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I saw M. Or not. He was no doubt disappointed, even mortified, to learn that the object of his admiration was a hairpiece. Now it occurs to me that I said to M. We took the R. All I remember of the trip is a young and fashionably dressed Black woman sitting next to us, talking on the phone with an earpiece and in a tone of argument that one would use only with someone close—husband, mother, child.
Chemotherapy had left my pubis bald, too. Near my armpit, sticking out under the skin, was what looked like a beer-bottle cap, a catheter implanted there at the start of treatment. He had never heard of this consequence of chemo—but who ever talks about it? At one point, staring at my chest, he asked me if the cancer was in my left breast. I was surprised. The right was visibly more swollen than the left because of the tumor.
He probably could not imagine that the prettier of the two was the cancerous one. There was a great sweetness to my stay at the Institut Curie for the surgery, which took place six days later. The tumor and several lymph nodes were removed. Analysis of those tissues would tell us whether the entire breast would have to be removed later.
The smiles of the nurses and aides expressed approval. On Saturday, it snowed. I could see the white roofs from my bed. I could hear the sound of demonstrations against the imminent war in Iraq coming from the Boulevard Saint-Michel, and from the corridor the clear and regular chime of the elevator stopping at my floor. I wrote in my journal that I felt infinitely happy.
