After Cleo by Helen Brown

shape of a smile stretching across my abdomen from one hip to the other, cut conveniently low so I could still wear a bikini. As if.
    At the same time he planned to simultaneously perform a reduction on the left breast so the new pair would match. Scarring around the breasts would be artfully concealed.
    My optimism wavered. What Greg was proposing wasn’t a renovation so much as a full body refit. Putting myself through all that would be the equivalent of simultaneously bungee jumping, climbing Everest and playing in the World Cup Rugby final.
    â€˜We live in a breast-obsessed society,’ said Greg.
    Rubbish , I thought. Driving home, I stopped at some traffic lights and saw a sculpture I’d never noticed before. It was constructed entirely of concrete breasts.
    A DVD about breast reconstruction lay on the kitchen table. I wasn’t keen to examine its contents. Apparently the reconstructive surgery would take longer to recover from than the mastectomy itself. Still, even though I’m no Pamela Anderson I didn’t fancy running around like an Amazon for the rest of my days.
    Watching the DVD with Philip, I emitted involuntary yelps. How could those women talk so brightly about the massive scarring on their bodies?
    Maybe I’d give reconstruction the swerve. But then I remembered a friend describing how shattered she’d felt waking up after her mastectomy to see a vast empty space where her breast had been. Reconstruction might be a physical hurdle, but it could spare some psychological trauma.
    Getting three surgeons to show up in the same operating theatre at the same time was like arranging for Lady Gaga, Angelina Jolie and Queen Elizabeth II to attend the same charity event. The medics shuffled their diaries around and found a date to suit them all in three weeks’ time. It felt like forever.

Preparation
    It’s what’s inside that counts
    Two nights after Ned’s visit, the phone rang close to midnight. Answering it, I was relieved to hear Lydia’s voice, though it was a bad line that made her sound as if she was in a submarine.
    She apologised for the lack of contact, explaining that it was the rainy season and the phone line to the monastery had been down. The impersonal cheer I heard in her voice left me cold.
    Like a wounded lover, I held back on information and waited for her to ask. Yes, I was fine, but not really. There were long silences. I told her about Ned’s visit. Oh yes, she said offhandedly. She’d email him some time.
    A parrot squawked in the background. The monastery really was in some kind of jungle. With little enthusiasm I asked what she’d been up to.
    Meditating, she said, then went on to tell me that the monk and nuns had conducted a ceremony for me in a cave. There’d been chanting. Special, she said.
    It sounded like a touching scene, intriguing even, but anger quickly flared. ‘So they know I’m sick?’ I asked. ‘Don’t they think you should be here right now with your family?’
    Silence again. ‘I don’t know what they think,’ she replied.
    Though I wanted to understand, to be reasonable, I still felt too raw. ‘I’m sick and you’re not here,’ I said quietly. Silence.
    If only she could say it once. The word I longed to hear – Mum.
    â€˜You don’t love me!’ I wailed, sounding wretched and deranged.
    The Sri Lankan parrot screeched. I couldn’t gauge her response. Was she impatient, resentful . . . or weeping?
    â€˜I do. I really do,’ she said after interminable silence. The line crackled and went dead.
    The phone rang often during the three weeks leading up to surgery. My sister Mary and Ginny in New Zealand. Julie my yoga teacher and numerous others phoned. Lydia’s calls were less frequent. Either the lines were down or she was too busy attending ceremonies.
    I tried to concentrate on upbeat diversions, like helping Rob and Chantelle prepare