The Choice by Bernadette Bohan

that having a party in the hospital would disturb the older patients, but they were so accepting.
‘No, love, let her be. She’s life in the ward. It does us good to see her.’ They were more than accepting. These thin, wasted souls yearned for the invigorating energy of young people. They loved Sarah, I could see. And she had them wrapped around her little finger.
Happily, Sarah’s headaches gradually disappeared, and she presented no new signs. Then finally we were given the results of all the tests.
‘Mrs Bohan, your daughter has an arachnoid cyst on the left anterior wall of her brain. It is possibly left over from the embryonic stage, but in any event because of the location we have decided not to remove it – unless in the future she becomes severely affected by it.’
‘Oh, thank you so much!’ I shook the hand of the neurosurgeon who gave us the news. ‘That’s wonderful news.’ Sarah was beaming.
‘Do you need to see her back again for check-ups or anything?’
‘Yes, we’ll need to see her every four months or so, and of course you should come in immediately if there are any problems.’
Naturally I was overwhelmed with relief, but at the same time knew this would now be a constant worry: I would always be on the look out for new signs of trouble, and I would certainly never ignore any of her headaches again.
‘WELLCOM HOM SARAH!!!’ read the banner on our front door. Julie was thrilled to have her big sister back, and that night we had a little celebration at home.
‘Mum, Dad, can I have another birthday party now I’m back home?’ she asked. ‘That wasn’t really a proper party in the hospital.’
‘Of course you can,’ we smiled, knowing that at that moment we would have given her the sun, the moon and the stars.
As I sank into bed that night I thanked God fervently for answering my prayers and keeping her safe and well.
One month later I discovered a lump in my own breast.

Chapter Twelve

 
Every Woman’s Nightmare

‘I t can’t be,’ I said to myself as I felt under my arm for the hundredth time. It was – I had to admit – a definite lump, around two centimetres in diameter. Gerard was at work and the children were at school – there was no one to ask, no one to tell me I was imagining it, no one to make me feel normal. There it was again – hardish, rather sore. Nasty lumps aren’t meant to be sore, but my lymphoma had been sore so what did that prove? I sat on the bed to think. I had been cancer-free for twelve years, and after five years you are considered ‘cured’, so it seemed unlikely that this was a tumour. (I did not know then that I had a far greater chance of developing cancer again than someone who had never had cancer.) I thought of the million times I had checked myself over the past twelve years – usually in the bath or shower, when I was alone with myself. I was assiduous – I would check not just my breasts and groin but every single part of me. When you have had cancer you live with it and the possibility of its return every day of your life. Yet I was shocked at finding this lump. I felt it again and frowned. Perhaps I had pulled a muscle at the gym. Perhaps it was part of the lumpiness I often felt before a period. Whatever it was, I did not like it.
‘Ger, would you come up here?’ I called, as soon as I heard his key in the door that evening. The children were asleep and he was late home. I’d thought of nothing else all afternoon.
‘What is it?’ he asked, sensing the urgency in my voice.
‘I’ve found a lump …’ he was by my side in a trice, ‘here.’ He felt it, and nodded.
‘Hmm. I see what you mean. Look, of course you’re worried, anyone would be, with your history,’ he tried to reassure me. ‘But I’m sure it’s nothing – you couldn’t be unlucky