Page 139 of While I’m Still Here

I glance down at my own chest. The gown is still open enough that I can see the edges of the dressings. “I don't have anything to compare it to,” I whisper. “There's just... nothing.”

Mum follows my gaze. I watch her face because, apparently, today I am incapable of letting anybody I love look at my chest without conducting a full forensic analysis of their reaction.

She doesn't flinch, but she does cry. One tear slips down her cheek before she can stop it, and immediately something frightened twists inside me. “Is it bad?”

Mum looks back at me sharply. “What?”

“You're crying.”

“Oh, Bea.” She wipes her cheek. “I'm crying because you're my daughter and you've just had surgery. I'm not crying because there's something wrong with how you look.”

I don't entirely believe her, and she must see that.

“Do you want me to look properly?” Mum asks.

I hesitate, then I nod. “Yeah.”

Mum waits.

She doesn't touch the gown or try to help me. She lets me decide how much I want to show her, and when I slowly pull the fabric farther aside, her gaze lowers.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything.

I see the moment she understands. Not the cancer. She already understands cancer. The choice I made. No reconstruction. No shape where my breasts used to be. Just my chest beneath fresh dressings, swelling and bruising, with drains disappearing beneath the blankets.

Mum takes a slow breath. “It looks sore.”

A startled laugh escapes me. “That's your assessment?”

“You want me to lie?”

“No.”

“Then it looks bloody sore.”

I look down again, and when I speak, my voice is smaller. “I hate it.”

“I know.”

“I don't look like me.”

Mum doesn't tell me I do. That is possibly the kindest thing she could have done. Instead, she shifts closer and rests her hand over mine on the blanket. “I remember looking at my reconstruction and thinking everyone else was seeing me while I was seeing what had changed. Every time somebody told me I looked good, I wanted to ask whether they had forgotten what I looked like before.”

My eyes immediately fill. “Yes.” Mum nods. “Exactly that.”

“I keep wanting everyone to tell me I still look like me, and then when they do, I want to scream because I fucking don't.”

“I know.”

“I asked Colin if I'm still beautiful.”

Mum's mouth twitches. “And I assume Colin gave you an answer long enough to qualify as a wedding speech.”

Behind her, Colin mutters, “I thought it was quite concise.”

“It wasn't,” I tell him.

Mum smiles, but her attention stays on me. “Did his answer help?”