Cancer (eBook)

Part I: There is Hope

1. The Meaning of Life and Death

A fictional story by Bob Rich

The battles you have to fight on the Cancer Journey will be fought, not in the hospital ward, but inside your head.

Victor Smith

It's a bastard, facing a death sentence at nineteen.

My eyelids are a blessedly black barrier between me and the world. A light breeze is using the long grass to tickle my bare arms and legs. But most of me is in my ears, on the song of the creek. It's better to listen to the liquid symphony than to think about dying in three months. And hopefully, no-one will find me here.

I wish I could be a football hero or a karate black belt or something. I wish I was six feet tall. I wish I was anyone but myself. In particular, I wish I wasn't dying.

So, I listen to the burble of the water, and for minutes at a time my mind goes blank. I don't think I've slept, but the soft sound of a footstep jerks me out of the refuge of not-thinking, and when I open my eyes the sun is considerably further to the west.

“Hi, Dale,” Sheila says, “Your Mom said you might be here.”

She is nervous—her fair skin shows up a blush, and her hands are clenching into fists, then smoothing out. I've got to get rid of her. I just have to.

“Sheila. What the hell are you doing here?” I make my voice sound hostile.

Good, she looks hurt. “Visiting you.”

“Well, I don't want you. I don't need pity. Piss off.” I determinedly squeeze my eyes shut.

“It's not pity, Dale. It's…”

“Let me be. Go away.” I keep my eyes shut, my body is a board of wood, and with the tension even the morphine can't mask the pain.

She gives a little sob and walks off. Good. I manage to relax my body a little, but cry inside. If only…

I can't get back to peace. The creek's chatter is now a mocking laughter. After awhile I struggle to my feet and go inside.

Mom's at her computer but spins her chair to face me. Her black eyes have a dangerous glitter and her mouth is a tense line. “That girl went away crying,” she tells me.

“I didn't ask her to come.”

“There's no need to be rude to people!”

“Sometimes there is.” I keep walking.

“Dale. Hold up. Who is she?”

I face her. Bitterly I say, “The perfect woman. You've seen her. Gorgeous. She topped first year Maths, that's where I met her. She plays the violin like an angel. And if she calls, tell her I'm out.”

This time I make it through the door before the next question.

In the small hours of the night I wake from a dream of Sheila. As usual, she had her long corn-colored hair in a severe ponytail, but if anything that emphasized the beauty of her features, sculpted from a Viking's dream. She'd been crying just before I awoke, mouthing words I couldn't understand. Maybe she spoke Norse, who knows?

Eons ago, like before I had cancer, she and I were part of a group at University, not paired up or anything, but fun friends. I couldn't stand to have her pity me. More important, if she took me up as a ‘cause’, she'd certainly be even more devastated after my death. She's always been a caring person, and it'll hit her hard. Better to hurt her now, reduce the greater hurt later.

* * *

Wednesday, it's my weekly visit to the Hospital, and Dr Ezekiel Hunter, head oncologist. I used to be his major exhibit, but blotted my book with the relapse. Too bad, Doctor, too bad for me too.

Dr Hunter, now there's a real Nigger, not like me, a token black only. He's the Ace of Spades with curly cotton-wool hair and Satchmo lips. So, he's had to be the best all his life, to prove to the world that an African-American (let's be politically correct) can do it. Then I stuff up on him. I can feel it. ‘After all I've done for you, boy…’ Fuck you, Dr Hunter, I did it just to spite you, hey?

Vicky takes my obs while I'm waiting. We used to joke and carry on before the relapse, but I've stopped that. Can't be bothered. So now she does her jobs, scribbles it down and leaves. I've heard her tell another nurse that I've got a chip on the shoulder, developed an attitude problem. OK for her, she is not the one dying.

Dr Hunter still tries to chat with me as he refills the morphine pump. Him I can't shut up, but it's over in quarter of an hour, I can endure that.

I turn to leave. “Dale…” he rumbles.

“Doctor Hunter?”

“Look son, you're not doing yourself any favors.”

“See you next week, Doctor.”

Why should I listen to another lecture? That's all everyone wants to do. They all know how I should die. Fuck'em.

I'm so glad people can't read minds. I hate the whining shit I've become.

Mom drives us back to the farm—the Law won't let me drive because of the morphine—and on the way, for the millionth time, I brood about how to end it all. I mean, why should I force the family into bankruptcy, just so I can endure another three months of misery? Why not go now, so Mom won't have to spend eight, nine hours a day on her computer for Mr. Barton, and Dad won't have to be sixteen hours a day out in the orchard.

Trouble is, I'd prefer if my body wasn't found by the family. I want them to be able to sell my car afterward, so I can't just drive over a cliff or something. And the morphine pump is worth as much as the car, I don't want to wreck that.

As Mom whizzes along the highway, I close my eyes and imagine what it must be like, being dead. I think it's like when the creek's song lulls me. No thinking. No pain. No shame. No anger.

I want it.

But as we bump to the end of the drive, my heart plummets: Carol's red Range Rover is in front of the house, and the two kids are on the porch, waving madly, big grins on their brown little faces. I used to love being with them. But now…

Carol appears from the dark maw of the front door and strides over as I swing my legs out. “Listen, baby brother,” she whispers, “smile or I'll kick your butt.”

“I don't feel like smiling.” I start to stand.

A strong, brown, long-fingered hand grabs my wrist and she hauls me onto the driveway, takes me away from the house. She's still whispering, and this makes the anger even more impressive. “Rachel and Cameron think you're wonderful. Today's a Curriculum day at their school, and when I asked what they wanted to do, it was ‘Visit Dale! Visit Dale!’ and I could do nothing to change their minds.”

“Carol, I'm not up to it.”

“Listen. OK, this monstrous thing may be killing you…”

“There's no maybe about it.”

“Shut your face. Say you die in a few months. How do you want Rachel and Cameron to remember you? As the wonderful uncle they used to have, or as a grumpy bag of misery? Think of someone other than yourself for a change!”

“That's not fair!”

“Life's not fair. C'mon, brother, make them happy for an hour, then I'll go.”

So I paint a grin on my face, though it feels unnatural, and give them a hug and run my hands through their curls. We play a three-way game of Chinese checkers and I manage to allow Rachel to win. Then they pester me to make up a poem for them. I used to do that every time we were together, but my creativity has died already. I get out an old scrapbook, and read them a few:

R is for a thorny plant called the rose.

Though it prickles, it's one of those

people will pamper, and water, and prune.

The reason? Sweet flower, nice perfume.

Rachel tells me, very seriously, how lovely that is, so I read one specially for Cameron:

H just has to be for Horse,

a very useful friend of course,

who'll pull a cart, or let you ride,

and gives us manure on the side!

Naturally he shouts, “Hey Dale, it comes out the end, not the side!” and I laugh with them. Must be the first time I've laughed this month. So I give them a few more.

The story of bees has a sting in the tail.

Did you know, all useful bees are female?

The gentleman bees, well, just hang around

until a queen flies above the ground.

Then one of them mates, and all the boys die—

I'd rather be human, and that's not a lie!

(Rachel cheers at that)

Garlic has a pungent smell

(keeps people away very well!)

It is used by many races

in cities and outlying places

to keep the dreaded ‘flu away

by eating just one clove a day.

And for hours after they've gone, I find myself smiling, and the world is a good place, and there's no pain.

But at dinner time, Dad looks so exhausted that I feel a stab of guilt. I used to help him after school, and he used to hire more casuals than now. Why? The money is needed to pay my medical debts, and for the...