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The darned thing sneaks into you in the dead of night and makes your breast its home. Like a seasoned terrorist, it gives you no cause to suspect it, until it springs up in its Jill-in-the-box manner when you least expect it to.
You had better indulge in oodles of self-love if you want to identify its exact location without a GPS system. No dainty breast examinations will do. What you need is passionate stroking, massaging and kneading, to distinguish between the many innocent lumps and that mischievous one.
When you go to hospital for your check up, you should have no inhibitions about shedding your intimate wear and lying down casually to have yourself examined. I advise whistling a tune in your head while the doctor checks your mammaries out.
The fun begins when you have been diagnosed with the Big C and people come to know about it. Trust me, the news travels faster than a forest fire and your friends’ relatives, friends of friends and all those whom you owe money react to the news in conformity with the size of the stake they have in your living or dying.
Once diagnosed, you are at the receiving end of strong emotions. From people who very visibly avoid you for fear of “catching an infection” to those who come and sob their hearts out in sympathy just when you are trying to gather courage, to the ones who shower Bon Voyage confetti on you and say, “It was wonderful knowing you!”
And then there are the doomsday predictors. They will narrate stories about people they know who fought “bravely” but of course, (and this said with a long sigh) “They all died.” Then they will pat you on the back and say, “Have courage!”
Please get used to having your breast stared at, post operation. It is just people’s way of trying to figure out if only the lump has been taken out or whether the entire breast has gone. The look clearly says, “She must be wearing falsies!” Get used to it, I say, just get used to it, girl!
Chemotherapy is a roller-coaster ride. You lose your hair and come out into the world with a head as shiny as an egg. To test my appeal to the male species, I went over to a guy in a Merc and requested him to drop me home. The guy fled fast – in reverse gear. The lesson I learnt that day is that men are only interested in what is on top of your head – not what’s inside!
I have no doubt in my mind that the steamy sequences of Fifty Shades of Grey were inspired by radiation sessions. You are there, lying in your birthday suit in an open machine tray and experts (often men) of every shape and size surround you to closely (Ah! So closely!) examine your breasts. They measure it and after consulting with each other, decide where exactly the action needs to begin in precise millimetres. The only way you can handle that scrutiny is to imagine you are Sunny Leone on a nudist beach, being ogled at and lusted after by the other species.
And Voila! Once you are done with Cancer, you suddenly have so many career options – Hair Stylist (to those who want advice on how to grow their hair as curly and thick as yours); Stress Buster Doctor ( to those whose eyes pop out when you tell them “Chemotherapy Beauty Parlour”!); Story teller (to those hypochondriacs who want to hear every gory detail to identify their existent and non-existent symptoms) and of course, Fortune-teller (to those who want to know how long you will live and freak out when you tell them confidently, “I will probably outlive you!”)
(Neelam Kumar has battled cancer twice. A writer of 5 books, including one with Mr Khushwant Singh, Neelam’s latest book ‘To Cancer, With Love – My Journey of Joy’ was published by Hay House Publishers in 2015. It is the first humorous book on cancer to come out of India. Neelam lives in Mumbai and can be reached at neelamku@yahoo.com)
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