Chapter 2
I allowed myself ten minutes of panicking, frantically prodding every other millimetre of my chest and underarms, before forcing myself to stop and figure out what to do next.
If I was my own best friend, I could also be my own life coach. What would I tell a client – Shari – if they’d phoned me in this state?
Breathe, first.
I perched on the edge of the bed and took in a long, juddery breath.
Then I grabbed my phone and started searching.
Okay, that wasn’t terrible. One website said that eight out of ten lumps are non-cancerous.
Back to the breathing.
Scrolling.
Panicking.
I called my GP surgery, which was open until six.
It went straight to a maddeningly long message about what to do if someone had stopped breathing or otherwise needed emergency help, the different times to call for test results, how to arrange a prescription and entreaties to look on the website for information rather than waiting to speak to someone.
Why did it tell you how to cancel an appointment before allowing you to make one?
I eventually selected the option for a receptionist, realised I’d pressed the wrong button, fumbled to end the call, then started again.
‘You are currently number seven in the queue,’ a robotic voice informed me when I finally made it past the initial message.
Okay. I checked the time. The car would be here in twenty minutes. Deciding to try again later when the queue would hopefully be shorter, I hung up, wrestled myself back into the corset, slid the designer dress over my head and zipped it up.
It was the middle of November, but we’d been told the show was adopting a full-on Christmas theme, so to dress accordingly.
The Christmas tree dress I’d been gifted had a dark green tulle bodice, embroidered with narrow strings of fairy lights that turned on when I clicked a button.
The skirt was layers of fake fir branches, decorated with tiny baubles in rose and gold, matching ribbons and more lights.
It had seemed fun up until a few minutes ago. Now, I couldn’t remember ever feeling less festive. Which was saying something, considering the Christmas I was fifteen my family were squatting in a leaky old caravan with no proper bathroom, let alone a turkey or presents.
After adding bauble earrings and checking my make-up was still intact, I went through the appointment rigmarole again.
‘You are currently number fourteen in the queue.’
I took more deep breaths and kept the phone on speaker while I checked I had everything I needed in my clutch bag, disguised as a present to accompany the tree.
‘You are currently number fifteen in the queue.’
What?
How was that possible? Was there a secret way to jump the queue?
For a shaky moment, I debated whether to confide in Nico, then reminded myself that his solution to a potential health crisis would be to spend the night downing shots. Him ditching me this evening was probably for the best.
I slipped on my shoes with a flash of pride that I’d chosen sturdy heels I could walk in without wobbling, had one more quick mirror inspection (to my relief, I looked like a woman ready for a red carpet, rather than someone drowning in dread) and headed out the door to the waiting limo.
‘Can we take a detour?’ I asked, giving the driver the postcode for the surgery, which was thankfully in a village about a mile from my secluded haven.
I no longer trusted the queue robot, suspecting they were throwing out random numbers just to make people give up and take a couple of painkillers instead.
It was a Friday night and I couldn’t bear to wait until Monday.
I had reached the lofty heights of number nine in the queue by the time we pulled into the car park.
The driver, who I’d been told in advance was called Gregor, opened my door while I was still figuring out how to slide off the seat in my dress. ‘Do you need any assistance?’
‘No thanks. I’ll just be a couple of minutes,’ I said, almost tumbling into him as the skirt popped out of the car.
I scurried over to the entrance, bouncing off the door before noticing the large accessible-friendly button needed to open it.
‘Okay, I’m fine. I’m okay,’ I muttered, taking a moment to regather myself as my phone announced that I was now number twelve in the queue.
I’d only moved into my new house a few months ago, and after registering at the surgery online hadn’t needed to visit in person yet.
There was a brightly lit waiting room, with a few people sitting on benches.
Right in front of me was a reception desk with a standard post-Covid glass partition and one receptionist talking on the phone, another skimming through a paper file while gnawing on a Curly Wurly.
‘Hello,’ I said, feeling winded as the reality of the situation hit me again.
The Curly Wurly woman ignored me. She looked to be in her fifties, the sharp fringe of her bowl haircut peppered with grey. Her oversized glasses dug into puffy, pallid cheeks and everything about her body language said, ‘I don’t care’.
‘Um, hello?’ I leant a little closer, aware that a man had entered the surgery and was waiting behind me.
I was dolled up like a celeb on her way to an awards evening.
Wearing a Christmas tree dress in November.
Silent tears of terror were now pouring down my face.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I squeaked, as if that wasn’t precisely what she was paid for. ‘But I need to make an appointment.’
The woman stuck the chocolate bar in her mouth like a cigar and nonchalantly flipped over a page in the file, before pointing upwards at the ceiling, never taking her eyes off the papers in front of her.
‘What?’ I asked, baffled.
‘You need to call to make an appointment,’ the man behind me said.
I turned to find him offering a sympathetic smile.
I vaguely noted that in different circumstances I’d have found his dark, mussy hair attractive.
He wore a brown jacket over a soft charcoal jumper and jeans, with heavy boots that added an outdoorsy feel.
What drew my attention, though, were his eyes.
Slate grey, flecked with darker brown, they looked at me with such kind attention, I felt instantly calmer.
As if somehow this stranger could make everything okay.
In the depths, I thought I detected some sorrow, too.
That was also reassuring. I was naturally suspicious of overly cheerful people.
In my experience, it meant they were in denial about something.
Or, when it came to my father, about everything.
I held up my phone. ‘I’m currently’ – I paused to confirm it – ‘number eleven in the queue. The surgery closes in forty-five minutes and for the past half an hour, the highest I’ve reached is nine.’
He frowned. ‘How can you move down the queue?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Here.’ He handed me a tissue, which I accepted gratefully before turning back to the receptionist. This stranger had bolstered me.
‘Excuse me, but I can’t get through on the phone and this is urgent.’ I rapped on the window for good measure.
Curly Wurly snapped her head up like a velociraptor catching a sniff of goat. She snatched the chocolate bar from between her lips. ‘Do not touch the partition.’
‘Okay, well do not ignore a distressed patient standing right in front of you!’
With a gargantuan sigh, she folded her arms on the desk.
‘You need to phone to make an appointment. Carol will answer your call when it’s your turn.
’ She nodded at the woman next to her, who appeared to be decades past retirement age, so old and frail she could barely hold the phone, and mostly seemed to be asking, ‘Pardon?’ or ‘Can you speak more clearly, please?’ over and over.
‘Look, this isn’t just a cough or sniffle.’
‘A persistent cough can be a sign of lung cancer,’ Curly Wurly droned.
‘Right. Well, what if I have another sign of cancer, and I’m scared, and would really like to get an appointment with a doctor booked in now, because I don’t think I can cope with waiting all weekend then phoning Monday morning and being number ninety-seven in the queue.’
‘What’s this “other sign”?’ she asked, as if I was the most irritating person she’d ever had the displeasure of speaking to.
‘I’d rather not say,’ I replied, very aware of the man behind me.
‘Then I’d rather not bypass our tried-and-trusted telephone appointment system.’ She went back to her file, annoying interruption dismissed.
‘What if it’s confidential?’
She pointed the remains of the Curly Wurly at a sign on the wall:
Please provide our receptionists with the reason you require an urgent appointment, so they can refer you to the most suitable health professional.
Great.
My throat ached at the very thought of saying it out loud.
‘Wait!’ The woman nodded her head at Carol. ‘Carol’s free now, you can talk to her.’
‘How is Carol free when I’m still number ten in the phone queue?’
A dismissive shrug. ‘Do you want an appointment or not? Because if you don’t mind, there’s other people waiting who aren’t trying to bypass the system. Carol, this woman wants an urgent appointment and is refusing to use the phone.’
‘Do you want to see a doctor?’ Carol asked, after taking a few tries to slot the phone back into its base.
‘Yes, please.’
‘I know I sound like a bit of a nosy parker, but can you tell me the reason for wanting an appointment?’
‘I’d rather not say,’ I replied, grateful for Carol’s gentler tone.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t make you an appointment if you don’t give me a reason. I’m not trying to be mean. It’s surgery policy.’
I just needed this to be over. And it was hardly something to be ashamed of, was it?
‘I found a lump in my breast,’ I said, firmly but quietly enough so the whole room didn’t hear.
‘A what, sorry? You’ll have to speak up, my hearing aid isn’t working properly.’
‘I found a lump in my breast,’ I repeated, slowly and a tiny bit louder.
‘Breast lump!’ Curly Wurly bellowed, leaning right up to her colleague’s ear.