Helen Brown - After Cleo

‘Oh there you are!’ said an Indian radiologist in a white coat. An earnest gleam in her eye, she escorted me through a door labelled Assessment Room to inspect images of my right breast. The white blobs, dozens of them swirling like stars through the Milky Way, were calcification, she explained. Possibly an indication of irregularities in the cells. Careful language.

A primitive being inside me withdrew to the window ledge and watched the scene warily.

The doctor made an appointment for me to see a surgeon and have a biopsy the following afternoon. She asked me to bring a support person.

Am I dying? I thought, suddenly numb to the core.

At the same time, I seemed to split into several people, each with their own perspective. The primitive creature shadowed me, stumbling into the elevator, crossing the road and climbing into the car. She watched curiously while I examined the backs of my hands resting on the steering wheel. With their prominent blue veins inherited from Mum, they were unmistakably part of me. Life pulsed through them now, but maybe not for much longer.

My fingers trembled as I punched Philip’s number into my phone. He slid out of a meeting to answer the call. His voice was light and tender. Of course he’d be my support person tomorrow.

I wanted him to sob and say he didn’t want to lose me; that I wasn’t allowed to die – something to make it real.

But I was trying to stay calm for his sake, and vice versa. He asked if I wanted him to come and get me. Yes, yes! Take me away. Save me! But a cool, logical voice said no thanks. My car would end up stranded in the city.

Only minutes had passed but I was already imagining how the family would cope if I moved on. It would be new territory for Philip. Apart from his grandparents, he hadn’t lost anyone close before. I concentrated on being strong for him.

I knew that one person would understand. Rob and I had been through so much together. We’d grieved in different ways for Sam, and in some ways still were. We’d found distraction and delight together in Cleo, the black cat who’d remained a living connection with Sam for nearly a quarter of a century. Having suffered ulcerative colitis and having his colon surgically removed at the age of twenty-four, Rob knew exactly how it felt to be alone and frightened inside your own skin.

When he answered his phone and heard my news the emotional connection was immediate. His words were cautious, but I could tell he was living and breathing it with me.

‘It’s nowhere near as bad as what you went through,’ I said. For the first time since the ominous mention of irregular cells, I was back inside my body being honest. We both understood what the clinic was doing, drip-feeding information to prepare us for the worst when the test results came in tomorrow.

Clicking the phone off a while later, I felt surprisingly serene. Maybe some kind of chemical had kicked in, but talking to Rob had put things into perspective. Even if it was worst-case scenario and I was about to choose music for my funeral, it didn’t seem too terrible in the scheme of things. Losing Sam had been far more harrowing. A life snuffed out before it’s barely begun. That’s tragedy.

I switched the car radio on. Liquid jazz folded into the four o’clock news. A train crash in northern Egypt had killed forty-two people; a chunk of ice seven miles square had broken off Canada. Nothing like listening to the news for reassurance things could be worse. That’s not even thinking about the ones who don’t warrant a story – children stricken with serious illness; people who live with bitterness or despair.

The last news item announced that the Sri Lankan military had captured a major town in the northern district of Mannar from the Tamil Tigers . . . Sri bloody Lanka.

If there was one platinum lining on this cloud, I thought, it was that Lydia would have to cancel her trip. No way could she trail across the world to sit on a mountaintop now. I thanked God/Buddha/Mother Earth for ‘irregular cells’.

As the car followed the curve of the river under a steely sky, I considered other possible upsides. The clinic people hadn’t found a lump so it couldn’t be too bad. On the other hand, they were taking a more than casual interest in our family history. My sister Mary had undergone a mastectomy a few years earlier, and two aunts had died of breast cancer.

Another good thing sprang to mind. If it was serious, I finally had an excuse to give up my twice-weekly personal training sessions.

The girls were in the kitchen when I clattered down the hall and dumped my bag on the table. My babies, my daughters, were practically adults. They deserved the truth.

‘Looks like I might have some irregular cells,’ I said, bright and firm, like a schoolteacher announcing extra homework. The words bounced off the walls. Subtlety had never been a strong point of mine. ‘But it’s all right.’

What a lie. The girls’ faces were oddly expressionless as they hugged me. Did they think I was faking it? Maybe I was, or it was a dream. The other me observed the scene from a spot above the fireplace.

The kitchen tap hissed as Lydia filled the kettle. She’d be ringing to cancel her flight soon. I sat on one of the green sofas while Katharine tumbled on the floor and leant against my knees, facing away from me. I stroked her hair as she stared down at the book she was no longer reading. Perhaps she was weeping. Fifteen must be one of the worst ages for a girl to lose her mum.

I wondered if mothers and daughters rehearse for this moment on their first triumphant meeting on blood-spattered birthing tables. Every beginning has an end. It’s fitting for the mother to go first.

Not just yet, though.

All three of us seemed equally incapable of comprehending the implications. I loved my daughters with every cell in my body. But if some of those cells were irregular, killer cells, I might have bestowed a terrible curse on them. My efforts to help them become strong women would mean nothing if I’d passed on terrorist genes.

‘Are you okay?’ Katharine asked, her tone breathless and child-like, reminding me of the time I’d fallen over skating, and she’d hauled me up off the ice. She’d only been seven or eight years old then. The pain in my tailbone had been agonising but I’d assured her I was fine. Mummies were always fine.

‘Of course,’ I replied, play-acting again.

‘But there’s a problem with your cells,’ said Lydia, dropping tea bags in the pot.

‘Apparently,’ I replied in an absurdly upbeat voice. ‘That’s why it took so long. They took heaps of images and this daft woman used baby talk.’

I didn’t feel bold enough to broach the subject of whether Lydia would stay home now. She’d understand the gravity of the situation and do the right thing. Or Philip would talk her into it.

Tea was okay, but not enough. Reaching into the back of the cupboard behind the electric frying pan, my fingers curled around the consoling shape of the cognac bottle. It’d helped when I’d been in an unworldly state of shock after Sam’s death. After the initial sting in my throat, the liquor eased through me like an old friend.

Philip arrived home early from work. The girls chopped vegetables for a stir fry. I told them about the four treats I was supposed to have and they laughed too loud.

So this is what it’s like when you have irregular cells , I thought. People laugh at your jokes .

‘They catch things so early these days everything’s going to be fine,’ I said, scrubbing out the wok afterwards. Yet I was already taking a step back from the three of them. From my viewpoint above the fireplace, I envisaged father and daughters getting on without me. They were loving and good to each other. They’d stick together.