cream you used seems to have done the trick.’
‘Good. We’re almost done anyway.’
As a clinical nurse specialist in the breast care centre at the Tower Hospital in London she worked closely with her patients through all stages of their treatment to ensure quality of care, from providing emotional support after that first diagnosis of breast cancer to advice and information post-treatment, but it was her role as medical tattooist that gave her most job satisfaction.
She knew how much it took for these ladies to trust her with their bodies after the trauma they’d gone through. That first time she’d had to strip off for the consultation with her tattoo artist, she’d been trembling so hard she’d imagined the only art possible was squiggly lines and splodges, but the sympathetic, caring nature of the woman she’d soon come to see regularly had put her at ease. She wanted to recreate that feeling of safety and privacy for everyone who came through the doors of her clinic as well as leaving them with a sense of pride in their appearance.
Some women who’d decided their bodies had been through enough after chemotherapy and surgery opted for the tattoo only rather than go through a breast reconstruction after a mastectomy, while others decided to make use of the prostheses and stick-on artificial nipples available. It was a personal choice for each individual patient, one not arrived at easily, and it was her job to inform them of the options available. This final decision was the road back for these women reclaiming their bodies and femininity from cancer.
She’d been there to support Carole during her difficult decision to have her breast reconstruction at the same time as her mastectomy six months ago and for her sake wanted to get the all-important shading right with the medical grade micro-pigment to create the 3D effect of the areola around the reconstructed nipple to complete the transformation. Hopefully this would be the last surgical step for her.
‘It looks so real. I can’t thank you enough.’ Carole’s eyes were shining with tears of gratitude as Mollie cleaned the wound one last time and switched off the tattoo machine.
She gave a cough to clear the ball of emotion wedged in her throat as she removed the sheet partially covering Carole’s upper half. It was impossible to accompany people on this journey without becoming emotionally attached.
‘You can take a good look in the mirror to make sure you’re happy before I put the dressing on.’
Though Mollie had never suffered from cancer herself, being able to look in the mirror without recoiling had been an important part of her recovery process and she was privileged to be in a position to do the same for other people. Even if she wasn’t convinced other people didn’t look at her scars without judgement, and still kept them covered as much as possible.
‘You’ve done an incredible job... I don’t know why I’m crying...’ Carole laughed through her tears as she eased her clothes on. She’d been stoic throughout the counselling sessions during her treatment and it was only human for those emotions she’d been holding back during her battle to come flooding out now it was coming to an end.
‘It’s a natural reaction, Carole. You’ve been through a lot. Now, do you have anyone you can talk to if you need to until I see you again?’ Although they’d discussed the course available to her with a clinical psychologist to help rebuild her confidence, it wouldn’t be right to just send her home now with no immediate emotional support.
‘My husband’s been great, as you know, but my sister has invited me to stay with her for a few days in the country so I think I might take her up on the offer.’
‘Good idea. The break will do you good and we’re only on the end of the phone if you need to talk to any of us. Leave that dressing on for forty-eight hours and try not to get it wet for the next ten days or so. As we discussed, we’ll send you out an appointment in about six weeks for a top-up to prevent any fading, but if you experience any swelling or a rise in temperature between now and then, please speak to your doctor in case any infection should develop.’ All aftercare instructions were in the leaflets Mollie passed on but they were worth repeating when there was always that small risk of complication occurring.
‘I will. Thank you. I’m quite looking forward to some peace and quiet. Not to mention a bit of TLC. Even at sixty-three, I’m still considered the baby of the family.’ Carole rolled her eyes as she folded the information sheets for perusal later.
Although only the eldest by two minutes and sixteen seconds, Mollie understood that need to protect her little sister, too. Not that she’d been given much choice, with Talia having inherited their mother’s laissez-faire attitude to responsibility. Someone had had to step up and be the adult after their father abandoned them and, since Mollie was the one to blame for him leaving, that someone had been her.
The stress of her injuries and multiple surgeries had taken its toll on her parents financially and driven her volatile father to take out his frustrations on her mother and sister. If she’d done as she was told and kept away from that old building at the end of the road she would never have slipped and been ripped to shreds falling through that glass window and shattered the family. Trying to emulate Talia’s daredevil defiance had been an immature attempt to grab some of the local boys’ attention away from her pretty sister and had ultimately ruined her life and everyone else’s.
It was the guilt of being the catalyst for that escalating violence and eventual abandonment that had kept her at home looking after their broken-hearted mother and left her indebted to her sister. They’d paid the price for her actions and carried as many scars as she did.
There was a hard, sharp rap on the door—the kind she associated with medical emergencies or anxious family members impatient for news—which dragged her out of those dark memories and back into the present.
‘Come in,’ she shouted, half expecting to see a worried Mr Rogers keen for news on his wife’s progress. He attended all Carole’s appointments with her, even if he didn’t sit in on counselling sessions, and they always left holding hands. It was the kind of sweet relationship she wished her mother had found after their father had left, instead of the string of disastrous affairs she’d fallen into over the years, her confidence knocked into submission long ago. Perhaps if she had found that support in a partner life would’ve turned out so very differently for them both where Mollie wouldn’t have felt indebted to fill the role. She might even have harboured some small desire to find love herself if she’d seen evidence it existed. As it was she’d be happy simply to have some space of her own.
The door opened and there was a brief flutter of panic in her chest that it might have been one of her family members come to seek her counsel. It wouldn’t be the first time her mother had rolled up here, tear-stained and hungover after a row with her latest boyfriend, expecting her daughter to be sympathetic. Now that Talia was working in the nearby emergency department, there was every possibility she could turn up at any given moment, too.
Her relief when a beaming male figure strode into the room was short-lived. It wasn’t the kindly Mr Rogers, who made her hidden romantic sigh, but Ben Sheridan, Consultant Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeon at the clinic, who had the uncanny ability to make every nerve in her body tighten until she was sure one day they would all snap and leave her lying on the floor before him like a puppet with its strings cut.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Nurse Forrester, I just wanted to check up on my favourite patient.’ He breezed past her in a waft of spicy aftershave towards the now positively girlish Carole, who was blushing and waving away the flattery.
‘Sure. Don’t mind me.’ Mollie dropped the used cotton balls and antiseptic wipes into the bin, letting the lid slam shut in a pique of temper.
Her job in maintaining the link between patients and the health-care professionals meant their paths crossed regularly at the multidisciplinary team meetings where they discussed cases and recommendations for treatment. Those who’d witnessed him transform patients’ lives beneath his scalpel had declared him as a ‘brilliant young surgeon.’ It was a shame that with that brilliance also came a self-righteousness that he thought gave him a right to bawl her out when they’d had a difference