A Tale of Two Titties

2005

6 April

I am your not-so-typical, forty-five-year-old bottle blonde. Married two-point-five times, one child, two miscarriages, and thirty years of hairdressing up my sleeve. What I haven’t heard over the past thirty years is not worth hearing. I’ve seen and done it all, from Farrah Fawcett-Majors to Diana Spencer to Victoria Beckham, and back—again—and again—and again.

I’ve snorted more bleach powder than your most dedicated coke addict, and probably eaten half my body weight in hair. I pride myself on the fact that I don’t take sick days. As an employer, I make Gordon Ramsay look like Cinderella.

Today, my usual routine will be interrupted. I am having a mammogram, and it’s bloody well inconvenient, but at least it will be over and done with until next time.

It is hot and busy and, like most hairdressers, I’ve learned to eat when I can, so I finish the last of the toasted sandwich I’d started earlier. Sarah, my apprentice, forks nachos into her mouth, chewing like there is no tomorrow. I still have a couple of minutes before the next client, so I gratefully gulp down the cappuccino she has handed to me.

Is that clean or alien? Sarah asks as I hold up a wavy, food-speckled hair that I’d fished out from between my teeth.

I think it belongs to Jay Wilson, I answer, studying it. So that’s all right, I shampooed it twice this morning.

What time is your mammo appointment? Sarah says.

Not until three. I hear the doubt in her voice, which then makes me doubt myself.

Wiping a frothy moustache off my upper lip, I pick up the phone to check. What? Two? I know it was booked for three. Panic fills me as I grab the phone and call the hospital. Look it’s just gone two. I can be there in a few minutes, I hear myself begging. The medical secretary as good as tells me to get my arse into gear. Oh, thanks, I reply. Two-o-bloody-clock. I grab my purse, keys, cheque book, and lippy, as I bolt past an amused Sarah, leaving her to explain the situation to my next client.

The hospital parking is not plentiful at the best of times, and today is no exception. I invent a car park close to the X-ray clinic and cross my fingers that there won’t be an unwelcome surprise under the windscreen wipers on my return.

At reception I fill in the necessary paperwork—name, address, all that jazz—and no sooner do I sit my butt down than my name is called. I grab my stuff and follow a woman in her late thirties into a sparsely furnished room. This is happening fast, I think to myself as I place my belongings on a chair. If all goes to plan I will be back at work by three with a bit of luck. I’m feeling pretty chuffed with myself.

The woman turns my paperwork over, reads it and looks up at me, catching my eyes with hers. Her disposition is gentle as she confirms my doctor’s request for a mammogram, ultrasound, and a fine needle biopsy.

Okay Mrs Brown, take off your blouse and bra and put them on the chair. When you’re ready, you can show me the lump that’s bothering you.

I do as she asks. I don’t know this person from Adam, and here’s me, naked from the navel up, tits pointing west, well, at least one of them.

Oh no! . . . I meant to pluck that feral hair last night. Well, it’s too bloody late now. I turn to face her.

Without taking my eyes off hers, I quickly move my index finger two inches above my right nipple.

"Here it is!" I say, breaking eye contact for the first time in what feels like ages. Sensing my nervousness, the woman engages me in a little light-hearted chit-chat as she checks out the lump for herself. I try to read the expression on her face but she’s giving nothing away. I so want to hear her say, Hey girly! This lump feels like nothing, now put your no-frills bra back on and stop wasting our time. Wishful thinking.

"The mammogram will be done in this room, the ultrasound in that room." The woman points towards a small room off to my left.

"When the doctor views the film he may overrule your practitioner’s request for the fine needle biopsy, she reassures me with a smile. Let’s mammogram the left breast first."

I’m apprehensive. It’s not like I haven’t had a mammogram before. We all know it’s not the most comfortable thing you can have done but, let’s be honest, it doesn’t kill you.

Hold that position.

To get the best results, your whole boob has to be up close and personal to the contraption, your shoulder completely out of the way. This puts your spine in an awkward position; the squashing pressure is obvious. I start to have these strange thoughts. What if that operator has a fit or something and starts going crazy at the controls? How flat can a tit be flattened before you pass out? Suddenly the pressure’s off. What a relief.

Next breast, she says, positioning my right one and then scurrying off for the second time.

Hold that possie, she sings out again. Same procedure, same pressure and, yes, same weird thoughts.

Oh shit! What if I faint? I could see the whole picture. Head slouched back, arms limp, knees bent, my poor distorted torso suspended in mid air by one very thin boob that’s still firmly secured between that mammo thing. The sudden release of pressure brings me back to reality. The film has left the room along with the operator. I’m left with my own thoughts and a hospital gown.

I find myself seated on a plastic chair in the corner of this impersonal room. From here, the mammo machine doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as it did when I was swinging off it. I look around and am reminded of how much I dislike these sparsely furnished clinical rooms, how vulnerable they make me feel. Once more I pray, Please, please dear Lord, let it be nothing.

Where the bloody hell is she? It feels like she’s been gone for ages. I check the time. It’s only been a few minutes. Let me warn you that when I get anxious, agitated, or nervous I tend to go into bit of a rave and entertain myself with odd thoughts. I guess it is my way of trying to make sense of a stressful situation. So, at this stage of the waiting game, I decide to think about the plastic chair that is unsteady under my uncomfortable butt. I change cheeks to see if that helps, but need not have bothered. You’d think they would pay for a decent sturdy padded chair if you have to park your derriere on it for so long. Plus it is small and flimsy, what would those people with bigger butts do with this chair besides party tricks? Now I’ve got a stupid look on my face because I’m visualising the whole thing. Okay, enough; I’ll keep the story moving. As I readjust the faded gown, I can’t help but wonder about the fate of those other poor souls who have sat where I sit now. Did they feel like I do now? Shit scared.

She’s been gone too long. In answer to my anxious thoughts, the door is flung open. I am suddenly following the woman into another room. Next up, I am lying on a narrow bed, my gown is open at the front.

"I will ultrasound your breasts now," she says, gently explaining how the machine works. She must have spotted that feral hair by now and, to top it off, the slippery KY gel she is using on my booby is icy cold. Some useless twat forgot to warm the bloody stuff up.

I watch in awe as the probe slides easily over the gelled breast, converting the ultra waves into a foggy grey maze of pictures on a screen. As the probe moves around the breast, the screen becomes a mirage of grey waves, light then darker blurry greys, swirling in front of my inquisitive eyes.

What an amazing bit of machinery but how in hell do they know what to look for? I decide to put her to the test, so I choose a darkish swirl.

What’s that? I ask, pointing at the screen. She tells me it’s a rib.

She moves the probe to the upper quadrant of my right breast. This is a muscle and a little fibrous tissue just over here, she says.

The probe is now just about on the lump and I’m still seeing grey swirls. She applies a little more pressure. My eyes are glued to the monitor and still I see grey swirls. The probe circles the suspect area once more, how you might imagine a shark would with its prey, more grey swirls. Hold on! SHIT! It’s nearly black on that spot.

Oh my lord. What the hell is that? I ask. I don’t dare look at her. I don’t want her to see my fear and I don’t want to see in her eyes what my gut is insistently telling me.

We will let the doctor have a look at that.

My mind is racing. I look at the monitor again and everything is still. Photographs of the area are being organised, the grey swirls are now immortalised. I can see the black mass clearly. There are white dots as well, and the black spot has a little tail, like a tadpole. All I can see is that black mass, floating, hovering, stopping me from thinking clearly.

Again, there is only me in the room and I’m still lying on my back. My tits are wet with gel and I’m starting to feel cold. I’m scared, vulnerable, and there is a strong possibility I might throw up that ham, cheese, and tomato sandwich.

Then there are three people in the room. The radiograph woman walks to the end of the bed and begins to gently stroke my ankle, her gaze focused on the doctor positioned near the monitor.

I start shivering. The doctor’s heavily accented voice breaks the unbearable silence.

"Mrs Brown, you have a tumour." It sounds like he is confirming an order from a takeaway menu.

What are the chances of it being anything other than cancer? I ask him, tense.

Highly unlikely.

At this moment I want to scream, I want to cry, I also want to be dignified. I don’t want to be in this room with strangers gathered around my half-naked body.

"You knew?" I say to the lady who is now gently patting my leg. I see the pity in her eyes. I can’t look at her for long because I know I’m going to burst into tears. I so badly want to cry, but if I start, I won’t stop.

While Doctor Compassionate juggles his fine needles, preparing for the aspiration biopsy, I try to get my head around this nightmare.

Don’t you dare cry, I keep telling myself. It’s bad enough I have to bare my boobs in front of these strangers, let alone my soul.

I watch the aspiration on the monitor, a needle piercing my skin and breast tissue and, finally, the black mass. The doctor makes some comment about not using anaesthetic. I tell him to go for it. He could have cut my tit off with a butter knife and I would not have felt a thing. I look at the monitor in horror as he has a second attempt at the aspiration. Shit! How many contaminated cells are falling from his needle into healthy tissue as he drags his syringe to and fro from the surface of my boob? That’s it, if there was any doubt before there is none now, if the aspirated cells turn out to be bad ones then this tit’s days are numbered, I’ll cut it off myself if I have to. When all is said and done, I am left to my own devices. I clean the remaining gel off my breasts. I have the odd fond memory of KY gel. This is not one of them.

The tissues they give me only cover a small area, and I seem to have this gel stuff from arsehole to breakfast time. With quivering hands I get the gel on the tissue, and then can’t get the bloody tissue off my fingers. When all else fails I wipe the residue off on the butt end of my knickers. Eventually I manage to get dressed. I am unable to clip my bra because my hands are shaking so badly. I put my clothes on and go out to the desk. I just want to get out of this arse-end place.

The request for the lab results is made ‘urgent’, and I write out a cheque for the receptionist, worrying that she can see my hand shaking. Can you believe it? I have just been told there’s an alien in one of my tits, and I’m concerned that some bloody sheila’s going to see my hands shaking.

I make my way back to my illegally parked vehicle. The upside to the story is that I don’t have a parking ticket.

I sit in the driver’s seat, welcoming the warmth inside the car. By now my knees are knocking together. I grab a beach towel sitting on the passenger seat and hold it under my chin—just in time to say hello to that ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwich. My whole body is shaking so hard that I could have been cast in the lead role of The Exorcist.

I start the car three times, stalling it each time. The car kangaroo hops as my foot involuntarily jumps about on the accelerator.

I pull into the curb and yank on the handbrake. The tears come fast, followed by the sobs, then the ranting.

Oh my God ! No! Oh no, oh dear Lord please no. I don’t know how long I sit crying but the numbness takes over. I have to get back to work, so I adjust the mirror and take a look at my face to see what damage has been done. Mascara colours the top of my cheekbones. I fix myself up as