Nineteen
When Gill awoke, she was aware of a sense of dread. It only took a few moments for her to remember. It was today she was to have the biopsy. By this time tomorrow, she’d know the worst.
She showered and dressed in a daze, then headed to the kitchen. She didn’t feel hungry but forced herself to choke down a slice of toast, liberally spread with the ginger, lemon and lime jam which had been recommended to her by Barb Harris before she became ill and which had become a favourite of Gill’s too. This morning it tasted like cardboard, but she knew she needed to eat. There was no telling when she’d be able to eat solid food again. The results of her internet searches all agreed she would be restricted to liquids and soft foods for several days after the procedure. She washed the toast down with a cup of camomile tea which failed to have its usual calming effect.
Gill sent her morning text to Freya, wishing she could tell her about the procedure she was about to undergo, did a quick check of the news without really taking anything in, then it was time to leave.
The clinic where the biopsy was to take place was situated some way up the coast, so Gill loaded up one of the series of podcasts she had listened to on the way to Bellbird Bay. This time, it was an interview with Sam Mostyn on women breaking through in business, sport and equal opportunity , most appropriate as Sam had been named as Australia’s next Governor General. But this morning even that failed to hold her attention. All she could think of was what if her bump proved to be malignant? What if she required surgery, chemotherapy? How would she cope?
What she did know was that, immediately after the procedure her mouth would be numb, and she’d need to avoid talking or eating till the numbness wore off. She was glad the appointment was on a Friday which should give her the weekend to recover.
Gill arrived at her destination before she was emotionally prepared. Taking a deep breath and trying to subdue the nauseous feeling in her stomach, she got out of the car, walked to the long grey building and pushed open the door.
A short time later, she was lying in a dental chair, and the oral pathologist, a man of similar age to herself with a kind face and floppy blond hair, was putting her at her ease by explaining the procedure to her in words which, even in her nervous state, she could understand. To her relief, he told her that at first glance, the bump didn’t look cancerous.
Then he proceeded to inject her tongue with an anaesthetic. It was just like being at the dentist, she thought. as the anaesthetic began to take effect.
The procedure was painless. The pathologist held her tongue, a piece of gauze on his fingers, while he scraped away the bump which was to be sent off to be tested – a routine process only, he assured her, and not urgent. Then it was over, the wound was packed with more gauze, and she was handed more pieces of gauze and given instructions to repack it if necessary. The entire process had only taken around fifteen minutes.
While the initial information from the pathologist had indicated a follow up appointment, he told Gill he was so sure it was benign that no further appointment would be necessary. Instead, he’d phone her with the result.
Gill felt as if the worry which had been weighing on her had suddenly disappeared. It wasn’t cancer. Her mouth was numb and when she tried to arrange a time for the follow-up call with the receptionist, she found herself unable to speak and forced to use sign language. She was glad she didn’t need to see anyone else that day.
Back home, and feeling tired, Gill was glad to drop into bed and close her eyes.
*
Awaking a few hours later, Gill was aware the numbness had worn off and the part of her tongue which had been scraped was now very painful. Since leaving the clinic, her teeth had been tightly clenched to hold the gauze in place, but now she needed to take some painkillers and wasn’t sure how she would manage it.
With difficulty, she swallowed two Panadol and washed them down with a couple of mouthfuls of water, then went out to stand on her balcony, seeing the familiar scene through a different light from before. It was as if everything had a new glow about it. Suddenly all of her worries about Max and her divorce seemed insignificant. So what if he wanted half her earnings, half of the value of this apartment. She didn’t have cancer. She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t going to die. For the first time Gill acknowledged what had been her worst fear. She knew she still had to receive the result of the biopsy, but she believed the pathologist, and he’d been sure it was benign.
As the pain receded, Gill began to feel the pangs of hunger, reminding her she’d had scarcely any breakfast. She was glad she’d thought to stock up on cans of soup, yoghurt, and almond milk and bananas to make smoothies, but it was too soon. She checked the packing on her tongue removing the blooded gauze and replacing it, then she lay down again, this time choosing to listen to the book for her next book club till her eyes began to close.
Next time Gill opened her eyes, it was almost dark. She was pain free. Cautiously, she checked the gauze to discover the healing process had begun, and a blood clot had formed in the wound. She took out the blender. Into it she fed a cup of almond milk, a chopped-up banana and a dash of vanilla essence. She could do this. She might even manage to lose weight if she kept to a liquid diet for the next few days till her tongue healed sufficiently for her to be able to eat scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes – maybe even one of the frozen cottage pies in the freezer.
The smoothie tasted delicious, making Gill wonder why she’d never made one before. She took it out to the balcony and gazed up at the sky. In her heightened sense of well-being, the stars seemed brighter than ever before. She gave thanks for her health, suddenly aware her happiness wasn’t dependent on possessions. She thought of the last missive from her solicitor, of Max’s latest demands, and realised they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered apart from the fact she was healthy; she had the rest of her life to look forward to.
There was nothing she could do today; it was too late. But she promised herself that on Monday she would contact her solicitor and instruct her to finalise her divorce, to agree to Max’s demands. Life was too short to continue to battle over the divorce settlement. She’d been granted a future. It was more than Barb Harris had had. The thought of the woman who’d lost her battle with cancer turned Gill’s thoughts to Joe, to Barb’s husband, the man who’d recently entered her life, their decision to be friends. She remembered the list she’d made, the changes she wanted to make in her life. One of these related to friends, to become more sociable, less isolated. Maybe she could start by developing her friendship with Joe.