Page 224 - She's One Crazy Lady!

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I asked if“
our way to The Magpie for their renowned fish and chips?
Once at the hospital (I went on my own, on the train) I was told there would be a long wait for a bed and I had to wait in a day area where one other man sat. He was watching Eastenders but, by golly, was it loud. (Sorry, but I have never liked Eastenders). Dare I ask him to turn it down? I had to. He never saw the rest of the programme as we got chatting. I will call him ‘D’. ‘D’ was waiting for a bed too and told me, quite openly he had a lot of problems and his future didn’t look too bright but was anxious to make a fresh start in life and do something
useful in society. I was intrigued.
To kill time I had got my diary out to catch up with events and to
record this next chapter of my reconstruction. ‘D’ was watching me.
“I like writing poetry,” he said. I put my pen down. He told me he had written a lot of poetry about his life but had ripped them up because people laughed at them. I could feel the ‘teacher’ inside me taking over and I encouraged him to start his writing again saying how much my writing helped me – and, hopefully, may help others. I could see a little spark there but then he and I were both called. I wasn’t to see ‘D’ again
until after my operation.
I was taken to a side room off the main ward (that had a curtain
he would write me a poem. ‘Yes’, and just over an hour or so later when I walked past his bed (on the long route to find the ‘ladies’) he was waving a piece of paper at me – his poem. I sat on his bed with him, took the piece of paper
hanging up instead of a door) and the usual (I sound very blazé!) observations were taken and a gown and socks given to me. As I lay there I wondered if this really was going to be the end of my long cancer journey. Mr Varma came in the next morning, apologising for the curtain, and talked me through what was to happen, explaining he would be performing the three procedures talked about – making a new nipple, slicing off the dog ear and giving my real one a bit of a ‘nip and tuck’ to ensure both nipples would be symmetrical. He even took time to talk with me about my issues at school which was comforting – and – he asked me how my book was coming along! An anaesthetist came to see me and thought I would be in theatre for a couple of hours. Her thinking was that Mr Varma would take skin from the outer thigh and if a skin graft was required, I would be very sore afterwards, more so if they chose to take skin from the vulva!
I remember waking up, my hands moving up and down my body to see where I might be sore. I wasn’t sore anywhere so where had they taken the skin from? For on my chest were not one, but ‘two’ what I can only describe as ‘peanuts’ sticking out from both breasts! The doctors were pleased saying Mr Varma had used skin from my real breast – a fourth option. The ‘dog ear’ area was somewhat sore but generally I felt OK and was well enough to go home later that afternoon.
‘D’ was also up and about and walked by my room. Calling after him I asked if he had given any thought to writing again. ‘No’. I asked if he would write me a poem. ‘Yes’, and just over an hour or so later when I walked past his bed (on the long route to find the ‘ladies’) he was waving a piece of paper at me – his poem. I sat on his bed with him, took the piece of paper and read...
and read”
...