Page 51 of Love, Just In

He genuinely thinks I might have breast cancer. And he’s a medical professional, so he knows about this stuff.

With my heart crawling into my throat, I grab my phone and charge towards the bathroom, shutting the door and pressing my back to it. My palms are so clammy that I can barely type the words: ‘Are asymmetrical breasts a sign of breast cancer?’

The first words I read allow me to catch my breath: ‘… usually no cause for concern.’ But it’s the word ‘usually’ that sends me scrolling for more evidence untilI’m slammed with the phrase: ‘… could be an indication of cancer.’

My vision wobbles with tears, but I keep reading, scanning medical websites for the one that will assure me there’s no way I could have breast cancer.

‘Josie?’ Zac taps on the door, but I ignore him and click on a journal article that discusses breast volume and cancer. I have to open a second window to google terms like ‘logistic regression’, ‘menarche’, and ‘fecundity’ until the gist becomes clear: there is definitely an association between uneven breast volume and breast cancer.

I slide down the door until my butt hits the cold tiles, scanning articles on women diagnosed with breast cancer after finding a size difference in their breasts, reading right through to the GoFundMe links.

Zac knocks again as I drop my phone and clutch my breasts, frantically feeling them through my singlet, my throat poised to scream the moment I find the lump. The door opens behind me, and I tumble backwards.

‘Shit, sorry,’ Zac says, crouching beside me. ‘I didn’t know you were sitting there. What’s going on?’

I can’t bring myself to look at him.

His hand gently clasps the small of my back. ‘Josie. What is it?’

When I don’t reply, he picks up my phone and studies the last article I’ve been reading. ‘You know this woman?’

‘No,’ I reply in a thick voice. ‘It’s me. That woman’s going to be me.’ The words sound so stupid coming out of my mouth, yet I believe them entirely.

A mixture of confusion and concern colours Zac’s eyes.

‘I’m scared I have cancer.’ It’s the first time I’ve ever said those words aloud, but it doesn’t ease any of the anxiety tying me up inside.

He looks blown back. ‘What?’

‘I haven’t been diagnosed,’ I clarify quickly. ‘But I think it’s cancer.’

He collapses onto his butt like he can’t hold himself up anymore. ‘What do you mean? What has the doctor said?’

‘I’m too scared to see a doctor.’

His brows meet in the middle. ‘So, you haven’t been tested for anything?’

‘No, but I have a cough that won’t go away, bleeding between my periods and, apparently, uneven breasts. So, you tell me, Zac. Tell me those aren’t all signs of cancer.’

His frown deepens. ‘There are plenty of reasons for a persistent cough, cancer being the least likely. Bleeding between periods is also quite common and could be something to do with your hormones. And, like I said, having different-sized breasts is normal.’ He sounds bewildered at how I’ve joined all the dots to cancer, skipping everything else.Welcome to the shit show that is my mind.

I rest against the door, feeling like I’ve run a million miles and I’m still going.

‘I don’t get it, Jose,’ Zac presses gently. ‘Why are you sure you have cancer?’

Fresh tears well in my eyes. ‘You know about my aunt and my grandma.’

He grazes a knuckle across my wet cheek. ‘I do. But that doesn’t mean the same thing’s going to happen to you.’ I close my eyes, soothed by the softness of his touch. ‘I’ve never had a mammogram,’ I admit. ‘Even with my family history.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘So, we’ll get you checked out.’

My lips press tightly together. Even though I’ve begun obsessing about my health in the last year or so, I’m not the sort of hypochondriac who’s at the doctor’s every two minutes asking to be examined. I’m the opposite: I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than get tested for anything. That’s why I’ve never had a mammogram. There are no bad results if there are no tests in the first place.

Zac crosses his arms over his knees. ‘I knew something wasn’t right with you. I knew you were crying in the bathroom that night when we had dinner at your house.’ My face crumples, and I can’t bear to look at him. ‘When did this start?’ he asks.

I heave a sigh. ‘The bleeding? The coughing? Which part?’

His eyes soften. ‘The health anxiety.’

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