Golf Ball Size

It’s funny — it’s like hearing a news reporter say it. I heard the word and went: okay. The weight of it was meant to land, looking around, I waited for it to land. I felt the sombreness in the nurse

The number 16 tram. Midday, so fairly quiet, a scattering of elderly passengers. One man climbed the tram steps, finally getting to the top, and I found myself wondering why this route used such an old tram. These steep stairs, on a stretch that runs through an area full of older people going one stop at a time. He went one stop, in front of the 7 Eleven. Fair enough, assume the climb is worth it.

The tram shuffled into an area that is only 15 mins from where I live but that I rarely visit. I was looking at all the different buildings, having no association with them. Whole neighbourhoods existing just outside the edges of your usual loop.

As we got closer to the hospital and into the main street, I was checking the map every now and then — making sure I wasn’t about to miss my stop. I assumed everyone on the tram was also headed the hospital. Whether that was to make it comforting, like an entourage.

I arrived after walking through a leafy street, likely where doctors lived, and navigated the maze of the hospital to find day procedures. The first woman I spoke to at reception was a little short with me, understandably, she says the same thing all day. I gave my name and was told they’d call me shortly.

I scanned, found a solo seat sat, giving me access to view the whole waiting room. It smelled of waiting room. That specific smell, a mix of someone’s choice of perfume, hovering with disinfectant and paper. It was very quiet for the number of people in it. No television, I was grateful for that. I hate arriving at a waiting room and finding a television on that no one asked for and no one is watching.

A female couple sat down nearby, and suddenly one of their phones went off — the influencer voice came from the speaker loud, talking loudly about microblading eyebrows. Some kind of reel. Both of them frantically fumbling to turn the sound off, both completely mortified once they finally managed it and sat in silence. One huffed at the other.

They called my name, reception just needed to confirm who was picking me up. I said Lucy, gave her number. I lied, like everyone does, that my pickup person is staying with me that night.

A few minutes later an older nurse came out, Nancy. She said my name, I gestured it was me, and she walked over clutching her hands. She seemed to have forgotten what she was going to say, and fumbled through her words introducing herself as my intake nurse. She told me to follow her, but wasn’t quite sure where she was going either. I almost walked into her a couple of times because I wasn’t sure who was supposed to be leading. A gentle uncertainty between the two of us.

The gown was an upgrade from what I remembered — twenty years ago, maybe more. This one tied from the side, not the back. Someone had clearly worked out that the side is easier, and that it probably also stops your bare arse appearing in places you don’t realise. Nancy put it over the front of me and tied it before I took my clothes off underneath. Then she left, to go check her notes on next steps.

I had seen others before me coming out in the gown. Suddenly uniformed and vulnerable, I didn’t feel vulnerable in it. I’ve spent enough time in onsens, enough time in gowns. Different context, different purpose but something about it feels almost natural now. If anything, it settled me a little. The gown smelled of warm linen. It was enormous — way too big, though they don’t exactly list sizes. It was made to envelop someone much larger than me. And much much larger than Nancy.

Nancy had very old hands. I couldn’t tell how old she was exactly, but her hands gave something away. There was something about her too — the way she moved, the way she searched for words — like she was either catching up with her own brain, or her brain was catching up with her. I wasn’t sure which direction it was going in.

She followed me through into the little intake room. We sat down. Lots of questions. Then she took my weight. And said I looked familiar, she surely has seen to me before.

When I mentioned I’d never been to this hospital, Rose said I just have one of those faces. She then noticed my Invisalign, asked how much it cost, and declared she wanted to get some herself. She muttered, told herself to “keep nursing, Nancy — save up those pennies.”

Nancy then escorted me to the patient waiting lounge, where I had my own tiny room with an old recliner couch. She tucked me in with a hot blanket.

The smell of it felt safe. I don’t know how else to say it — it smelled safe. And I found myself wondering about it. Where it came from. How it’s cleaned. Who touched it before me, who folded it. How does it even get heated? Does it come out of some kind of warmer, a cupboard somewhere in the back? Who put it in there and when? There would have been a whole invisible chain of people between wherever that blanket started and Nancy tucking it around me, and I’ll never know any of them.

She handed me the TV remote and said, all the best.

After a while, another nurse appeared — Lana. Warm, like the others. She introduced herself as the anaesthetic nurse and said she’d take me to the bed. She couldn’t work out how to put the recliner back up, said it was old. I said it was still comfy. She said that’s probably why they’d kept it and asked me to get up.

I followed Lana through. She noticed I didn’t have a dressing gown on — “didn’t you get one? “— and quickly ran to fetch one. Said it was for later if I wanted. I didn’t put it on and I got into the bed. She tucked me in, said I could still use my phone, and that the anaesthetist would come find me soon.

I lay there facing a large wall covered in laminated pictures, I had to squint with no glasses. Staff pets, I assumed. Mostly dogs, a few cats. I scanned for the cats. Most of the dogs were the kind that probably wouldn’t and couldn’t exist in the wild.

Through the thin curtains I could overhear the other patients either side of me. To my left, an older woman answering intake questions. She mentioned she didn’t have a spleen. Then that she had a special oesophagus, because she choked on steak once and had to call an ambulance. She doesn’t eat steak anymore. She just knows she has a special oesophagus now. The nurse speaking quietly corrected her with the medical term. To my right, an old man saying he couldn’t get out of the bed, and a kind voice telling him that was okay.

About ten minutes later, the anaesthetist walked in. I’d spoken to him on the phone the day before, he’d sounded kind and handsome, and here he was, both of those things. Mack. Floppy hair tucked under his surgical cap. He asked about allergies, asked if I’d been under anaesthetic before. Not since 2005, I said. Any bad reactions? No. He explained that these days they don’t put you fully under for this procedure. He ran through the disclaimers — some people react badly, very low risk — and mentioned I might even have foggy recollections of it.

Then, surprisingly, he was the one who said, “alright, let’s wheel you in.” He pushed me down the hall and turned left, and someone called out, “no, no, no, the other way, reverse. It’s a colonoscopy.” So I went head-first through the doors instead.

The doctor, who I’d met a few months previously — was sitting at a desk in the corner, writing. He turned quickly and said, “hello, sorry, I’ll be with you in a minute.” Mack started chatting to me about live music, discovered what I did for work, connected with me on it. I understood what they were doing. They talk. They make small talk. They distract you from the strangeness of it all, the things you only see on TV shows, or when someone you know is sick or has died. He found a vein on my hand and said, “sharp prick.” I felt it then saw the red bloom of blood. He apologised and taped up my hand.

The doctor came over. “I’ll see you after the procedure, a minute for you, probably a little longer for the medical team.” They rolled me onto my side. “You’ll wake up in a second”, they said. I lay there with an oxygen mask on the bipping of the machine for faster and faster. My heart beat, and I felt a nurse’s hand on my shoulder. “We’re looking after you. It’s okay. We’re looking after you.”

It’s hard to explain, that waiting, once they tell you the chemical is going in. It’s in your veins and you don’t know what happens next. You just wait. And you wonder, quietly, if this is what death is like. Not frightening. Just a fading. A gradual losing of the edges.

And somewhere in it, or maybe I just heard it again from memory, the repeated word of “we’re looking after you.”

I hear my therapist in my head. “Five senses, what do you smell? The smell of metal. The smell of clean chemical.”

Then I felt a gentle shaking. My name being called. The kind of voice you hear in a half-dream, a mother waking you up softly. I gradually opened my eyes. For a moment I thought something had gone wrong, that the anaesthetic hadn’t worked and they were still trying to put me to sleep — but I realised I was in the recovery ward, on my back. The nurse was asking how I was. I don’t remember what I said.

I glanced across at the wall. One of those long, wide digital clocks with red numbers. It read 15:05. But the first digits said 2002. I stared at it. Stared a little longer. Then asked the nurse why it said 2002 on the clock. She looked at me, then glanced up at the clock. Looked at it for a moment. Then said, “it’s the 20th of February.” I said, “Good. I’d hoped I hadn’t gone back in time to 2002. That wasn’t a year I wanted to relive.”

I was offered a lemonade icy pole. Said yes, of course, it would have been the first thing I’d eaten in a while. I wasn’t even that hungry. I looked around the room and everyone else was asleep. Something in me went, yes. I won. I woke up first. To be fair, I was probably the youngest in the room.

I had a vague, fuzzy recollection, half-conscious, like after a nap, that I needed to do a CT scan. But waking up from anaesthetic you feel a little confused anyway.

Then the doctor came around. The nurse drew the curtains closed, unprompted. He sat beside me and said, “Okay. Two things.”

“One — we found a little polyp. A little lump.” He pulled out printouts — high-res colour, much better than what came out of inkjet printers back in the day. Very clear. He pointed to a small lump with some kind of instrument beside it. “We found this”, he said. “I burnt it off. Not concerned by it.”

Then he slide his finger down the page, he said, “this other thing, I am concerned by.” And he pointed to another image, a few pictures down.

It looked like a tongue. Like when you deliberately poke your tongue out — cheekily. It just sat there, poking out into whatever canal of flesh I was looking at. Pink, and soft like a marshmallow.

He said again, “I’m really concerned by this. It’s about a 20 cent piece, like a golf ball size. I’m getting you into a CT scan right now to find out more. I also took a biopsy. But I want to be clear — this isn’t good. It could be what you might think it is.”

It’s unusual for me to push for more, but I said, “Can you please speak plainly? What I think it is?”

He said: Cancer.

It’s funny — it’s like hearing a news reporter say it. I heard the word and went: okay. The weight of it was meant to land, looking around, I waited for it to land. I felt the sombreness in the nurse standing beside him. But, it didnt land. It stayed up there, above the bed, like a ghost looking down on us.

“One step at a time”, he said. “I’ll see you after the CT scan. Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

I nodded.

They opened the curtains. The brightness of the room came back. Some of the others had started waking up, sucking on their lemonade icy poles.

Next reaction, I asked for my phone. The nurse reached under the bed and handed it to me. I had a message from Lucy, asking if I was awake. I let her know they are worried. She replied, “Shit. Fuck.”

I noticed I was passed from one person to the next for the entire afternoon. And with every handover, the care came too — it transferred with me, like it was part of the package. I started to notice it. The nurses clearly knew my news, or enough of it. And something shifted in how they touched things. An extra squeeze. An extra press of the blanket down at the edges. Nothing said. Just that.

Not long after, a man appeared — someone I’d seen around the hospital earlier as I was lost. Older, kind face, the look of someone who’d been there a long time but still loved the job. He had a nurse with him. They were here to take me to the CT. But they weren’t entirely sure which direction to take me, and they brought out a kind of pallet jack to push the bed. I thought, Geesh, am I that heavy? Standard procedure, apparently.

Then I was out in the public corridors. Someone carrying flowers going somewhere. Another person holding a laptop. A woman who couldn’t decide whether to go left or right, caught in her own head, trying to avoid the bed coming toward her. She apologised. I said sorry back. Not sure why.

We arrived at the CT ward. They left me there and said they’d come back. A woman handed me a clipboard — another intake form. Some of the questions I scribbled over, crossed out, wrote the opposite. Yes or no — I wasn’t sure. I don’t think they even read the sheet before they wheeled me in.

I was grateful they were quick. Into the room with the big circle. They wrestled with the cannula in my hand — they needed to put iodine in, and I’d never had it before. They told me it would make me feel like I’d wet myself. I said, “will I though?” They said no. Unless I actually needed to. I wasn’t entirely sure about that.

The handrails on the bed were pink. The ginger technician, noticed this and felt it was his duty to highlight this, whether he was making a joke or not — said, “oh, it’s the Barbie version. Maybe the Ken version was out today”. I said, “Well, I used to love playing with my sister’s Barbies. So it probably suits me better.” Light weird chuckle followed from him.

A memory surfaced then — the doctor had mentioned earlier that he’d tattooed a spot next to the lump to mark it. For the future. My immediate thought spoken out loud back to him was “that’s the first tattoo in my family.” He’d laughed and said, “don’t worry — I’m the only one who’ll ever see it.”

Back in the CT room, I listened to a deep Australian voice from the speaker tell me to hold my breath. Then release. Something about it made me feel dizzy and calm at once. Then the iodine went in. It didn’t make me feel like I’d wet myself. It made my lungs feel full of hot air — like I’d taken a pre-workout. And then it was over, and I was wheeled back to wait.

I lay there a while longer, until I actually did need to use the bathroom. I asked the nurse, who gave me one of those poles on wheels for the drip. I wheeled myself to the bathroom without realising the back of my gown was open. Who knows who saw my butt. That’s okay.

On the way back, I looked down and saw deep red. The front of my gown was soaked in it. That strange numb moment of not being sure if it was mine — and then realising the cannula had come loose and bled everywhere. The nurse had clearly seen this before. She took it away, put a bandage on, wiped me up, got me a new gown, wiped the pole, wiped the floor.

I waited a bit longer, then with some force asked if I could just walk back — I was disconnected from the drip, I felt fine, and I just wanted to move.

That seemed to kick something into gear. Thirty seconds later the gentleman from before appeared with another nurse, and they wheeled me back toward the recovery lounge.

But first I texted Lucy. You’ll see me — I’ll be going past the waiting room. Look out for me!

And as I came around the corner, there she was. Black broad brim hat, backpack. She waved her arms like a T-Rex — that pure, awkward, wholehearted Lucy glee. It never changes. I love that it never changes.

Back in the lounge, the nurse said the doctor wanted to see me again. Somewhere in there I was given a sandwich — avocado or chicken, I think — and I tucked my Invisalign under my thigh to keep it safe while I ate. Gross, I know.

The doctor came and explained everything again. One step at a time. A week for the CT and biopsy results to come back. The hospital would call on Monday about an MRI. His office would call for an urgent appointment. He asked if I understood — I remembered him asking the first time too — and I said yes.

He asked if I wanted him to speak to the person waiting for me.

I said, “I think I’ve got it. She’d nerd out about it. But I’ve got it.”

I didn’t have to go back to the recovery lounge. The kind nurse let me change right there. She’d watched me eat and said I was good to go. I walked out with her, then quickly walked back — I’d forgotten my Invisalign.

Back through the doors and I saw Lucy. We looked at each other briefly and kept moving, through the ward, both of us trying to find our way outside. A mission, something to push through before processing everything. Down a corridor I saw a door open, and through it — a green tree. We headed for that.

I chose to get an Uber. No matter how much I romanticised the tram earlier.

The driver looked kind. Said a quiet hello. Lucy got in the other side and said something like — “oh, you have a fancy car” — and he just smiled. Then stayed silent the whole trip.

I found myself wondering what else he hears, driving strangers around all day. What other weight has been carried in that back seat. Grief, probably. Relief. People on the phone getting news. People trying to hold it together. We were just one more. I wondered what the average Uber driver accumulates — not just kilometres, but the things overheard.

And then we started to talk — what it felt like, what if it was cancer. Lucy, no surprise, had already researched everything. She started, “Do you know the four stages of cancer? Stage one —”

“Sorry, Lucy. I don’t want to hear that right now.” I said pretty quickly. She said she would shut the fuck up then! In a jovial understanding way.

I was aware of the Uber driver in the front seat, again. Worried I would make him uncomfortable. And then I thought — no. This is life. And I stopped caring.

---

I held onto some sense of normality over weekend. Clung to the rafters of my mind. Then at work on Monday, some staff came to me with complaints, wanting to put manage some personality clash and I just — I could feel my eyes wanting to close. I couldn’t access what the issue was. It all seemed so mundane. In some ways it felt like a strange freedom, being reminded of all the things that don’t matter.

I went home earlier than usual. Sitting on the couch with my laptop. At about 5:17, a call came through. Unknown number. I’d already gotten used to that — it was the doctor.

I answered. He said, “Oh, you got a sec?”

“Yep. Yep. Sure. Yes.” And I stood up, walking up and down my hallway.

“Okay. The results came back. You’ve got cancer.”

You don’t expect to be told that standing in your living room on a phone call. I was walking around — through the study, into the living room, back through the study. I do that a lot on the phone anyway. I just kept moving. This is how I found out? Isnt it meant to be in an office, holding a loved ones hand? Nope. Its while you try scrape the dry chicken noodles off the pan as he keeps talking.

He explained that he’d already started talking to specialists, forming a cancer team. He’d be meeting with people at the hospital the following week, and not long after that I’d start having my own meetings to discuss a treatment plan.

And I just kept walking, not really feeling like he was talking about me.

He said, “One step at a time, remember.” And hung up.

I sat there briefly. Just — okay. That moment just happened. The moment you hear about. The moment of being told you have cancer. How do you react? I don’t know. I genuinely didn’t know. Is it a minor thing? Is it going to be completely life-changing? I didn’t know any of it yet.

I called Cal. Straight away, he was down the road at his house. I simply said: I’ve been told I have cancer. He said, “I’m on my way to your house.” And hung up.

I then called Lucy. Told her the same thing. She said, “shitty, shitty. Fuck. Fuck.”

And then I met both of them, and we walked along the beach with Cal’s dogs. Three people bumbling along, genuinely unsure what to do in that moment other than put one foot in front of the other and talk about what the doctor said. I couldnt bring myself to call my partner just yet. He was far in Brisbane.

Trying to remember exactly what the doctor had said and relay it accurately — that became part of the process. A way of processing it. Though I still don’t know if I really took everything in.

That day and into the night I called the people I loved. Called my partner Sandro. He was very calm. Beautifully practical and calm, but I knew there was choking up behind the calm. And that was OK. Called my family. The whole time I felt like a reporter delivering news about something happening to someone else. I think I really just wanted to see people’s reactions, feel their reactions — to help me make sense of what my own reaction was supposed to be.

And then I just felt very tired. But hey, I know how to process this. Write.