It was the trickle that finally broke me. Like an itch that annoyed the shit out of me, there was nothing I could do about it on account that I was preoccupied by my biopsy at the moment. My left arm was resting behind my head; half of my back propped up on a cushion wedge; my right hand desperately squeezing a yellow foam stress ball that I stole from the office, and my eyes tightly shut as I turned towards my right shoulder and away from the scene of the crime. But even with so much going on, it was that trickle that lived in my head rent-free ever since the procedure started.
Although I could tell when it was coming, it offered me little comfort each time it did. The doctor-in-charge, who was mid-way through the procedure and very well acquainted with the contours of my left breast by now, would rest his hand on my 3 o’clock. Then he’ll slide across a certain spot with the ultrasound probe, pause and press it down, coolly utter “Safe” to the technician, before a countdown would commence.
“1…2…3.”
And boom!
I’ll feel the sensation of the needle gliding through my flesh and a sound eerily resembling a stapler gun would reverb throughout the examination room. My lonesome boob, poking out of the blue surgical drapes, would bounce and ripple against his hand from the ricochet as the needle is withdrawn. Then the short gush of water follows up at the same spot. I didn’t mind the gush at all. It was oddly comforting, like the first scoop of water from a bucket being poured over your sandy toes at a beach. But it was that damn trickle after I couldn’t stand. It starts off as an innocuous drop. Just seconds later – escaping down the slopes of my breast, meander down my chest, snake to my shoulder and then
drip,
drip,
drip down my back.
And no one noticed it but me.
“Safe. 1…2…3”
Boom!
Despite having my eyes already clenched shut, I couldn’t help but squeeze them as a reflex with each booming echo of the ‘stapler gun’. Urgh, is it just me? Why the fuck is no one noticing the water and wiping it away?
Fortunately I got distracted from my personal Chinese water torture by the searing white-hot pain shooting through my breast instead.
I couldn’t help but let out a choked scream and whimpered as I instinctively squirmed on the table, tears immediately welling in my eyes. I squeezed the stress ball so hard I could feel my knuckles turning white. Fuckkkk... I bit my lips in pain processing the shock and trying to hold it all in.
I heard the doctor, “Oh, I’m sorry… I went too deep?
(I know, I know… I heard it too.)
“That really hurt,” I barely answered through gritted teeth.
“I’m really sorry, I guess there’s not enough Novocain. I’ll go shallower next time. We just need about 2 more samples and then we’re done with this one… are you ok?”
My grip on the stress ball eased slightly as I just nodded slightly and whimpered “Ok” weakly. I mean what else can I do? Get up and leave?
He continued with the biopsy. I felt the cool metal of the probe gliding more cautiously now and then inadvertently winced when I heard the words, “Safe…”
I gave the stress ball a tight squeeze. Thank god I listened to my friend who’d been through a biopsy before and brought it just in case the hospital didn’t provide one.
“1…2…”
True to his word, he went slower and shallower. But I was still reeling from the pain to even crack such an easy dirty joke in my head. I kept squeezing the stress ball so tight that it was now scrunched up and almost hidden in the palm of my hand.
“…3”
Boom!
I waited for a couple of seconds, expecting the pain to suddenly sear through the path left behind by the needle. Nope, nothing, just that gush of water again. I unclenched my grip and the stress ball reverted back to its shape. Phew, ok that didn’t hurt but that means the trickle is next. What the fuck is it anyway?
The doctor punctuated through my thoughts, “How was that? Did you feel anything?”
I was about to give him the all-clear but I figured it was my one chance to deal with that damn trickle. “It was ok. It didn’t hurt. But can I ask….what is that water I’m feeling?”
“Water?” He sounded confused. Maybe it really is just me – was I imagining it?
“Yeah, every time it goes in, I feel this water down my back.“
“Ohhh,” he replied almost absent-mindedly, “that’s just the blood.”
My body must have reacted quicker than my mind did. The doctor sensed his mis-step as the colour drained from my face and my body tensed up. He quickly switched his tone to a chirpy one, “Don’t worry about the liquid, the nurse will clean you up afterwards. It’s normal, you’re doing very well.”
Oh it’s nothing.
Just liquid.
Just blood.
Just my blood.
Justmybloodgushingtricklingflowingovermybreastchestshoulderback.
I was starting to feel light-headed and immediately focused on controlling my breathing, ok baby breath, deep breaths, don’t think about it, just breath, keep breathing.
“Safe. 1..2..3..”
Boom!
I was starting to disassociate. I could still feel the drops streaming down my breast but now that I knew what it was, I couldn’t help but imagine a crimson waterfall engulfing my body when the truth it is it was probably just the same narrow rivulets of blood down my shoulder.
Breath, baby breath.
Flashback to barely two hours ago, when I was sitting in the consultation room with the doctor. A worn-out plastic binder filled with printed sheets from a ‘What to expect in a Biopsy’ deck lay between us. He had just stepped into the room where I’d been waiting for him for the past 15 mins so I had already flipped through the whole deck twice. Part of it stemmed from me being a fast reader, and the other was the fact that I didn’t really want to be left alone with anatomical diagrams and warning disclaimers explaining what to do if you haven’t stopped bleeding heavily in the next 24 hours post-surgery. As he went through the motions of pointing out certain pages in the deck, he asked me if I had any questions.
“Yes but not so much a question about the biopsy. I have a phobia of blood since childhood which means that I get nauseous and black out if I see it. So I’m just going to keep my eyes closed and look away the whole time ok?”
“Ok, I understand… yes, just keep your eyes shut. It’s a very quick process.”
Yet it still didn’t really hit me as I followed him into the examination room.
Maybe just a little when I changed into my robe and saw that the table was now covered in surgical drapes that reminded me of my cats’ pee pads.
And a tiny bit more when he announced he was about to inject Novocain into my left boob right before he got samples from the first spot.
When the Novocain needle went in, it felt like a fire ant bite but not a pain that was unfamiliar. I’ve tattoos, I reassured myself, I can handle it. But I just wasn’t sure whether to expect to feel the anaesthetic coursing through my breast like a chill, or does it just suddenly go numb?
Then I realised the doctor was already picking up his scalpel and narrated, “Ok I’m now going to make a small incision on the skin. Do you feel any pain?”
Well it was unnerving for me to feel the weight of a hand on my flesh but not actually feel-feel it so I guess it worked. And then he started.
I’ve since ceased imagining a bloody massacre happening on my left mound and calmed down. It’s a trick I’ve had since I was a kid whenever I get triggered by even the mention of blood, let alone the sight of gore. To quell the rise of bile in my throat, I just have to bite my lips and slow down my breath the fuck down.
Breath, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… Out 1, 2 ,3 ,4 ,5… Breath, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… Out 1, 2 ,3 ,4 ,5.
Then instead of spiralling into a vivid technicolor tableau of the gory scene in my head, I tell myself to picture my chest rising up and down with each breath like the tides at a shore. It was a little more challenging to imagine my heaving chest today of course because its that same chest which is ironically triggering my phobia but it worked. I’ve moved away from the possibility of fainting to just lying cramped in that awkward position and just wishing the procedure is over.
“Ok, we’re done on this side. Do you want to stretch your arm? But don’t touch the drape because it’s sterile.”
“Huh?” I uttered as I proceeded to do the exact thing he told me not to. I stretched my left arm to the sky and was about to raise it towards my knee as he quickly chided, “No, don’t touch the drapes… the other way. Stretch away from it to keep it sterile.”
Opps, sorry. My bad, never been in a day surgery before.
“Ready for the next one?”
“Ah ok.. actually can you take the cushion away? It’s a bit uncomfortable,” My head was still cradled on my right arm. While I slowly peeked at the technician next to me who was eyeing the ultrasound monitor, I didn’t dare to turn and look at the doctor on my left and see the scene.
“Yes, we can do that. I’ll have to come from the other side too because this one is at your 10 o’clock and closer to your chest so I want to be extra careful. We’ll give you two injections of Novocain just in case.”
His words fell over me like a cloud of gibberish at that point. Nothing was really registering in my head and all I wanted was it to be done. How long have I been in here? It feels like forever. “Ok.”
This time I knew what to expect.
Two ant bites. The incision to cut the skin. The probe to find the pesky lump. Pause. Safe. Countdown. The slow slide of the needle into flesh. 1..2..3. Boom.
“Oh…” the doctor sounded surprised. Mmm, k that wasn’t on the bingo card.
“Let’s try again,” he said aloud to the technician. Try again?
I felt the weight of his hand on my 10 o’clock, Then his voice ringing, “Safe..” The glide of the needle into my breast and just stopping short from reaching the chest itself. “1..2..3.” Boom! The ‘stapler gun’ went off.
“I’m sorry but it’s jumping around.” He sounded perturbed.
I don’t even remember if I had actually said something or he saw my eyebrows furrow in confusion when he explained, “ It’s next to an air pocket so each time we try to get a sample, it moves slightly away and we don’t get enough. Let me try again.”
I should have been silently screaming in my head but for the first time that day, I smiled to myself. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism but I couldn’t help but be amused at the idea of my cyst jumping around in my breast like a Mexican jumping bean and dodging each shot like Neo from The Matrix.
My amusement didn’t last too long though as a few more tries at the same spot left me sore and uneasy. He finally said, “Give me a moment, I’m going to get another doctor’s opinion on this.”
Huh.. ok, I didn’t know you can do that. It felt like the equivalent of a commercial break. Next thing I knew, I heard the familiar matronly voice of the female doctor from the previous ultrasound session. Alright, guess I was right about her being in charge. I heard my doctor explaining to her about the situation and how he’s about to change tactics and maneuver from a horizontal angle to trap that sneaky fella. Or something along those lines because once again, I’ve started to zone out and they could have been discussing how to parallel park a trailer truck for what’s worth. Please, I’m tired. I just want to put my arm down and go home.
“Yes, that sounds right. Go ahead,” she agreed and stood there as he started again.
Probe. Pause. Safe. Needle. 1. 2. 3. Boom!
There was no mistaking the glee in his voice this time as he pulled out the needle holding the sample of that pesky jumping cyst, “Better!”
Remembering that I’m still there, he explained that while usually they’ll need 4-5 samples per cyst for the lab to test, unfortunately my tricky cyst meant they’ll need to take a bit more because they kept breaking and he rather not have me come back for another biopsy to try again. I just nodded this time with my eyes shut and mumbled “Ahuh” through closed lips. Please, just finish.
I’ve been keeping count of the stapler guns echoes all this time as my breast is starting to feel so bruised with each shot. The trickle stopped bothering me and was replaced with a voice in my head after the drone of each ricohet, was that it? Was that the last one? Are we done? Are we done yet?
Safe. 1, 2, 3. Boom!
Safe. 1, 2, 3. Boom!
Safe. 1, 2, 3. Boom!
Finally after lucky number 7 echoed through the walls, the doctor declared “Ok, I think we have all we need. The nurse will come in to clean you up. Just stay still and don’t open your eyes. Just keep them closed. She will come in now. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I feebly mumbled back. Man, that was surreal. And a little anti-climatic but I wasn’t sure what to expect. What do you mean the nurse will come in and clean me up? Don’t doctors stay and stitch it up? Obviously I’m not going to take a peek but how bad is the cleanup?
Then I hear the shuffle and sounds of metal tools against tables, swish of curtains, the squeak of rubber gloves being removed, the gush of running tap water and hands being scrubbed, and then footsteps out the door. Wow, I guess your senses do really turn up a notch when one of them is down for the count.
Don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes…
Without warning I hear the curtains swishing open and a booming female voice with a Malay accent go, “Are you ok?”
Still dazed and confused, I voiced uncertainly, “I’m ok?”
“I can’t hear you… are you ok or not??” She retorted in a strict tone at a higher octave akin to a nagging mother who’s about to scold you for being weak. Way too familiar to those who grew up amongst fierce Malay makciks.
I burst into tears. “I don’t know.”
I pushed my face deeper into crook of my right arm in a futile bid to stop crying. I was starting to sob which hurt my chest with every heave. That made me cry even harder feeling the pain of my poor sore wounded breast.
“Ala sayang, jangan nangis. (Oh sweetheart, don’t cry.) It’s over, you’re ok.” The nurse’s voice soften as I felt her pulling off the drapes and wiping me off as the doctor promised she would. “Mmmm,” she uttered to herself, “he took two eh..”
I whimpered, “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I was ok just now…”
My shoulders were still shaking as I gulped through each word and stem the flow of my hot tears.
She laughed softly as she cleaned my back from the dried streams of blood, “Ah sayang it’s ok, it’s normal. Kalau you tak nangis, lagi I risau. (If you didn’t cry, I’ll be more worried). You did the hard part you know. Not many people will come in and do this because they’re so scared. You’re very brave, you did the right thing. It’s ok. The hard part is over. Don’t worry sayang, you know once I had a guy pengsan (fainted) in front of me and I had to carry him? Me, carry this 70kg man who pengsan because he takut (was scared). Crying is nothing. Crying is normal, jangan malu(don’t be embarrassed).”
I started laughing too, not just at her story but at the absurdity of the moment. Even with my eyes still shut, I felt her quick deft hands wiping me steadily and heard the tear of the adhesive bandages as she pasted it over my two puncture wounds. I was a literal Baby being cleaned up by motherly Makcik consoling me, “ala sayang sayang”. My tears did stop though and I am forever grateful for her motherly presence in the aftermath. Finally she goes, “Ok you can open your eyes now.”
I gingerly turned my head and faced downwards to my left breast. For a second, my face felt flushed and I got lightheaded. I thought I was going to throw up.
There was no blood of course, just two small pure white bandages on either side of each slope. But instead, there was a literal dent in my breast. Like, a valley where the flesh dipped in and out on the outer face of my left mound where I could put a finger under my breast and actually see it through the dent. Wait, what? Am I dreaming?
I looked up at the nurse confused. She didn’t say a word about the indent but instead kept talking about the hospital gossip, how I should get dressed, and have a cup of Milo to feel better and go to the next room to finish up. Ok, so I guess this is normal? When the weight of a human hand presses down on your breast for a full hour and half, your mound will look like a bundtcake??
But true to her word, as I sipped that cup of hot Milo while I shuffled out the door in my hospital gown, I felt better.
It must have been really only 20 minutes that passed in the aftermath procedure after the biopsy but it felt like another hour. They took my blood pressure, then made me have a mammogram to track the tiny metal tissue markers the doctor had inserted in my spots. It was ironic that I had been pushing so hard for a mammogram but I wasn’t allowed one because I was too young, but I didn’t even recognise the machine they brought me into the room. The young soft-spoken attendant told me to take off my gown and start whenever I’m ready.
“Urm, start what?”
She looked at me quizzingly, “Stand in front of the machine and get ready.”
“Sorry, what do I need to do at this machine? Is it an X-Ray?”
“Oh, it’s a mammogram machine. Wait, you haven’t had a mammogram before?”
I just raised my eyebrow at her and went, “Nope. I wanted to but I wasn’t allowed.” I paused from the snarkiness as it dawned on me, “Wait, doesn’t a mammogram press on your breast?? But I just had the biopsy!”
She smiled and replied in a sing-song voice, “Yes, don’t worry I won’t press so hard.”
Then finally after another round of scans, she said “Ok, you can go. You’re discharged.”
I downed the last drop of my Milo. “Really? Everything’s done?”
“Yes, you can change now and go to the reception. They will give you an MC and officially discharge you.”
I put my soft flimsy bra on and pulled my t-shirt gingerly over my head with just my right arm. I was warned not to raise my left arm too much in case it opened up my wounds. Plus, I think the anaesthesia was starting to wear off as the soreness became sharper in relief. On the bright side, my breast started to look normal again as it reverted back to its usual shape. Normal is subjective of course, even as I peered down I could see the darkening angry bruises and the bandage was starting to spot with blood.
“Thank you and have a good weekend” I smiled as I threw the paper cup away and walked out.
I was halfway through down the hallway from the sad inner waiting room to the bright lights of the airy welcoming reception in the front when I spotted them first.
My younger brother and sister, slouched in the hospital waiting seats with their side profiles facing me, unaware of my presence. My lips curled into a smile as I felt the relief of seeing them there as I shuffled onwards. Then it hit me when they turned and spotted me.
My brother’s eyes met mine first.
It was the look of absolute terror and worry in his eyes. And my sister mirroring the same sentiments as she leaned over and peeped from behind my brother’s shoulders. When my siblings followed me for all my appointments, I only assumed it was from filial duty after Mummy was gone. I’ve been so caught up from the start throughout the experience in my bubble of fear and anxiety that I didn’t realize that they were in the same exact sphere with me all this time too. They were just as scared, triggered and uncertain about the future just like me. I wasn’t alone as I assumed I was.
I burst into tears again as I quicken my pace towards them. My brother immediately stood up as his expression softened into love and hugged me. I didn’t question why was I crying this time around or care how I looked with the rest of the world watching. I just sobbed, and heaved, and sobbed, and heaved into his shoulders.
It’s over for now. The first hard step is done.
Then we went for ice cream and finally went home.
It was the longest and shortest two weeks of my life that followed through. For the results appointment, I’d asked my best friend if she could accompany me instead of my siblings. I know it sounds odd and cliche no matter how I rationalize it but basically, I didn’t want to traumatize them if it was bad news. I didn’t want to subject them to the potential of witnessing me breaking down if the doctor said it was indeed cancer. Just like how once upon a time I stood with the group of doctors in front of the resulting scans of my mother’s body. I close my eyes and immediately I’m back there petrified and searching for an answer to, “How will she get through this?”
On the day of the results, we kept it as normal as possible by having breakfast at the hospital’s Starbucks. Oddly enough I still had an appetite as I tore through a chicken croissant and my hot soy chai latte. She sat across me as she sipped her Emperor’s Clouds & Mist tea and filled me in with the latest shenanigans and life updates. She knew me too well of course, as she’ll give me a comforting look every now and then tell me I should perhaps switch to a tea to ease the butterflies and not have a milky latte. We’ve known each other for 26 years now, so she knew I was rambling on and on to distract myself and trying my best not to throw up from the anxiety.
“Ok, it’s time.”
We took the lift up, separated for a moment by the disparate crowd in the lift. As the doors closed and opened at various levels, my mind went into autopilot. By this time, I felt like such a regular to the 8th floor.
The doors opened and we stepped out. I’d checked in earlier with my app and so went straight to the reception counter with my bestie trailing behind. “Hi, I’m here for my appointment. Noorindah Iskandar.”
“Ok, Miss Noorindah, have a seat. The doctor will see you shortly.”
“Thank you,” My heart was starting to pound and I’m assuming it was showing on my face as my bestie directed me to the seats and held my hand. She assured me, “It’ll be ok, you’re strong…we can handle it together.”
Her words were barely sinking in when I heard my name being called. The doctor’s ready. We got up and headed towards the consultation room, my head was getting light-headed and I just wanted to scream and run away. I knocked and opened the door.
It was the original doctor I’d met the first time together with her assistant. I knew it was going to be her but the last we spoke was over the phone and so I hesitated for a moment as my brain was trying to scan and recognise her. “Hi doc, this is my best friend. Urm, should we sit here?” I fumbled over my words as I pulled the chair in front of her out.
Her firm voice rang as she flipped over a sheet of paper and handed it to me, “Sure, sit here. So I have the results of the test. It’s benign.”
Wait what…It was amazing news obviously but I haven’t even gotten comfortable in my seat yet. I suddenly felt overwhelmed and disassociate – shouldn’t there be some small talk at first to ask how I’m feeling?
“You mean it’s not cancer?”
“No it’s not, they’re just cysts. One of them is breast tissue actually. The tricky bigger one that kept moving, that’s hardened breast tissue. So yeah, that’s it. I’ll arrange for another check-up in 6 months just to make sure and then after that you can just come in once a year. Like I’ve mentioned before, while your mother and aunt may have breast cancer, statiscally you’re at the same risk profile as anyone else… not higher. ”
The tell-tale signs of my mind and body not being aligned were showing up. Her voice was starting to fade out into the distance. My chest felt tight and my brows were furrowed as my thoughts raced in disbelief and confusion. Wait what, that’s it? Is that really it? You’re not going to tell me I should do this and that and how sorry you are that this and that and this and…. that’s all? We’re done?
I must have looked like quite a sight to a casual observer. A doctor tells you that you don’t have cancer and yet you’re not doubling over in joy and gratitude. I barely had a smile on my face.
Luckily my bestie sensed it and took over by asking the practical questions I would have never thought of. Instead, I was just staring at the piece of paper in my hands but never actually looking. The black letters were just swimming all over the white sheet like alphabet soup. Growth, benign, shattered..
“Thank you doctor.” Her voice snapped me back to reality as she slowly led me out of the room. What’s wrong with me? I feel relieved of course but why am I not feeling as happy as I should be?
We sat back in our seats at the waiting room as I was kept still in stunned silence. She rubbed my back as she comforted me, “It’s ok…it’s very good news. You’re just still processing it.”
I turned to look at her, “I’m relieved but it kinda feels, is that it? “
“I know… well at least the doctors are efficient. They’re so good at what they do that maybe they forget about the emotional part. Now text your siblings before they worry.”
Then we left and had ice cream.
The next day, I took a ferry to Bintan by myself and spent a couple of days hiding in a secluded beautiful resort. That was the plan all along when I found out about my biopsy and I’d arranged to get away once I have my results because regardless of what it was, I needed to step away from it all.
And I did. I napped, read, wrote, ate, basked in the sun, played with the cats and dogs at the wonderful sanctuary that was Roka Resort and I thought about life.
I thought about how surreal the past few months have been.
How it stemmed from a chance encounter with a hot guy that eventually I never saw again which led to a pain in my boob and eventually a biopsy. You wonder what if all that never happened and life went on, would the cysts eventually turn into trouble?
How it brought Mummy back to life, just even for a little while. Through little signs like spotting butterflies on the days of my doctor’s appointments and imagining her by the curtains of the examination room looking out for me. I miss her still so much.
How no doctor would believe me at each step until the cysts showed up on the ultrasound screen which I had to insist on. And how they kept pointing out how challenging and dense my breasts are to spot anything problematic. I mean I know how dense they are, that’s why they have a fan club…
How much grief two little puncture wounds can bring in the aftermath. Suddenly you’re acutely aware of every little step, movement, turn, breath you take because it feels like a hot needle slicing through your breast all over again. Then you’ll also get used to the sight of dried blood on your bandages for a week but wonder when will it actually stop. (The answer is two weeks)
How that beautiful bosom you’re so proud of can actually be the thing you start to resent. Because only you’ll know how heavy they are when you can’t sleep at night because no matter the position you lay in, gravity takes over and presses against the space left behind by the trail of the needle. You’ll start to whimper yourself to sleep and eventually drift off dreaming of stapler guns and butterflies.
How the people in my life reacted when I shared the news with them. It became a mirror to love and reflected back on those who deserve that spot in my warmth, and those who don’t. It mended some bridges and burned others. It also showed me where I was lacking and how there was nothing more valuable than simply being seen and accepted for who you are.
Someone told me that he’d been keeping me in his prayers every day since I went over to his place and showed him my biopsy scars. That touched me and made me tear as I knew his de facto mode was Logic and Reason. I woke up with a text from another on the day of the results, comforting me that I’m not alone and wishing all the love and luck despite us breaking up a few weeks prior. For others, silence was a complete answer in itself.
But as I peered through my sunglasses as I lay by the pool and watch the clouds roll by, most of all I thought about how I’m not ready to die.
How I haven’t done all the things I dream of doing.
How I haven’t loved enough the ones in my life who deserve it.
How I haven’t been loved by the ones I haven’t met yet.
And ultimately how I’m still just writing the first few chapters in my crazy adventure and I don’t know what’s the next plot twist yet.
Some days I feel like I’ve lived several past lives within this timeline.
And while I may not remember all versions of Rin I’ve embodied but I know that at each juncture, the universe takes away what no longer serves me, and gives me exactly what I need for the next chapter.
So there’s really nothing else we can do anyway but hang on for the ride and see how the story ends.
It’s definitely been a nail-biting page turner so far. And I wouldn’t want anything less. Hopefully with my beloved bosom intact.