged toward the scrapbooking table. If they are nudging you toward the scrapbooking table, then it is basically code for “You will die soon, so quick! Throw some photos in an album as a keepsake for your loved ones. Make sure you are smiling in these photos and have lots of hair. Decorate with butterfly stickers and inspirational quotes about dancing like nobody’s watching, etc.”

  What is wrong with me? Where does this horrible snarky voice come from? I have actually met women in exactly this predicament, desperately trying to stay well enough in their few remaining months to put a scrapbook together so their young children won’t forget them, hoping that they’ll flick through it from time to time in years to come and be reminded how much their mother loved them and how horrible it was for her to die and leave them so young, and here I am being a fucking glib fucking smart-arse about it.

  The worst thing—the thing that scares me most about this voice that jumps out whenever I attempt to blog anything about this experience—is that this smart-arse funny-angry shit is exactly how everyone’s breast cancer blogs start. Before it starts getting worse and the news is bad and the latest scan shows a lesion on the liver and the posts get fewer and fewer till finally some friend or husband or mother gets on and lets us know that Amy or Genevieve or Susie finally lost her brave battle, passed away quietly, another angel in heaven, another star in the night sky. But they all start off with the funny-angry voice, and it’s exactly what mine sounds like right now, and that scares the shit out of me.

  One thing for certain—I am definitely keeping this private. There is no way I am uploading any of this to the internet. Why the fuck anyone would go public with this shit is beyond me.

  Still no job. Even though there is apparently a chronic shortage of teachers and a crisis in education, to judge from the news reports. I am beginning to think about retail or even, God forbid, hospitality.

  Here’s why I never went back to my breast cancer support group.

  First, let me just say up front, I am not at my best in a group-type situation. Generally speaking, I am the surly one in the corner, snarling if anyone tries to pat me. My problem apparently (according to Sally) is that I act like I’m better than everyone else, which I am not, so I give off hostile vibes. Truth be told, I was just really profoundly pissed off at finding myself there, and who wouldn’t be? Slumped on a beanbag surrounded by fifteen middle-aged women smiling bravely through their tears. Another thing, there was just way too much laughter and hugging, like cancer gives you license to be zany. Seriously, it was painful.

  The theme of the evening was “My Cancer Journey,” and that alone should have given me pause since all journeys have a destination, cancer journeys in particular, and it’s not a destination anyone had any intention of talking about. Instead, we were each invited to bring an item of some description to express something “meaningful” about our experience so far. Here’s what some of the others brought: a beautiful card from husband, expressing his love for her; a hideous wig to be donated to third-world cancer charity as hair now growing back; scan results showing all clear; a photo of three children hugging (bald) Mummy.

  Here’s what I brought: a docket from the David Jones lingerie department, where that same afternoon I had been refused a refund on two underwire bras purchased some eighteen months earlier.

  “Have you worn these?” asked the sales girl, fingering the bras doubtfully.

  “Yes, I have, repeatedly,” I said. “They gave me cancer. See? No hair.”

  Here I pointed helpfully to my headscarf.

  “Well, if you’ve worn them, we can’t give you a refund.” She didn’t give a shit about the headscarf.

  Unpleasantness ensued. To be honest, I pretty much lost it. There was shouting (me), also tears (me). The point I was trying to make was that if DJ’s insisted on peddling known carcinogens for profit, then the very least they could do by way of compensation was give me a fucking refund so I could buy myself the pair of caramel suede ankle boots I fancied over in Footwear. A measly $139.98, that’s all I wanted. Was that going to break the bank? Or would they prefer I go to Slater and Gordon and rustle up a class action, because believe me, I would be more than happy to get cracking. Anyway, long story short, I was asked to leave by security, and on the way out I sent a rack of nighties flying down the aisle, narrowly missing an elderly customer. They let that one go, they were so happy to see me out of there.

  So as I said, this incident had happened that same afternoon, and I was still feeling a little shaken up about it. I mean, I knew I’d behaved badly, and the whole underwire bra link to breast cancer is tenuous at best, and basically this had all arisen out of me being too broke to afford the boots I coveted. But still, I thought, you know what? The fact remains that I did get breast cancer, and something most certainly gave it to me, so why not the lingerie department of a large department store? And on my way to the support group, realizing I had forgotten to bring along anything “meaningful” about my cancer “journey,” I thought, well, maybe I could share the experience with the group, because at the very least everyone would likely
sympathize with me, and possibly I could even get to the point of having a laugh about it.

  Ha.

  They came down totally on the side of David Jones. They all thought I was nuts too.

  “Underwire bras do not give you cancer.” This from the counselor, of all people.

  “I’m not saying they give you cancer in general,” says me. “They don’t give you bladder cancer or testicular cancer. But I’m talking specifically about breast cancer.”

  Shouted down by the entire group, all apparently armed with latest research.

  “And also, I’m sorry, but having cancer is not an excuse to be rude to shop assistants,” said Fright Wig for Africa, a shop assistant in her former life. Wife of Loving Husband Who Finally Penned Nice Card After Twenty-Five Years of Marriage was appalled, hygiene-wise, that I had tried to return used underwear, except instead of saying “used underwear” she kept saying “soiled underwear,” and I kept having to reiterate that both bras were perfectly clean as I’d gone to the trouble of washing them. Someone else couldn’t understand why I didn’t simply put the boots on lay-by. Others felt that although it was legit to play the cancer card in returning unwanted merchandise, in this instance I had overplayed the cancer card and thus made it harder for everyone else to score concessions from major department stores by deploying their bald heads.

  Blah blah blah blah.

  When they’d finally finished, I said, “You know what? I’m actually sorry I mentioned it.” And then I said, “Are you sure this is a support group? Because I don’t feel like I’m getting a lot of support here.”

  “Eleanor, I feel you need to give yourself permission to acknowledge you may have some unresolved anger issues,” said the counselor.

  “You know what? I’m giving myself permission to get the fuck out of here,” I said. And that was the last time I went to the breast cancer support group.

  So I went on a date. The first proper date since I broke up with Josh and got cancer.

  Sally set it up—it was a guy from her work. She’s been getting impatient with what she calls my whole “Oh poor me, I had cancer” thing. She’s like, “Yes, but you’re better now and your hair has grown back, so can we talk about something else for a change?” This is pretty typical of Sally; she is very no-nonsense and calls a spade a spade—i.e. she is totally lacking in empathy. Also, she believes I have created a shrine for Lost Love—i.e. Josh—and I am going to end up like Miss Havisham if I don’t kick the shrine over and get on with life (her words).

  Anyway, she’s been telling me about this guy at work called Harry, who is long-term single and no one can understand why because he is the greatest guy ever and also, btw, drives a Lexus. The other small detail about Harry which she finally got around to mentioning is that he has a cleft palate. Well, he’s had the surgery, but you can tell there’s been some work there. So I guess Sally’s reasoning was this: guy with funny lip plus girl with funny boob equals Romance.

  And in fact, I actually thought Harry was kind of cute. He’s one of those guys who thinks, Okay, well, I’m a bit on the fugly side, so let’s make up for it with lots of personality and a great sense of humor. Because he was fucking hilarious! Also, he had a really nice body. Anyway, we met at the Coogee Bay for a drink, except I’m not really drinking these days, so I just had one glass of wine and he meanwhile got pretty hammered because he was nervous, which was kind of endearing. I myself was extremely nervous—I’d been stressing about it all week. I spent the entire day giving myself beauty treatments, and actually had to wash my hair twice because I totally stuffed up my first attempt with the curling tongs and basically frazzled all the ends. Also, Mum bought me a new dress from Iconic, which was sweet of her—it was on sale so only $59, and I have to admit I looked pretty damn sexy in it.

  Anyway, so Harry and I get on like a house on fire, and seriously he made me laugh more than anyone I’ve met in a long time, and that was nice because there hasn’t been a whole lot of laughs in the last year or so. And although I’d agreed under duress to go on a date with him, I didn’t seriously ever contemplate that I would end up in bed with him or anything. Because I’m so totally not ready for that yet. I mean, I still don’t have a nipple. But anyway, we actually started kissing, tongues and everything, while we’re still at the pub, and then he says, “Do you want to come back to mine?” And I really, really like the guy so I say, “Well, okay…”

  So we get back to his apartment in Bronte, and he makes me a cup of chamomile tea and then we start seriously getting it on, right there on the sofa. And we’re pulling each other’s clothes off and all the while I’m thinking, Does he know about the fake boob? Because he seemed to know I’d had cancer, but I wasn’t sure how much detail Sally had gone into on the subject. So we’re making out and he’s having a good old grope and I’m thinking, Well, maybe he knows and he’s fine about it, because he sure seems pretty enthusiastic. I mean, he was all over the fake boob along with the real boob, and so far, so good, like he hadn’t recoiled with horror or anything. And by now I’ve got my top off and he’s undoing my bra and then the next thing he puts his head down between my tits and then he freezes. Like he literally freezes. And he says, “What the fuck’s going on there?”

  That’s right: “What the fuck’s going on there?”

  Those were his exact words.

  And I say, “Oh, sorry, I thought you knew, that’s my fake boob, it doesn’t have a nipple yet. Sorry, I should have warned you.” I actually apologize (twice!), can you believe that???? The reality is, in spite of the apologizing, I was actually feeling really fucking angry. Because in all honesty, this guy was a very, very ordinary kisser. It was all just way too wet and slobbery, possibly because of the cleft palate thing, possibly not, but my point is I didn’t think to complain about it. I was absolutely prepared to put up with it, to make allowances, because I thought he was such a great guy. But obviously he was not prepared to make allowances for me. Because he went off the boil immediately, by which I mean that he sat right back on the couch and said, “Whoa. Whoa,” like I’d turned into a rattlesnake. So I immediately put my bra back on and, in my desperation, start undoing his pants and fishing my hand down there, but he pulls me off and says, “Oh, I’ve had too much to drink, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get it up.”

  Really, it doesn’t get much more humiliating than that.

  So I got dressed and hotfooted it out of there. He basically hid in the bathroom till I’d gone.

  Anyway, next day I text Sally: Thanks a lot. Completely fucking humiliated by Harry the Harelip. And she obviously gets the lowdown from him the minute she gets in to work because she rings me up mid-morning and says, “Harry is really sorry—he was just totally thrown by the no-nipple thing. Also the scar. Like, he’s super apologetic and he says he thinks you’re fantastic, but maybe because he’s had so much surgery himself, that sort of thing just freaks him out.” And then she has a go at me for not getting the nipple done, and hence bringing this whole thing upon myself. And then she tells me off for calling him Harry the Harelip, which she said was offensive.

  I hung up on her.

  Firstly, I am really, really upset that she is discussing me, her supposed best friend, in such intimate detail with this insensitive fucking prick. Probably over the coffee machine in the kitchen, with anyone else who wants to join in and trade horror stories about unpleasant surprises in the bedroom. Second of all, I am furious at her for setting me up with this dick in the first place. How extensively did she actually vet this creep before throwing me, her supposed best friend, at his mercy? And lastly, how fucking dare she have a go at me about my nipple?!

  So the deal with the nipple is I have to have it tattooed on, and then they do this needlework to pucker the skin up and make it look sort-of-kind-of-not-really like a nipple at all. I mean, would any sane person think that sounded like a happy solution? And yes, I will get it done eventually because I have no better option, but let’s face it, would the ne
edlework nipple have passed muster with oversensitive Harry and his delicate sensibilities? I absolutely doubt it because Harry, like all guys, expects perfection.

  I’m so angry with Sally, I’m just going to cut her off for a while. This whole thing has set me back emotionally six months just when I was starting to feel strong again. Not to mention confirmed all my fears about dating.

  I keep having these twinges. In the right breast, near the armpit, around where the lump used to be. Just these strange, sharp little twinges that send a kind of shudder right up my neck and around the back of my skull. I don’t like it. I keep thinking, What’s that? Is that the cancer spreading?

  Can you feel cancer spreading?

  And a few days ago in the shower, in the other armpit, I felt a tiny lump on one of the glands or tendons or whatever the hell those cordy things are. (Lymph node? Could that be a palpable lymph node? Palpable’s bad, that much I know.) But weirdly I haven’t felt anything there since, even though I spend a lot of time in front of the bathroom mirror, prodding and poking and trying to find it. And yet I know I definitely felt something, quite distinctly. So where’s it gone? And what’s that all about?

  * * *

  Here’s a tip: Never google what does breast cancer metastasis feel like. Turns out it feels like just about anything! Here are some metastasis symptoms I’ve experienced in the past three days: feeling tired, feeling under the weather, cold- or flu-like symptoms, headache, feeling like you’ve pulled a muscle, tingling sensation in arms, blah blah blah blah blah.

  Clearly I am riddled with the fucker.