The Woman with the Lopsided Breasts

Continuing on with Monday’s discussion on happiness; an instalment for those who enjoy a good story (it’s kinda long so you may wanna get comfortable)…

An Average Life

Her alarm clock wails and she rolls over. Without even opening an eye, she slaps the clock into silence. Her aim is surprisingly accurate for a semi-conscious woman with her eyes shut. ”F**ken noise pollution” she says out loud… to nobody. Some time later she half opens one eye and peers at the illuminated digital numbers. It’s five minutes past late. She launches another expletive into the atmosphere and reluctantly forces her tired body into an upright position. Well, almost upright. For some reason, life has become a chore for Sal.

Although nothing’s really wrong, nothing is great either. Her life feels like an endless procession of average. Average jobs. Average relationships. Average conversations. Average experiences. Average days. Average everything. And while she has (what most people would consider) a good job, good health, no real financial issues, no major problems and people who love her, happiness seems to avoid her. Or perhaps, she avoids it.

An Average Body

Did I mention that she hates her footballer’s thighs? And her stupidly wide shoulders? And don’t get her started on her left breast; it’s a whole centimetre lower than the right one. It’s fair to say that happiness isn’t the emotion that comes to the fore when Sal thinks or speaks about her body.

How to Lose a Friend in One Sentence

Of course she has known happiness, but for the last few years her typical emotional state has hovered somewhere between miserable, grumpy and I-don’t-really-care. While she has the occasional laugh with friends, there is an ever-present awareness of her less-than-exciting existence. “Yeah, that’s what I do; exist. I don’t live, I simply survive the days” she tells a long-suffering and very tolerant friend. Apparently her loving parents do nothing but annoy her. They don’t really understand her. Poor baby. It seems that life hasn’t ‘turned out’ as it should have for Sal. One friend recently told her that she plays the role of victim very well. She’s now an ex-friend.

Natch.

The Annual Health Check

This morning Sal is even grumpier than normal because today she has her compulsory annual health check; a requirement of the company she works for. She hates these days. Two hours of walking on a treadmill, filling out forms, answering stupid questions, painful blood-extraction and far too much poking and prodding by a doctor who invariably has breath like a yak and the people skills of a plant. What then follows is a week of waiting for the results. Yippee.  Every year, for the week following the medical evaluation, she waits for the phone call; the one to tell her she has cancer. After all, it’s only a matter of time.

She figures.

The Call You Don’t Want

A week later Sal is at her desk when she does get a call. “We need you to come in for a chat today”, the serious voice on the other end of the phone informs her. “Er, what about?” comes the nervous reply. The woman ignores the question and enquires about a suitable appointment time. “Er, okay, five o’clock.” She puts down the phone and sits there in disbelief. Numb. Her mind races. A colleague asks her a question, she doesn’t even hear, let alone reply. She stares at her computer screen but sees nothing because she’s a million miles away. A teeny, tiny, quiet voice from somewhere deep whispers “don’t worry, it’ll be something simple; you’re over-reacting”. “You wish” replies a much louder and more assertive voice. Her stomach churns. Her neck and chest are now red and splotchy; her typical stress response. She looks at the clock. It’s 3:15.

Anxiety in the Waiting Room 

She arrives at the clinic fifteen minutes early. It’s been the longest ninety minutes of her life. She walks to the reception desk and gives her name. She studies the face of the woman at the desk. Perhaps she knows something. The woman is efficient and confident. Not what Sal was looking for. Perhaps a warm smile and some pointless chat about the weather might have done the trick. She sits and waits. And waits. Are doctors ever on time? Especially towards the end of the day?

Finally the doctor makes an appearance and calls her in to his office. He tries to smile. It looks strained. Fake even. Her knees buckle a little. She makes it to his room and falls into a chair. With eyes wide open she says nothing. She can literally feel her heart beating in her neck. She’s never felt that. After what seems like an eternity, the doctor opens his mouth.

“Now Sally, unfortunately it appears that…”

A Fancy Name for Death

That’s all she needs to hear. Her fears are confirmed. The doctor called it T-Cell Prolymphocytic Leukemia; a rare and aggressive form of leukemia. He may as well have saved them both some time and called it was it is; death with a fancy label. “We’re not sure how advanced it is, but at this point, it doesn’t look too promising.” He rambles on with some facts and figures but the patient absorbs nothing after the bit about… cancer. She is told she will need to see an oncologist to create an appropriate treatment plan. An appointment is made for the Friday of that week; it’s now Monday.

The Response

By six-thirty she is at home sitting on the end of her bed staring out the window of her room. Two hours later she is in the same place doing the same thing; sitting and staring. And trying not to think or feel. It doesn’t work. She still has her car keys in her hand. She has been holding them for two hours. It hasn’t occurred to her to put them on the dresser. While her body has all but shut down, her mind is in over-drive. To her own surprise, her ever-present self-pity is strangely absent. It has been replaced with paralysing fear and anxiety. The tears fall from her face like leaves from an autumn tree and her once-perfect make-up now resembles that of a goth after an all night bender. 

All of a sudden her old ’average’ life looks pretty attractive. Highly desirable perhaps.

I’m on My Way…

The phone has been ringing incessantly. She’s meant to be at a dinner with friends. One of her girlfriends is trying to line her up with Mr Right. Yet again. She finally picks up the phone and shares the news with her best friend; the first person she’s told. There is stunned silence. “I’ll be there in ten minutes”, click.

Planet Numb

The next three days are a blur of thoughts, emotions, reactions and pointless you’ll-be-okay conversations with well-meaning, but ultimately, annoying people. It’s now Thursday – the day before her appointment with the cancer bloke - and if numbness is a place, then right now she a resident of Planet Numb. She has taken leave from work, knowing full well she’ll probably never return. To any job. While her mother is a pillar of strength and the poster girl for optimism, her dad can’t even look at her without bawling. Just what she needs; a crying father in the room. She has spent most of the week researching her disease. No eating, very little sleeping and no happiness. Understandably. When she does sleep, the nightmares are horrifying. The more she researches, the more inevitable seems her demise.

At just before eleven o’clock, the phone rings. She ignores it. Her mother doesn’t.

“Sal, it’s for you”.
“I told you; I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“It’s the clinic, they say it’s very important.”
“F**k”.
“Sally Anne O’Brien, wash your mouth.”
“Sorry Mum.”

Once again, it’s the cyborg from reception; she of the no personality brigade.

“Hello?”
“Hello Miss O’Brien, it’s Margaret from the clinic. Dr. Charles would like to see you as soon as possible.”
“Er… why? ”
“How’s three o’clock?”
“Fine.”

As always, Margaret the cyborg gives her nothing. Nothing positive anyway.

She thought she had bottomed out emotionally. Clearly not. The knot in her stomach just doubled in size. She puts the phone down and turns to see her parents both staring at her like passers-by at a five car pile-up. “What do they want?” asks her mother. Of course she has no answer because she doesn’t know. She shrugs her shoulders and walks out the front door without speaking. Her mother tries to follow but the girl with the death sentence waves her away. She walks nowhere in particular for two hours. She crosses several busy intersections and almost becomes a road statistic on more than one occasion. She doesn’t really care. The thought of launching herself under a passing truck seems almost appealing. She arrives home to the relief of her increasingly concerned mother. Thankfully, her blubbering father is nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile… Back at the Clinic

It’s now three-thirty and Sal has been sitting in the waiting room for forty-five minutes. She has thumbed through most of the three year-old magazines without really paying attention to what was on any of the pages. Simulated reading is better than a breakdown in front of strangers, she figures. Finally the bloke in the white coat appears.

“Sally?”

“Why does he sound like he’s asking a question?”, she wonders. “On Monday he told me I’m going to die; surely I’m not that forgettable?”

He motions her into his consulting room and she looks for a sign. Of something. Anything. Good or bad. He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t frown either. “He could be a professional f**ckin’ poker player”, she thinks to herself. She waits for his first words. The heartbeat in her neck is back. Fab.

He opens a folder with her name on it. He looks awkward. But that’s no biggie; he does awkward very well. The neck pulse is now pounding like a tribal drum. Two drums. For a moment the doc appears to be reading from the folder. He’s not; he’s collecting his thoughts. He looks up with a facial expression that can be best be described as uncomfortable.

“Now Sally…. ”

He pauses and seems momentarily lost for words. 

“Yes?” she replies like a terrified child in the principal’s office.
 ”I have some news.”
“Yes” she says again; fast losing her patience.
“It seems that we have… er… that is, there may have… no, there was… a.. ”
“Was a f**cking what?!”
“Er, a mistake…”
“What do you mean, mistake?”
“In all my years I’ve never seen anything like it… ”
“Like what?”
“Two women with the same name having the same tests in the same clinic on the same day.”

She thinks she knows what he’s saying but she doesn’t want to assume anything. For the first time in a long time she feels a hint of hope, excitement and you guessed it… happiness. Mixed with some doubt and apprehension, of course. She’s too scared to ask anything specific, so she simply waits for Captain Awkward to continue.

“So Sally, on behalf of the clinic it’s my job to apologise for putting you through four days of unnecessary anxiety and stress. Despite what we told you on Monday, you are actually cancer free.”

Only later will she appreciate the irony that the most incredible words she will ever hear came from the mouth of someone who is so socially… challenged.

Stunned silence.

“No?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
“Completely?”
“One hundred percent.”

Tears.

Into the Light

After a forgettable conversation about the potential legal ramifications of their mistake, Sal walks out of the clinic and it is as though she is stepping from darkness into light. Pure light. Pure joy.  There is no fear. No anxiety. Only calm. It’s a brand new experience for her. Once again she is numb but this time it’s a different kind of numb. Every cell in her body is swimming in a pool of pure happiness. It is the most intense feeling she has ever experienced and it is the most beautiful place she’s ever been. She doesn’t want it to end. She didn’t know this kind of happiness was possible – for her anyway. She’s not sure about God but she thanks Him anyway. Or is it Her? She thanks them both. Apart from being totally immersed in happiness, her overwhelming emotion is gratitude. She walks to a nearby park and sits under a tree. She wants to be alone for a little longer. For some reason, she knows her life will never be the same. She will never be the same. Something has happened. Something unplanned. Something big. And while she could be angry at the clinic for its ineptitude, she’s not. She’s incredibly grateful.

A Different World

Sitting there on the grass, she looks down at her footballer’s thighs and for the first time, she loves them. She loves her big, strong, healthy legs and her stupidly wide shoulders. She even loves her lopsided breasts. “At least they’re real”, she tells herself. She thinks of her mum and dad and she smiles. She can’t wait to kiss and hug them; something she hasn’t done for years. She thinks of her long-suffering friends who have tolerated her moods and moments for far too long and she can’t wait to tell them how much she loves and values them.

All of a sudden the world looks very, very different.

In less than a week the miserable girl has become happy. And not momentarily distracted from her average life with some good news… but genuinely happy from the inside out. There has been a massive internal shift and while nothing has changed in her physical, practical, three-dimensional world, everything has changed - for her. What was average is now incredible. Good or bad, hard or easy, average or incredible is all a matter of perspective, attitude and belief. The girl with the same job, the same family, the same body, the same income, the same bank balance and the same ability is now happier than she could ever have imagined. It’s all the same, yet totally different.

Her life was never the problem. She was the problem and when she changed, so too did her reality.

Now, I know what you’re wondering: (1) did the change last? and (2) is this a true story?

Yep and not telling.

xx

As always, love to hear your thoughts on this post…