results.
Fikile had cancer alright. Doctor Seme said they would have to cut out the cancer-infested tumour, and might be able to save her breast. The lymph node closest to the tumour would also be removed to test if the cancer had spread. Radiation therapy would assist in eliminating cancer cells remaining in the breast tissue. “And hopefully that will be all that’s needed to get your health in top form again.”
The procedure, called a lumpectomy, was done in under an hour. I took Fikile home and spent the night with her and the children. Except for telling Thiza and Sizwe, we had not fully disclosed Fikile’s condition to the family.
A few days later Doctor Seme called, and we found ourselves back in her office. I sat with my arms folded over my chest and fixed my eyes on the piece of paper in the doctor’s hands. Doctor Seme did not offer us a drink. She had bad news, she began, slowly as if unsure of her words. Very bad news indeed.
“Not what I hoped for, not at all what I hoped for,” she repeated.
The cancer had spread to the lymph nodes, and it appeared aggressive, attacking and mutating and destroying everything along its path. The breast and affected nodes would have to go. And then there would be chemo and radiation therapy and five years of hormone treatment to reduce the chances of the cancer returning, Doctor Seme said.
The word “mastectomy” danced in front of my eyes. Fikile didn’t bat an eyelid, which was just as well because my downpour in Doctor Seme’s office was enough for both of us. Instead, she sat up straight, looked at the doctor and said in the most serious tone, “When can we do the surgery?”
The doctor smiled. “Breast cancer is a war. You are already on your way to winning the battle with your positive spirit.”
She scheduled the surgery to take place in two weeks.
I called a meeting of close family members to share the news about Fikile’s cancer. Ma wept, asked why God had not given the cancer to her, and pleaded with him to spare Fikile’s life to raise her children. Auntie Betty scolded Ma, said she was being dramatic and childish. Ma told Auntie Betty that she wouldn’t understand, that only women who had given birth would understand her anguish. Auntie Betty rolled her eyes, took her tub of snuff and went outside. We heard her sneeze several times. Auntie Ntombi, the youngest of the three sisters, quoted impressive survival statistics. She mentioned friends of friends who walked around without breasts and were just as alive as women with both breasts. Thiza sat quietly throughout, and later got smashed; Sizwe had to pick him up from the local tavern and drive him home. Fikile took a pair of pantyhose and moulded it into a tight ball and, lifting it up, said laughing, “I’ve always wanted to have perky boobs.”
No one laughed with her.
“Come on. People live through cancer, right? It’s not a death sentence. I’ll beat it,” Fikile protested. “I will.”
After Ma and my aunts had prayed for Fikile, long prayers I did not know they were capable of spewing from their mouths, and everyone had gone, I called Mbuso. I had not spoken to my brother in months, and had not seen him since that incident at his wedding earlier in the year, which had left a spectacular awkwardness between him and Fikile. Mbuso said he would come on the day of the operation, he asked me to keep his visit between us, he said he was not ready to face the rest of the family.
All through this, Fikile hadn’t cried.
* * *
We congregated in the hospital waiting room on the day of Fikile’s operation – me, Auntie Betty, Auntie Ntombi, Ma, Sizwe and Thiza – raising eyebrows and murmurs from other visitors and hospital staff as we tried unsuccessfully to keep our voices down. Ma read a verse and prayed every few minutes. We all joined at Amen. Doctor Thusi showed up. He spoke quietly to Fikile just before they wheeled her to theatre. He held her hand to his chest and cried. I had never seen him cry before.
Two days later as we were driving home after Fikile was discharged, I wanted to know what Doctor Thusi had said.
“He said it’s not the end of the world, that I will live long enough to see Bafana attend university. Do you believe him?”
“You will live. You have to live.”
“I know, I know. I must live. I’m not yet done with this world,” Fikile said, and closed her eyes.
* * *
The operation to remove Fikile’s breast went off without a hitch. I held her hand the whole time until we reached the theatre doors. Mbuso arrived shortly after Fikile was wheeled into theatre. I slipped off and met him in the parking lot. We sat inside his car and spoke about Fikile’s diagnosis and everyone’s wellbeing. Mbuso mumbled something about his wife, Mapule.
“I’m glad you came, Mbuso. Look, I don’t want to meddle in your life or tell you what to do, but at some point, you must return home. Ma is a wreck, and we’re all trying everything to manage the pain but it’s tough. I can’t bear to think of our lives without Fikile.”
“She will be fine.”
“We need you, Mbuso.”
My brother negotiated with the night nurses to see Fikile after the visiting hours, after we had all left and gone home. And then he was gone.
After she was discharged, I went straight from work to see her every evening. I helped her drain the blood and tissue fluid from the wound. After the tubes were removed, we sat on her bed stretching her arms to reduce the stiffness from the operation. Although Fikile was in pain, she did not once ask, “Why me?” or “What have I done to deserve this?”
Doctor Seme removed the bandages when ten days had passed. We watched as she peeled them off revealing scar tissue, a deep, brown line running from Fikile’s left armpit through the middle of the chest. Her other breast, the healthy one, stood upright and defiant.
“Do I look hideous?” Fikile looked directly at me.
I sensed apprehension in her voice.
“You know what it reminds me of? Remember when Lesihle was two or three and learning to draw straight lines? Everything was a canvas for her, waiting for her lines.”
Fikile threw her head back and laughed. We started referring to her breast as Lesihle’s line. A month later, she called one of the companies listed in a brochure she had picked up at the hospital and made an appointment to fit a breast prosthetic and mastectomy bra. Fikile was clear that she would not reconstruct her breast yet, she said her scars would serve as a reminder of what she’d been through. I drove with her to the fittings.
The shop, located in a small shopping centre, looked like any lingerie shop with its displays of mannequins in racy allures of reds and black mesh and lace underwear. We were welcomed by the owner who proceeded to take Fikile’s measurements, chatting to her like it was a normal bra fitting, as if Fikile did not have a thin line where her left breast once was. I sat on the couch drinking cold bubbly with a cherry dancing at the bottom of my glass and browsing through a women’s health magazine. Occasionally I lifted my eyes to scrutinise Fikile’s bra parade, screaming “Yes, that’s the one!” or frowning in disapproval. Fikile did not leave the shop with a handful of bras and a white nightdress with black lace trims, she left a complete woman.
On our way home I broke the news of my pregnancy. My sister said it was the best news ever, a sign of new life and longevity for the family. She said she knew she would beat cancer. She directed me to a lodge outside town, a place I had never been to nor had known existed. She said it was her favourite place in the world. We ordered rump steak and grilled potatoes and glazed pumpkin; we ate until our tummies threatened to burst.
The next morning Fikile met with her oncologist.
* * *
We had not anticipated the fatigue of chemotherapy. Once every two weeks for twenty-four weeks, Thiza, once, and I drove Fikile to treatments at her oncologist’s office. We all drove with Fikile on the first day of her chemotherapy treatment, and crammed the small waiting room, which resulted in Fikile forbidding