The Lucky One Read online

  The

  LUCKY

  ONE

  A story of courage, hope & bright pink lipstick

  KRYSTAL BARTER

  with Felicity McLean

  First published in 2014

  Copyright © Krystal Barter 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 730 3

  eISBN 978 1 74343 483 3

  Typesetting by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  This book is dedicated to my beautiful husband and

  babies—you are my heart, my soul, my everything.

  I love you to the moon, the stars and back again.

  Courage doesn’t always roar, courage is sometimes

  the little voice at the end of the day that says

  ‘I will try again tomorrow’.

  Mary Anne Radmacher, author

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ‘How do you feel about your breasts?’ The question hung in the air. In front of me, a cameraman shuffled his feet awkwardly on the timber floor of my lounge room and skilfully readjusted the bulky camera on his shoulder without interrupting his shot. He was a blokey guy, all blue chinos and ‘maaate’ when the camera was switched off, and I could tell he was embarrassed and wanted to turn away now but it was his job to remain looking down the barrel at me.

  ‘I hate them,’ I said.

  A few weeks later when the interview went to air around Australia, 1.4 million viewers glanced up from their Sunday night television dinners, they paused from feeding their fidgety baby in their high chair and they put down the kettle from where they stood making a cup of tea in the kitchen; they stopped and they turned and they stared at the TV. At me.

  ‘What do you mean?’ probed the journalist, Ellen Fanning, a seasoned reporter and a familiar face on the Nine Network’s 60 Minutes program. I’d watched Ellen countless times before on the program, hounding shady politicians or revealing medical breakthroughs or reporting live from natural disaster zones, but I’d never seen her cry on screen. Not until my story.

  ‘I feel like a ticking time bomb,’ I explained. ‘Like my breasts are going to betray me. Ever since I found out that I’ve got up to an 80 per cent chance of developing breast cancer, well, I’ve lost all closeness to my breasts. They’re a part of me that I don’t want.’

  Ellen looked sombre and we finished filming. ‘Thanks, Krystal, that’s great,’ she said and she reached forward and placed a hand on my knee. ‘The program will jump to a voiceover now to give the viewers a little more of your back-story. So why don’t you take a breather for a few minutes before we head over to the next location?’

  I nodded, distractedly. I could already imagine what the voiceover would say: ‘Krystal Barter, ticking time bomb, inherited a genetic mutation that is almost certain to cause her to develop breast cancer.’ Or, ‘Lose your breasts or lose your life? This young mother of two faces a devastating choice.’

  Turns out I wasn’t far wrong. When the program was shown on TV, Ellen’s honeyed tones reported: ‘At 25, Krystal Barter has grown up living with what can only be described as a sense of doom. Her family carries a flawed breast cancer gene so ferocious it has struck down at least twenty women in three generations.

  ‘Krystal’s great-grandmother died of the disease aged 69, her grandma Val was 44 when diagnosed, her mum Julie was just 36 years old. Each of them carries the burden of having passed on the gene to their daughters.’

  The camera panned out then, before cutting to another shot and my mum’s distraught face filled the screen. ‘We’re so strong as a family but this is breaking us at the moment,’ she wept.

  Poor Mum. Just half an hour earlier the two of us had been silly and giggly with excitement as we sat on twin bar stools in the kitchen while the 60 Minutes makeup artist got the pair of us ‘camera ready’.

  ‘Sit still, Krystal!’ Mum had admonished as she sat unnaturally straight-backed, surrounded by brushes and eyeshadow pots and cotton balls.

  ‘Which lip gloss?’ the makeup artist had asked. ‘Love that Pink? Or Pink Velvet?’ And she’d held out two near-identical tubes for my mum to choose.

  ‘Er, Krystal?’ Mum deflected the question to me.

  ‘Pink Velvet,’ I’d said decisively. I was fast becoming an expert in all things pink as it was the colour adopted by breast cancer charity organisations.

  ‘Great choice,’ the artist replied and, holding Mum gently but firmly by the chin as she steadied her face, she got to work. ‘And we’ll be using blue-black mascara on your eyes.’

  Now, though, that mascara was perilously close to running down Mum’s face. She had been so determined not to cry on national television and yet here she was, her voice trembling with emotion, as she sat between my nan and me. She clutched our hands.

  ‘We’ve talked about this,’ Mum said, indicating towards Nan. ‘In the past I’ve said, “I feel like I’ve given this to my daughter.” ’ Here, her voice trailed off and Nan smiled grimly. Mum went on: ‘And she replied, “Well, what about me? I’ve given this cancer to you.” ’

  Then Mum let out a desperate, gasping laugh, as though torn between putting on a brave face for the camera and simply taking in air. But sitting to her left, just off-screen at this point, I certainly wasn’t laughing.

  As Ellen explained to her viewers, after I’d finally made the agonising decision to have my breasts removed, a pre-surgery check-up with my surgeon delivered shocking news: pre-cancerous cells had already appeared in my breasts. In a final mammogram before my surgery, linear lines of calcification were detected. ‘Early breast cancer’ was how it was described to me.

  ‘It may be too late,’ reported Ellen gravely. ‘Doctors have found changes in Krystal’s breast tissue. They say that probably means the start of cancer. For Krystal it was devastating; she might have waited just one month too long to have surgery.’

  Here, the program cut to me as I struggled to keep my emotions under control. ‘I just didn’t think something like this would happen so soon and it upsets me because I just …’ I trailed off as tears spilled over.

  ‘It’s okay, do you want to stop?’ asked Ellen.

&n
bsp; ‘No, it’s alright.’ I was determined to continue. ‘I just thought I was finally beating cancer …’ I paused and blinked and looked at the ceiling, willing the tears away. ‘And that traumatises me even more so than losing my breasts.’

  ‘That you thought you were in control?’ asked Ellen.

  ‘I did! I did!’ I was angry now. ‘And it … aggravates me!’ I couldn’t find the words to express the depth of my fury. ‘I just don’t know when it’s going to end! When is this cancer in our family going to end?’

  Ellen turned to face the camera head-on and I could almost hear the deathly crescendo that would surely provide the soundtrack to this moment: ‘The surgery is now urgent. Krystal’s operation is pushed forward as her doctors are keen to get the tissue out before any suspected cancerous cells can spread.’

  Two days later, Ellen Fanning and her crew were back again, only this time we were filming at North Shore Private Hospital in Sydney while I was being admitted for a risk-reducing double mastectomy. At just 25 years old, I had elected to have both of my healthy breasts removed and replaced with silicone implants in order to mitigate the risk of developing breast cancer. No breasts, no breast cancer, right? If only the decision was that simple. In reality, I had never been so petrified in my life.

  As I sat propped up in a hospital bed, I did my best to look good for the camera in a flaming red hairnet (they didn’t come in breast-cancer pink—I asked) and a regulation-blue hospital gown. No easy task. It was a strange sensation to feel the rough cotton fabric—to feel any fabric—resting against my breasts for the last time. I’d still have (most of) the same skin there when I woke up after the operation, but the breast tissue underneath would be gone. Beside me stood an obviously emotional Ellen, decked out in similar hospital garb, her pearl necklace stark against the sanitary blue of her scrubs.

  ‘You seem very calm,’ she said encouragingly while she clutched my hand in support. On the far side of the bed a cameraman captured everything.

  ‘I have to be,’ I said shakily.

  ‘Well, you’re doing very well,’ she soothed.

  I took a deep breath and powered on. ‘I said goodbye to my boobs last night and my husband, Chris, took photos of them.’ Though my voice began to crack as I recalled our farewell ritual of the night before. Chris and I had tucked our two boys into bed at my parents’ house then gone home and put Beyonce’s I Am … Sasha Fierce on the stereo. Loud. While Chris snapped away on our camera, I pranced around the lounge room wearing just my knickers, preening and posing and doing my best impersonation of a Victoria’s Secret catwalk model. ‘If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it …’ I crooned along with Beyonce, squeezing my breasts together to accentuate my cleavage and pouting for the camera.

  ‘That’s it, baby!’ yelled Chris, laughing. ‘Work it! You look beautiful!’

  My glass of champagne sat untouched on the kitchen bench. I wasn’t nil-by-mouth for another hour or so yet, but there was only so much of a party atmosphere a girl could muster. Still, Chris and I had done our best to make the night a celebration and not a wake for my boobs.

  ‘So I’m not sad; just nervous,’ I said to Ellen.

  ‘Wait till I get my calmative,’ I added, thinking of the sedative that was coming my way. ‘Then I’ll be right; I’ll be talking gibberish.’

  Ellen laughed then leaned over and kissed my cheek; it was a move that surprised us both. This wasn’t what I’d expected when I’d invited a film crew along to follow my surgery and clearly Ellen hadn’t planned on being so affected by my story, either. She smiled sheepishly and I was grateful to see her let her guard down at a time when I was feeling so incredibly vulnerable. It lasted only briefly, however, as she was suddenly all concentration and well-articulated vowels again the instant my surgeon entered the room.

  ‘Ellen Fanning, 60 Minutes. Nice to meet you,’ she offered her hand.

  ‘Dr Mark Sywak, breast and endocrine surgeon.’ They shook hands and Ellen began to run through her list of questions for her story.

  ‘Am I right in thinking Krystal’s surgery today will be minimally invasive?’

  ‘That’s right; what we’ll do is make a small incision, dissecting under the skin and removing all the breast tissue that puts her at risk of developing breast cancer.’

  ‘And with modern plastic surgery techniques, removing that risk no longer means terrible disfigurement?’

  ‘Correct. The nice thing about this approach is that Krystal comes to hospital with breasts and she leaves hospital with breasts. And with a very reduced risk of breast cancer in the future.’

  At this, Ellen smiled at me. ‘Fantastic,’ she said, trying to sound upbeat.

  Dr Sywak moved over to my bedside. ‘How are you feeling, Krystal? Ready to do this?’

  I could only nod in reply. I wanted Chris; I wanted my mum. But I had already said goodbye to both of them out in the corridor. I felt scared and nervous and anxious about the pain I would face when I woke up.

  ‘Well, your stats are all fine,’ said Dr Sywak. ‘So if you don’t have any questions then I’ll see you in theatre shortly.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I managed to say to him, smiling weakly, and he patted my hand and strode out of the room.

  I turned to Ellen for the final time before I was wheeled into theatre and found, to my surprise, that she was crying.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked her.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she choked back, laughing through her tears. It wasn’t lost on her that here was a possible cancer sufferer and the subject of her report checking that she was alright. ‘I’m okay,’ she said again and patted my hand tenderly.

  Minutes later I was face-to-face with my anaesthetist and the reality of what I was about to do hit home. I am having my breasts cut off! Forever! Panic rose until I could taste it in my mouth. I tried to think about Chris and about my beautiful boys, Riley and Jye. They were the reason I was doing this. I thought back to yesterday when Mum and Nan had ambushed me as I packed my bag for hospital and, giggling, they’d both lifted their tops and revealed their own war-torn breasts: ‘Your boobs will look so much better than ours!’ they’d chorused. ‘We’re so proud of you, Krystal. You’re going to beat this!’ I almost smiled thinking about it.

  ‘I’ve got some great drugs here for you today, Krystal,’ interrupted my anaesthetist. We’d met several times before and had developed quite a rapport by now. ‘Top quality stuff. Some of my best work. So why don’t you start counting backwards from ten for me.’

  I felt the stab of the needle pierce my arm and my head began to swim.

  ‘These drugs are awesome,’ I slurred to the camera crew poised faithfully beside my trolley. ‘I could do with a nightclub right about now because I feel like going out dancing …’

  Their laughter was the last thing I remember hearing.

  Four excruciating days later I was desperate to hear it again. As I lay in my hospital bed in agonising, post-surgery pain, I was surrounded by my family and by the 60 Minutes team. We were waiting for Dr Sywak to arrive with the results of the pathology tests performed on the breast tissue that was removed during my surgery. This would tell us, definitively, if my breasts contained cancer.

  Riley and Jye, who were aged three and one at the time, had a book at home called There’s a Hippopotamus on Our Roof Eating Cake. Right then, I felt like that hippo was sitting on my chest. And not just because of my surgery. My breasts were bound up tighter than a mummy. Flimsy blue tape poked out from the white crepe bandages and my mind conjured up all sorts of horrific images of what lay hidden beneath. Stitches? Bloodied gauze? Heavy scarring? Macerated breast tissue? Who knew what I looked like under there. But the dread I felt about what my breasts might look like was nothing compared to the fear I felt for my future.

  Dr Sywak knocked and then entered.

  I later watched myself on TV as Ellen intoned here: ‘For Krystal, the surgery has gone well. But in her case, there’s so much more at stake. She still d
oesn’t know whether her cancer has begun.’

  The hippo shifted uncomfortably on my chest as Dr Sywak smiled curtly and immediately began inspecting my breasts. ‘Good morning, Krystal. How’s the pain today?’ He ignored the rest of the room as he expertly pressed and prodded my wounds.

  ‘Fine,’ I croaked. I was desperate for him to get on with it.

  Dr Sywak cleared his throat: ‘Your pathology results arrived this morning …’

  The hippo began doing aerobics then; my breathing became shallow and blood pounded in my ears. This was the moment I had feared my whole life. I was staring cancer straight in the eyes and I was terrified about who would blink first. Regardless of what Dr Sywak said next, my life would already never be the same.

  CHAPTER 1

  I feel lucky I was born with cancer in my DNA. Crazy as it sounds, I consider myself fortunate that, when I was just 22 years old, I discovered I had up to an 80 per cent chance of developing breast cancer; the same insidious disease that attacked my mum, and my nan before her, and my great-grandma before her.

  I feel lucky that a gene test revealed I carry the rogue BRCA1 genetic fault which poisons our family tree, because knowing this gave me the chance to do something about it, rather than sitting around and waiting for this relentless cancer to come and get me. So, yes, I feel lucky that our particular brand of gene mutation—the one parcelled out to me the very instant my DNA began twisting into its double-helix ropes—causes a type of cancer that can be tested and treated and even possibly avoided. Eventually, I even learned to feel lucky that when I went into hospital to have both of my breasts permanently removed my surgery was elective, not emergency. (Or worse: too late.) And I guess I’m lucky, too, as my girlfriends often point out, that with my silicone implants I’ll have the best breasts in the nursing home one day.

  But don’t get me wrong, I’m no Pollyanna. And I sure as hell didn’t always feel this way.

  In fact, I’ve spent a lot of my life not feeling this way—really not feeling this way—like, for instance, around the time I was fourteen years old and my mum was diagnosed with cancer. Rage, disbelief, pure hatred; these were the emotions I felt back then. Although, pre-diagnosis, they had nothing to do with Mum’s cancer and everything to do with teenage hormones.