The Broken Smile

Brown, different shades of boring brown are all around me. The carpet; functional, high traffic proof and two different shades of flecked brown on a lighter brown background. At least one of those other colours has hints of orange, and this colour is reflected in the faux wood panelling covering the lower half of the walls. Yellowish lighting pulls out the orange tones. I wonder if comforting warmth was the effect they were going for, because if it was, I’m not feeling it.

The top half of the walls are painted in yet another shade of brown. A lighter shade but still brown, dammit. The chairs in this waiting space are light brown fabric, though a shade or two darker than the painted parts of the walls and have beige plastic arm rests.

The curtains separating the change rooms off to the side, are at least different, they are dark green. The crappy medical gowns we have all been given to wear are a strange, almost bright, mid blue, I don’t know what it would technically be called. I don’t know if the colour was chosen because they knew they needed to brighten things up a bit or because it was supposed to be calming. They achieved neither for me. And the somehow essential disinfectant smell that comes from being in a hospital doesn’t help either.

You know what would be calming? If the wait to be seen after your first set of scans and getting the ‘go see your doctor’ clearance, or ‘go in for a biopsy’ message was shorter. Or even perhaps if there was somewhere you could get a damn cup of tea and a slice of good cake. Can’t go anywhere whilst wearing this stupid gown.

Out of habit, or nerves, I put my book to the side and check my socials. I hear the voice of my youngest voice in my head, ‘only old people have Facebook mum’, and I half smile to myself. I five notifications, so I check those. I’m not as much a slave to digital living as many but still, nervous energy from the wait has me fidgeting, struggling to concentrate. Flicking through my feed with its short attention span snippets might help the energy ease.

‘Wow, I’ve never seen you smile like that,’ is the comment from Julie, who I’ve worked with for the last three and some years. I hit the view button and look at the picture she is talking about. It is a selfie I took at the theatre on opening night.

The heat of tears builds at the back of my eyes and my vision starts to blur. I quickly close the post and squeeze my eyes shut. I focus on my breathing; I can’t think about that post right now. Part of me regrets taking that picture. It will forever be etched in my memory as the picture that broke me.

I swipe at my nose as I feel that tell-tale trickle of snot trying to escape. The truth is the picture isn’t what broke me, it merely showed me how much my job has broken me. Twelve weeks long service leave, away from the workplace, and being cast in a lead role allowing me to get back on stage, had given me the space to start to heal, when I didn’t even know that’s what I was doing.

“This is ridiculous,” says the brunette a few seats up.

I put my phone down. This waiting room is packed. Some women are holding the baskets with their clothes on their laps, others like me, have put them at their feet. There are no free chairs. One is no sooner vacated than a new victim nervously shuffles in, changes from their street clothes into the non-descript gown and takes their place.

Breast cancer sucks. Waiting for results from additional testing, because the first round of tests showed an anomaly that no-one would define in detail, sucks even more. Age is irrelevant. Sickness, a disease such as this, is a great leveller in some ways. Though I am pretty sure the uber wealthy wouldn’t be caught dead in a bulk-billed public clinic waiting room, like this one that most of us must attend.

I pick my book back up and try not to think too hard on it.

“I’ve been here two hours,” the same woman bemoans.

This time I look up. I really don’t want to engage, but I’m damned if I want to listen to whining for the next, however long I am stuck in this waiting room, that surely resembles one of the circles of hell.

She’s older than me, likely in her sixties. Her hair is all in place, her lipstick not quite the right shade of pink for her skin tone, but I’m hardly an expert. I briefly wonder why you would bother with makeup when this was your destination for the day. Then I remind myself that for many, makeup is an aspect of life where they have control. Control of their image, control of their narrative and I suppose in this situation, when control is the last thing you have, anything that gives you a feeling of that, helps. Even if it is fleeting.

With a smile that doesn’t feel particularly great, though I’ve got to get credit for trying right, I say, “My email said it would be at least a four hour wait.”

She looks at me, a slight frown creasing her well-shaped brow, none too happy to be reminded of that fact. I see from the corner of my eye, a few other women nodding.

“At least you came prepared,” says a blonde woman, across the room. Her smile was as nervous as I’m sure mine was.

I look down at my book and back up, “I think I’ll finish it today.”

There is an uneasy chuckle around the room, but at least the complaining has stopped. I focus on my breathing for a moment, before opening my book back up. This isn’t the first time I’ve read this book, but right now I don’t need new, I need comfort and this book gives me that. The characters are like old friends, familiar and safe. Sinking into their story is like wrapping myself in a cosy blanket.

Time passes. Slowly as it does in places such as this. My phone buzzes with a text message. The only person who knows I’m here is my husband, but I know it can’t be him, he is at work with no access to his phone. A quick glance at the screen and my stomach tightens when I recognise the number as being work. Part of me wants to hurl the phone at the wall, but I don’t. I know enough to know this edge of anger I’m almost constantly balancing on when it comes to dealing with work, isn’t helpful, and breaking my phone definitely won’t be helpful.

I breathe slowly. Nearly a dozen years working as an officer behind the wire of a high security prison is what has broken me. The cumulative trauma is with me every day. It builds up over time. The threats to yourself and your family, the assaults, the disregard from those of a higher rank resulting in you being put into dangerous situations. All the trauma I’ve witnessed and responded to – the slash-ups, the suicides, attempted and successful, holding a pressure bandage to a workmate’s head because the bleeding just wouldn’t stop. To top it off, is the way we are treated by the media and some of the public. The toll it has taken has eroded away some of the core parts of who I am. And it happened over so much time I didn’t even notice it.

Now I have to fight to get me back. The me I want to be. The me my friends and family deserve. Not that I think I’ll ever really win that battle whilst I still have the same job.

I shove my phone into my bag without reading the text. I don’t have to; I know it is a request for staff to do overtime. Chronic staff shortages are an everyday occurrence, and I don’t do over time anymore. I don’t need to thankfully. It is one small way I can try to heal myself. Or at least keep myself patched up enough that others don’t notice just how damaged I am.

Fighting battles on two fronts is hard. So, I push my work problems aside. I don’t have the energy to deal with them as well. They cannot be my focus for today. I pick my book back up, knowing I need the distraction because if I don’t, I’m only going to get stuck in the overthinking cycle of ‘but mum died from breast cancer so my prognosis might not be great.’

Nope, can’t go there. I read the same sentence three times, determined to focus on better things. I wrap the familiar blanket of text around my shoulders and sink away from the reality of the brown waiting room.

Eventually my name is called, and I am told I can get changed and go see the doctor on the fourth floor. That’s good news I think, because I didn’t need a biopsy. The tightness in my chest eases a little. I’ll take whatever sliver of good news I can get. I put my street clothes back on, look in the mirror and smile. It isn’t quite the smile from the photo, but it is the smile of someone who knows they have still got enough in them to keep fighting. No matter the battle they face.