BODY OF EVIDENCE | Katherine Zippel
It’s 7:45 a.m., and I’m standing in line at the Melbourne Airport security, panting from my mad sprint from the Uber that had ferried me from my hotel on Elizabeth Street. The early December air is already warm, thick with the scent of asphalt and jet fuel. Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck, beading along my upper lip. I dab at it absently, adjusting the strap of my carry-on as I inch forward in line.
Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed out so late. But how could I resist the magic of “Moulin Rouge?” The music, the lights, the velvet opulence—it was a dream. A perfect close to my three-day trip for yet another follow-up with my oncologist. And now, I am racing back home, back to my husband, to our windblown town perched between land and sea, where salt hangs in the air and gulls cry into the open sky. My husband, an oyster farmer, loves explaining why the wind never seems to stop. The hot dry air from the north meets the cool breath of the ocean, he says, a fact I hear as poetry. I love that wind. It touches my skin like a whisper, a reminder: You are still here. You are alive.
A murmur ripples through the line as we shuffle closer to the security checkpoint. My momentary peace dissolves as I place my laptop and purse into the grey plastic bins, stepping into the full-body scanner. I know what comes next.
Swish. The machine hums, scanning me from head to toe. Then, predictably, the beep. A security officer steps forward, a woman in a navy uniform, her expression neutral but firm.
“Miss, we need to conduct a pat down. Do you have any special type of underwire bra?”
I exhale, the routine already mapped out in my mind. “I had a double mastectomy. I wear breast prosthetics.”
Her gaze flickers, just for a second. Then, she recovers. “Do you consent to a search here, or would you prefer a private room?”
A lump rises in my throat. The question is standard, polite even, but it doesn’t matter. There is no right answer. If I say “here,” I risk humiliation in front of a sea of strangers. If I say “private room,” it means something more invasive. A slow breath. “Private room, please.”
I am led down a stark hallway, fluorescent lights humming above, the walls sterile white. The room is small, clinical. Two female officers join me, their hands gloved, their movements brisk.
“Please remove your top,” one of them instructs. The words feel like static in my ears.
I hesitate, staring at the tiled floor. The air conditioning hums, too cold against my skin. Reluctantly, I comply, peeling off my shirt, my bra. My prosthetics sit in place, moulded silicone, a quiet illusion of what was once there. I watch as one officer picks them up, inspecting them like they might come apart in her hands, as though they could be something else—something dangerous. My body, my loss, reduced to an object of suspicion. I am neither woman nor threat. Just something they don’t know how to categorize.
I want to scream, to tell them this isn’t just an inconvenience. It is a reminder that no matter how much I heal, how far I move forward, my body is still marked by the past. Cancer is not just a disease—it is an aftershock that reshapes everything. I want to tell them what it means to fight for your life, only to be treated like a suspect. But I don’t. Instead, I stand there, arms crossed over my bare chest, waiting.
Finally, they clear me. I dress quickly, shoving my prosthetics back into place, and step out of the room, throat tight, eyes forward. The airport hums with life around me, travellers rushing, oblivious to the moment I just endured.
By the time I reach my gate, I can hear my husband’s voice in my head. The wind is always moving because it has somewhere to go. I close my eyes, imagining the briny breeze at home, the rush of it through the trees, the way it kisses my skin and reminds me that I am still here, still standing. Still moving forward.
Katherine Zippel is a general practitioner, researcher and breast cancer survivor with a deep commitment to narrative medicine and social prescribing. She is pursuing a doctorate in philosophy in evidence-based health care at Oxford University, where her research explores the role of general practitioners in breast cancer care and the impact of social prescribing on survivorship. Zippel is also studying for a professional certificate in narrative medicine at Columbia University. Her clinical work has spanned rural, remote and Aboriginal health settings in Australia, where she integrates lifestyle medicine and community-based interventions into patient care. She is passionate about the intersections of medicine, storytelling and human experience, using narrative to bridge the gap between clinical care and the lived realities of patients.