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injection in the upper arm, shortly before Kate was diagnosed. It's a bit retracted, the nurse had said, probably nothing to be concerned about, but you should speak to the doctor if you're worried. Roger concealed this nipple from Kate, and blushed when she finally spotted it halfway through her chemotherapy. She persuaded him to visit his doctor. Déjà vu – biopsy, and finally results. The doctor apologised when Roger complained that the nurse had failed to alert him to the possibility of cancer. Unlike female breast cancer, the doctor explained, male breast cancer is rare, and there is a regrettable lack of public awareness and medical alertness. Surgery followed, with a pathology report stating that the cancer was aggressive and spreading. Then radiotherapy and chemotherapy. Kate's recovery from the emotional aftermath of her own cancer continued, as her concern for Roger mounted. After his mastectomy, Roger resigned as coach at the rugby club. He seemed uncomfortable with men and preferred the company of Kate's female friends, though he was irritable with them. He lost interest in sex. When it did happen, he insisted on wearing a shirt. He often sat silent, as if in a world of his own, and when Kate spoke he did not hear her. With their daughter, Maria, he was detached, and reluctant to nurse or bottle feed her baby boy. Roger refused to take leave from his work, which he enjoyed, but when he came home at nights he would slump in a chair, red-faced, and fall asleep. He did not follow Kate's advice to see a counsellor, nor did he attend any cancer support groups. He said he would've gone to one for male breast cancer survivors, had such a group existed. Whenever Kate encouraged him to talk to her about his feelings, he would turn his head away in grumpy silence, or snap at her. One evening Kate lost it with Roger. She picked up a vase and smashed it against the log burner. She clutched her head, pulled at her hair, yelled with pain and anguish, then began running around the house, opening and slamming doors, screaming and laughing, her voice high- pitched and hysterical. This was a wake-up call for Roger. The next day he rang a counsellor. His own long journey of emotional recovery was about to begin. A couple in their early 50s are eating sausages and mashed potato in a campervan, gazing out at a feisty sea. They are parked on a grassy reserve, hopefully above tsunami level, next to a large rock. It's winter. There's been a storm. Logs and seaweed litter the deserted beach. Seagulls whirl and twirl. After his mastectomy, Roger resigned as coach at the rugby club. He seemed uncomfortable with men and preferred the company of Kate's female friends, though he was irritable with them. After lunch, they set up their easels on the grass. They sit side-by-side painting and chattering till the sun goes down, then retreat into the campervan. "Shall we stop here tonight?" asks Roger. "Might as well. There's no sign saying we can't. We could open up that bottle of whisky Maria gave us and get horribly drunk." "We could!" "As a psychologist," grins Kate, "or I should say, as a just retired psychologist, I ought to caution both of us against excessive alcohol consumption on the grounds of well-researched risks to health and well-being. But, in the circumstances, I think we should just get pissed." "And in my professional opinion as a just retired social worker," chuckles Roger, "having thought deeply about the matter for two and a half seconds, with due consideration of recent health issues and their psychosocial impact on our personal lives, I agree. We need to get pissed." "When I was diagnosed," murmurs Kate, "it was like an emotional hand grenade, but I coped. When you were struggling, I fell apart. Me the psychologist, the strong one! I lost it." "Your losing it was just the kick up the arse I needed, as you know," Roger replies. "But right now I need to pop outside for a piddle. It is good for a man's soul to occasionally piddle against a rock in the open air." "A true observation," beams Kate. "May I venture outside to squat beside you for a symbolic moment of true companionable togetherness?" "Be my guest." Night is falling. The wind has stopped. The clouds have gone. The stars are out. Overhead a passing jet can be heard. And yes, a satellite is visible to the left of two bright stars, just to the right of a poor little dim star that twinkles and vanishes and then twinkles again. "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee," sings Roger, as the couple returned hand-in-hand to the campervan. "We were like one rotten log propping up another rotten log." "No, it wasn't like that. It wasn't like anything else." "It was brutal. It was cruel." "Your hair fell out worst." "Mine grew back faster." "You vomited sickest." "Yeah, I was pretty messy." "What the heck." "Where shall we go tomorrow? North? South?" "Dunno." "Who cares?" "Back on our diets. Fruit and vegies." "Bran. Soy milk. Brown bread." "No processed food." "Avoid stress." "Avoid alcohol." "But tonight, here's to our health!" Bruce Costello about the author After 22 years of professional counselling and therapy practice in Dunedin, Bruce Costello and his wife Karen retired to the idyllic village of Hampden in North Otago, where Bruce has taken up short story writing. HER MAGAZINE | December/January 2012 | 131