The end of the holidays. I had debated postponing it in the back-to-school flurry.  Mammogram? Cancer? No thought, no time. The  waiting room emptied around me and I wondered how soon I’d get home.
Wearing a dress was a mistake. The hospital gown is a short, cross-over top. Clothes go in a supermarket basket and you just leave on the trousers.
 ‘A dress?’ the nurse muttered. ‘What will Himself think? Her colleagues arrived.  I squirmed with mortification. Donning the crossover, I eyed it warily. Very gappy. Women emerged from the doctor’s room, collecting their baskets. The vast gaping garments bared the scarred, blue-inked chests and single, pendulous, breasts.  ‘Don’t charge fer lookin’ love,’ quipped one lady.
Within the hour, I was flat on my back, ultrasound breast biopsy under way in stark silence.
‘Come in fasting on Friday for the segmental resection,’ Himself said into my folder, a scant 5 minutes later. Â What? Had I missed something? Numbly IÂ pulled up the crumpled dress and fetched my basket, now a source of comfort.
It poured that Friday. I was wheel chaired out the main entrance, past the huddle of smokers, across the road.  Dripping, lank-haired and minus my morning cuppa I heard a voice  ‘Well hello!’ didn’t expect to see you here!’ You don’t, do you?
The Burning Question of Bras
When you’ve been a nurse, caring for others with cancer, some weird defense system kicks in.  You don’t imagine yourself in hospital … on the other side. I loved being a cancer nurse because I met all kinds of people with cancer and felt glad I could help.  I brought my experience to a medical/surgical supply  company. At first I fitted post-mastectomy breast prostheses and ugly, surgical bras. Then making changes, the only woman in a roomful of men in a Banbury bra manufacturers, demanding pretty bras for women after breast surgery. Derision and smutty murmurs silenced when I spoke as passionately as I ever have. Bras matter to women. Feeling normal matters. Choice and control give confidence. I was on fire … and shook like a leaf afterwards!
Going on TV
Following a routine smear test I needed to have a chunk of my cervix removed, on tv. The national radio station was on in the crowded waiting room, my celeb namesake wittering on cheerily. My name was called and heads swivelled my way. Eyes followed me into the mini theatre. Fame at last. I was no sooner legs akimbo in stirrups, when the door burst open. ‘Can I see?’ asked the student. ‘Sure,’ I replied, waving to the crowd outside,’ we’re doing an inside broadcast, but it’s standing room only.’
Help
Ordinary people get cancer. Mostly it’s curable. Treatments are easier. It sucks, scares the crap out of you. Fear is the worst thing, that and anxiety. What does cancer mean for me and my family? A thousand questions during long nights. Facing treatment, keeping going, you can do it. You just do it better with some real help. Â That’s what I do.
