TELEVISION
Miss Ellie and My Sister’s BreastAUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND 30 July 2009 |
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Television has been very important in my life.
It made a strong impression on me from a very young age. When I first saw colour TV - I wet my pants. Literally.
Television is how I've made my living for most of my working life. It's inspired me. Exasperated me. Paid my bills. Introduced me to my great love. Taken away my great love. Given me lifelong friends and opened the door to terrible enemies.
You could say television has had a profound influence on me.
But maybe not as profound as it had on my sister.
When I was about nine, an American show called Dallas had most of the Western world riveted to the screen. This rampaging beast of a show sucked my family in from the opening credits.
As the music swelled, we would cram ourselves into chairs or stake out space on the floor as close to the action as possible. We loved everything about the show. The funny accents. The cowboy hats. The creepy oil machines that looked like giant mechanical ants. We especially loved the state-of-the-art, three-way split screen openers that gave you a character biography in an instant.
There was Sue Ellen, smiling and happy in the middle, but boxing her in on either side was the other Sue Ellen. The drunk. Everybody liked Sue Ellen. Especially when she was falling down some stairs.
Except for my sister, that is. She loved Lucy.
We all had our favourites, but no one was more adored than the Ewing family matriarch, Miss Ellie.
And it was she who would have the biggest impact our family.
It started with a lump.
Miss Ellie had one in her breast. Sweet Jesus! Miss Ellie might die. We were beside ourselves.
Dallas had introduced a new word into our vocabulary. Cancer was a word to be whispered. We learned that malignant was a much nastier word than fuck.
Miss Ellie's mastectomy misery continued over two weeks as the future of her breasts became a cliffhanger like no other.
When Dallas was on, we ate our meals without looking at our food. We balanced the plates on our knees and chewed in reverential silence out of respect for Miss Ellie's right boob.
One harrowing episode, as J.R comforted his ailing mother, I snuck a glance at my sister who was two years older than me. Strangely, she wasn't watching the television. Instead she was looking down at her own chest and her hand was in the exact same place as Miss Ellie's had been.
She looked sideways at me and I noticed as she swallowed hard. Her hand didn't move from her chest for the rest of the show.
That night as we were getting undressed and ready for bed, I lovingly asked her why she was being so quiet.
"What's wrong with you?"
"I've got a lump," she said.
"Where?"
She took my hand and placed it on her chest.
Her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper - "It's right where Miss Ellie's was."
I gasped. I stretched my fingers out to feel her bony chest. She was right, there was a lump. A gentle swelling under her tiny nipple.
I didn't know what to say. I had no scriptwriter to feed me lines.
"You better tell Mum." It was the best I could do.
That night I found it hard to sleep. Miss Ellie's face flashed before my eyes. Somewhat disturbingly, so did her bosom. Miss Ellie had been so brave, but she was an old lady. My poor sister was only eleven. It didn't seem fair.
The next morning, she revealed her shocking news to the family.
"I've got a lump. Just like Miss Ellie."
Nobody seemed too concerned. But she was insistent.
So we all looked. We all touched her chest to make sure.
Phone calls were made to the doctor and we set off to the clinic, sombre and worried.
As we walked, I made a quick inventory of her clothes and toys and wondered what she would leave me if she died. I really wanted the doll's head that you could play 'hairdresser' with, but I knew better than to ask for it. My sister had a habit of slapping me in my face when she was upset.
When we reached the doctor's office, my sister disappeared inside, while the rest of our family waited nervously in the car park. She was gone for ages.
Finally, she appeared at the door. I took care to notice, realising even at my young age, that this was her cinematic moment. She didn't disappoint. She stopped at the top of the steps. Gave us all a withering look and then walked straight past us, not even glancing our way. God, one little lump and she was turning into a total soap opera bitch.
My mother came out soon after. She was smiling.
"It's nothing," she said. "The doctor said it's normal. Tina is just developing."
While it appeared my sister's chest was surging, I felt strangely deflated. There was nothing unusual about her lump. We were no closer to being Ewing's than we had ever been.
So I stopped watching Dallas. It had fooled us once, and it wouldn't fool me again.
It had seemed for an instant that my sister's little lump would transport us into the realm of make believe, but instead, it ushered in an adolescence that had more melodrama in it than a long weekend at Southfork.
My sister, transformed with newly acquired boobs, was going to provide more viewing entertainment than any TV soap opera. Her dramatic exit from the doctor's office was simply the warm up.
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