Page 97 of While I’m Still Here

A laugh punches unexpectedly through my nose. “Jesus Christ, Marcus.”

“You asked for my version.”

“I did. I just wasn't expecting your version to be quite this committed to destroying morale.”

“I didn't suddenly love my scar because it healed. I got used to it. That's different.”

I have been so frightened of waking up and hating my body because everyone keeps talking about acceptance as though it's another stage of recovery I will eventually be expected to complete. Surgery. Drains out. Wounds heal. Accept body. Return to normal programming.

Marcus is offering something much less impressive and therefore much more believable. Getting used to it. “When did you feel normal again?”

“I don't know.”

“Useless.”

“I know.”

“I need dates, Marcus. I need somebody to tell me Monday will be awful, Tuesday I'll cry, Wednesday I'll have a profound revelation about the meaning of life, Thursday I'll shower independently and Friday I'll go to Tesco.”

“Why Tesco?”

“Apparently all my emotional milestones happen near a Tesco.”

“I can't give you that.”

“I know.”

“What I can tell you,” he says after a moment, “is that one day I got dressed and realised afterwards that I hadn't looked at the scar.” I stop fiddling with the edge of the duvet. “I hadn't avoided it either. I hadn't deliberately not looked. I'd just got dressed and carried on with whatever I was doing. It wasn't the first thing in the room anymore.”

My throat tightens again. “I'm scared I'm going to wake up and regret it.”

“You might.”

I sit upright. “What?”

“You might regret it.”

“That's a fucking terrible thing to say.”

“I know.”

“Then why would you say it?”

“Because if you wake up and regret it, I don't want your second thought to be that you're failing at recovery.” I press my fingers against my mouth, and Marcus gives me enough silence to understand what he's saying before he continues. “You might wake up and think you've made the worst decision of your life. You might desperately want your breasts back. You might be angry with your surgeon, the hospital, cancer, yourself and every person who tells you that you should be grateful. You might feel all of that while still understanding exactly why you made the decision.” The tears spill over again. “Grief isn't proof you chose wrong, Bea.”

I close my eyes.

“And whatever you feel in the first hours or days after losing part of your body doesn't have to become your permanent opinion of it. You don't have to wake up grateful. You don't have to look immediately. You don't have to like what you see when you do. None of that changes the reasons you made the decision.”

This time I cry without fighting it. This isn’t like the breakdown I just had; this one is just a deep, exhausted grief that seems to have been sitting underneath everything else, waiting for me to stop making jokes long enough to feel it. I curl further into the duvet and let it happen, occasionally making noises so ugly that I have to pull the phone away from my face.

Marcus doesn't tell me to calm down.

He doesn't tell me everything will be okay.

He stays, and by the time the crying finally slows, I've used enough tissues to threaten a small woodland, and my nose has completely surrendered. “I've got snot on my sleeve.”

“I’m sure you still look beautiful.”