The C-Word by Lisa Lynch Read Free Book Online

helpful. To me, helpful was being sent books and magazines and DVDs. Helpful was being given front-row tickets to Wimbledon. Helpful was not being treated any differently; not being looked at with a tilted head; not being thought of as a patient. (To this day, I still inflict death-stares on anyone who dares show purposeful concern about how I’m feeling. Even a simple ‘are you all right, love?’ has me itching to exact revenge with an evil Jedi mind trick.) And helpful was definitely
not
urging me to ‘stay positive’ (as though I hadn’t considered that option already), and meeting my cancer news with the baffling ‘I’m sure you won’t let it beat you’. (‘You’re sure? Because, I’ve got to admit, I’m on the fence.’)
    But therein lies The Trouble With Cancer #1: however well-meaning or frustrating or enlightening or pointless or thoughtful their words may be, nothing anyone says can change the fact that you’ve got cancer. I don’t want to sound like an ungrateful bitch here – even ‘don’t let it beat you’ is better than saying nothing at all. And by no means am I suggesting that I’ve got a perfect record in reacting to other people’s shitty news. I mean, who
does
know what to say in those situations? As a teenager, I took a call from my then boyfriend’s mum to tell me the horrible news that his dad had died. I didn’t know what to say. I said I couldn’t believe it. I said I was sorry. And then, inexplicably, I asked if she needed any milk. Because the correct reaction to someone’s husband dying is, of course, ‘Shit, what if she can’t make a brew?’
    And so, you see, I’m the last person to be giving a lecture on the right way to react to bad news. Which brings me on to The Trouble With Cancer #2: the answer to what’s best to say is, of course, different for everyone. Some people might want to be ignored. Some may want fawning sympathy (‘poor you, must be awful’). Some might prefer outright anger (‘I can’t fucking believe this is happening to you’). But what did I want? Well, of all the messages I received, anything that was quietly understanding (‘love you, thinking of you, no need to reply’), funny (‘don’t worry , sis, I’ll visit you on the weekends … well, as long as Derby aren’t playing at home’) or put gossip above cancer (‘someone just told me that Cher gets her arse vacuumed’) pretty much hit the spot.
    But of all of the reactions to my bullshit news, my favourite by far was from an ex-colleague. ‘Breast cancer?’ he said, stunned. ‘That’s awful … you’ve got such magnificent breasts.’ (Applause.)
    ‘And they’ll be magnificent again,’ I told him, more for my own benefit than his. Because, much as I’d convinced myself that losing a boob was nothing on losing my hair (which is faintly ridiculous, when you think about it), I’d have been lying if I’d said that I was anything less than terrified about the removal of my beautiful left tit.
    The days prior to my op had thankfully been so filled with activity that I’d barely had time to fart, let alone reflect on what I was set to lose. But after waking up that morning to a breakfast of tears instead of toast, followed by brave face instead of bran flakes, it had suddenly become all too real. Before pulling on my black-and-white checked dress (I didn’t think colourful florals were appropriate for such an occasion), I stood topless in front of my bedroom mirror. ‘So this is it, then,’ I whispered to my favourite boob. ‘It’s time for you to go.’ And, fumbling with numb fingers to button up my outfit, that was the last I saw of my left tit. I didn’t look down while my surgeon drew on his pre-op markings. I didn’t catch a peek from the corner of my eye when changing into my hospital gown. I left it behind right there and then, as though waving it off on a station platform without turning back as the train pulled away.
    ‘Bloody hell, this is posh,’ said P as