The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes by Anna McPartlin

pointed out last night that I was left-handed and right-breasted, which is a kind of symmetry in itself and, apparently, better than some piece of silicone shoved under my skin. I haven’t decided. First, I have to beat cancer. Then I’ll think about replacing parts.
    So today came along and Marjorie visited with more food than Juliet and I could eat in a year, flowers, wine, two mastectomy bras, a prosthesis and a partridge in a pear tree! It was time to face the music. ‘Get it out,’ she said. So I stood in my bedroom, and just as I started to take off my top, she shouted, ‘Stop!’ and proceeded to whip off hers quicker than Matt the Flasher outside Nelly’s Newsagent’s. In seconds she was standing in front of me bare-chested with a stupid grin. I ripped off my pyjama top and there it was, my right breast, next to ugly, scarred flatland. I didn’t want to cry, but I did. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t me. Marjorie was quiet. We both just stood in front of the mirror, staring. She didn’t try to comfort me or stop me reacting. Instead she handed me a hanky and there we stood until my eyes and nose stopped running.
    By the time we replaced our tops my new physique didn’t seem as horrifying. I’m not saying I’ve fully embraced it, but I feel better than I’d thought I would. And Marjorie? Well, she put her top back on and complained bitterly that, even though she still had two, my one was bigger, and you know what they say . . . ‘One in the hand . . .’
    I love my best friend.

DAY THREE

Chapter Five
Molly
    MOLLY AND JACK sat outside Mr Dunne’s office, waiting to be called in. Molly held a large file, thick with details of the various trials for which Rabbit was considered eligible. She clasped it to her chest and rubbed the tips of her fingers on its edge, up and down, up and down, up and down. Jack hung on to a plastic bag, eyes glued to the black hand on the large white wall clock moving silently to mark each passing second. In the background, somewhere in the corridor, a radio was on and voices were debating whether or not the Americans should intervene in Syria. Jack’s stomach grumbled. Molly shifted her hand from the file to her pocket and pulled out a bag of nuts and seeds for him. He took it without a word and ate the contents, all the while keeping his eye on the passing time.
    The door opened and Mr Dunne beckoned them inside with a sweep of his hand and a merry hello. He shook their hands and they all sat down. He glanced from the file in Molly’s hand to her face and back to the file. His sigh was audible. ‘You’ve been on the net again, Molly.’
    ‘I want to talk to you about some trials happening in Europe, specifically something called PDT.’
    ‘Photodynamic therapy.’
    ‘You’ve heard of it.’
    ‘Yes, I have.’
    ‘Well, then, you’ll know that eighty-five per cent of applicants are deemed suitable, including people with deep-seated metastatic and late-stage cancers.’
    ‘The effectiveness depends on many factors.’
    ‘Doesn’t everything?’
    ‘Rabbit has a compromised immune system—’
    ‘Which can reduce effectiveness, but many patients have still shown significant favourable responses with PDT in spite of prior heavy chemotherapy.’
    ‘In Rabbit’s case, the tumour has spread to critical structures.’
    ‘I’m not saying it will cure her, but it could still prolong her life.’
    ‘Molly, PDT is in its infancy. It’s not covered by insurance and it’s not available in this country.’
    ‘So, so and so?’
    ‘Rabbit is a late-stage palliative patient who is a very likely candidate to suffer from complications that can arise from rapid necrosis of tissue around the major arteries and some other areas of the body. That’s if she would even be considered, which she wouldn’t be because she’s bed-ridden.’
    ‘She is not bed-ridden,’ Jack said, as if the very idea was an insult to his daughter.
    ‘She is non-ambulatory,