Tuesday July 8th
Relax, says the radiographer (or is she a radiologist?) Stand naturally. No not quite there. A little to the right. Put your shoulder down. Relax (can’t she stop saying that word?). Move forward. Drape your right arm over the top of the machine. Hold that handle. No, move back. That’s it. Relax, she says flattening my right boob between the equivalents of two paving slabs and running what must be a truck over them. Take a breath. Now hold still….

After repeating the performance three times she bustles back five minutes later apologizing, saying the previous images are underexposed. She avoids eye contact and has the sheepish demeanor of the white liar. Soon after, she shepherds me into the ultrasound room.

“You deserve a treat when you go home today,” says the woman sliding the scanner over my breasts. “No, you deserve four treats.”

What’s wrong with these people and their baby talk? Have they gone mad? My previous visits to this clinic have been welcomed with offhand boredom verging on rudeness. Sitting in a toweling robe in a deserted vestibule it dawns on me all the other patients have gone home. I’m stranded like the naughty girl made to stay inside at playtime.

“Oh there you are.” An earnest looking Indian doctor escorts me into an assessment room to inspect images of my right breast. The white blobs, dozens of them swirling like stars through the Milky Way, are calcification, she explains, possibly an indication of cancer. She makes an appointment for me to see the surgeon. Tomorrow.

Driving home, my thoughts aren’t so much “Why me?” as “Why not me?” With breast cancer hitting one in nine women, it’s a plague of the female species. Nevertheless, at 54, I don’t smoke or take HRT and seldom drink more than a couple of glasses of wine a week. I trudge to the gym, meditate (well, try to) and am no stranger to organic vegetables.

On the other hand, even though there’s no lump and it was just a routine mammogram my sister Mary underwent a mastectomy several years ago and two aunts died of breast cancer. Terrorist genes.

The timing’s lousy. Our older daughter, Lydia, is flying out tomorrow night to Sri Lanka to sit at the feet of her guru. The prospect of her heading to a country in the throes of civil war is hardly thrilling. Maybe my mini drama will change her mind.

Wednesday July 9th
Shocking news. The surgeon thinks it’s malignant. The glint in her eye conveys the fact she knows it is. Because the growth is large she reckons I’ll need a mastectomy, possibly double, but won’t be certain until the biopsy and MRI results come through. Thank goodness Philip’s sitting next to me. Her words disintegrate into gibberish.

In the biopsy room a man who could be mistaken for a model train enthusiast attacks my breast with a miniature ditch digger that has a staple gun attached. The local anesthetic has little effect. It takes four shots before he’s satisfied he has a sample of the offending tissue.

Outside by the car I weep into Philip’s neck. I want to be around for son Rob’s wedding in January. Our 15 year old Katharine still needs a mother. And Philip would be hopeless without someone to trim his ear hair.

On the bright side, I finally have an excuse to give up the gym. After a family dinner, Lydia’s boyfriend drives her to the airport. I can’t believe she’s leaving. Maybe she’ll say a few ohms for me at the ashram.

Thursday July 10th
It’s cancer, as the surgeon predicted. The good news is the cells appear non invasive so once the breast is removed my prognosis is optimistic. The surgeon has dainty, efficient looking fingers.

One person I don’t want to see right now is a carrot juice waving shaman wearing a shark fin necklace. Having watched a beloved friend die of breast cancer after refusing all conventional treatment and dosing herself on mistletoe injections, I’m in no way tempted. Whatever modern medicine can offer I’ll take, thanks.

Managing the reactions of others can be more difficult than dealing with it myself. The word “Cancer” has such an extraordinary effect a name change should be considered. “Tulip”, perhaps (someone kindly left a bunch on the doorstep last night). “I have Tulip” I’d say “And you needn’t worry.” Because some friends react as though I’ve just told them they’re dying. Once the news settles in they take on another look that implies they think I’m dying. In truth, all of us are dying, some faster than others. I’m not on the fast track at the moment, as far as I know.

My capacity for sleep is astonishing. Must be shock. Katharine curls up besides me in bed and reads “Kidnapped” aloud. Once she gets her tongue around the wild old fashioned language it becomes compelling. No wonder Samoans called R.L. Stevenson Tusi Tala, the Story Teller. He puts Hollywood action writers to shame.

A DVD about breast reconstruction sits on the kitchen table. Haven’t summoned the nerve to look at it. Apparently the plastic surgery bit takes longer to recover from than the mastectomy. I don’t fancy running around with one boob the rest of my life. Not that I ever was Pamela Anderson of the South Pacific.

The clinic nurse handed me a psychologist’s business card. My first reaction was hell no. In retrospect maybe it helps to spread your life on a table and point finger at all the people and situations who might have led to this crossroad. Blame’s simplistic and not at all constructive but could be devilish fun.

Day at a Time, a Journey, Keep Positive. Talk about cliché land. Stuff the lot of them! Ah, but I can’t say that because it would prove it’s the Angry Person’s disease.

Lydia phones late at night. The line cuts out. Something to do with the rainy season over there.

Friday July 11
Having spent a large part of yesterday up to my armpits in self pity I wake in better spirits. Light filters through the blind. Philip beside me. We savour coffee over breakfast at one of our favourite cafes and buy French brie to take home. Good food is such a celebration of life. Bring on the champagne.

Saturday July 12
At a wedding cake emporium with Rob and Chantelle we only just refrain from ordering a five tiered fantasy smothered with glitter and pink ostrich feathers.

Our bedroom’s too stark to recuperate in. The bedside tables bear circular scars from thousands of early morning cups of tea.

Sunday July 13
A brochure informs me to spend the days leading up to surgery constructively, filling the freezer so the family survives while I’m in hospital and so I won’t have to start slaving the minute I return (when my arms won’t have regained enough strength to lift plates) No wonder women so commonly get cancer in their breasts, the great symbols of nurture. When nurture dries up does cancer move in?

Driving home from the supermarket with three months supply of washing powder and toilet paper I notice my style behind the wheel is less aggressive. All life is finite and precious. Immersed in thought, I miss a turn and glide through an unfamiliar neighbourhood.

Monday July 14
“I want to end it all!” moans David the interior designer flicking through curtain samples for our new, invalid friendly bedroom. “I’m going to jump off a bridge. But only if there’s media present.”

Finding cases more tragic than mine is easy. All I have to do is open the newspaper (two Muslim women executed for being possible prostitutes). Or listen to David who, ever since his partner ran off earlier in the year, has been making bold yet doomed forays into the gay dating scene. David (aged 65, though admittedly dapper) was jilted by a 28 year old “boy” over lunch yesterday.

Tuesday July 15
Damn! My plot to escape the gym has failed. Trainer Steven points out I’ll need strong arm and abdomen muscles to speed recovery. At least he’s giving me lighter weights and fills in time confiding his personal problems. His affection for a girl who keeps dating other men may appear trivial compared to 4.7cm of cancerous growth, but not to him. The world’s littered with broken hearts. At least most of them are recyclable.

Wednesday July 16
“Claustrophobic?” asks the questionnaire. I scribble “somewhat” between yes and no. Some patients need general anaesthetic before they’ll agree to being slid inside the giant vagina that is an MRI machine. Birth in reverse.

A radiographer stabs my arm where dye will be pumped through during the procedure. She warns it’s noisy in there and gives me headphones with a choice of radio stations, jazz or classical. I’d prefer classical, but not if it turns out to be Wagnerian opera. Jazz sounds safer.

They pack me on a trolley like meat on a tray, buzzer in hand in case I freak out in there. Lying on my front, a boob protruding through each of two holes, I glide into the machine’s womb with The Girl From Ipanema footling in my ears. Tall and tanned, and young and lovely... God, I hate that song. It’s soon drowned out by impossibly loud buzzing.

“Are you alright Mrs Brown?” a young male voice asks through the headphones. The buzzing is replaced with rhythmic ringing. It’s like being lodged inside a giant bell. I think of Lydia in Sri Lanka and imagine I’m meditating alongside her to strikes of the ashram’s bell. Except the bell could do with silencers.

Thursday July 17
Dear nurses, doctors, scanner operators, blood suckers, pushers of probes and trolleys, please don’t call me “dear”.

Friday July 18
Phew. MRI results show the left breast as clear. The shrink has a tea bag string draped over an enormous mug half filled with muddy liquid. It reminds her to drink. Otherwise she gets migraines. I was hoping to spend an hour moaning at her, but she can’t stop talking. She has tools for helping me step back from negative emotions. Instead of, for instance, saying I hate The Girl From Ipanema, I’m supposed to calm down and say “I’m having a thought that I hate The Girl From Ipanema.” She also teaches me a new phrase: “My health comes first”.

Saturday July 19
Hairdresser Jodie has a tattoo for every failed love affair. There isn’t much blank space left on her body. She plants a kiss on my cheek and says “My aunt had a vasectomy too.”

Why can’t somebody design stylish 100% cotton nighties? I buy three summer ones, shades of blue, embarrassingly frilly.

“Going somewhere warm and exotic?” asks the shop assistant. Yes. Hospital.

Sunday July 20
Things I’ve heard can give you breast cancer : underwire bras, electric blankets, negative thoughts, pesticides, microwaves, deodorant, pollution, estrogen in the water supply, hair dye, sitting too close to the television, almost every kind of food that tastes good. Probably sex, wine, music and good books can be added.

Ironically, this was going to be my Year of Good Health and Achievement. I’d lost five kg, stuck at the gym and was half way through writing a book. Fortunately, the editor at Allen and Unwin is more than understanding. She herself battled breast cancer last year.

Watching the breast reconstruction DVD I emit involuntary yelps. How can those women talk so brightly about the ferocious scars on their bodies?

Monday July 21
Wintry sun on my face. Naked branches stretched across pastel sky. I can’t help smiling. Meandering through a sea of impassive faces engrossed in work worries, ipods, cell phones and love affairs, I wish they’d stop for a second and absorb the incredible beauty of this planet. Our stay here is so short.

Tuesday July 22
The reconstructive surgeon shows us photos. She’s proud of her work, which to the untrained eye resembles carnage from World War One. She can make nipples out of anything…toes, ears. She must’ve seen too many horror movie movies. She can slice muscle off my back and bunch it up for a boob. Or, better still, harvest the roll of fat that sits companionably on my lap to make the new breast.

The mastectomy plus reconstruction will involve three surgeons, an eight hour operation, and a three month recovery period. My optimism waivers.

Dinner at a local café with Philip and Katharine is surprisingly recuperative. We laugh when a waiter spills a spectacular explosion of chocolate sauce over the table cloth.

I never much liked “The Phantom of the Opera” but a tune from it starts wheedling inside my head - Past the Point of No Return.

Not long now. Breathe. Relax (Jeez, I hate that word. No, I’m having a thought about hating it). Three, two, one…..