The Tumours Made Me Interesting

by Matthew Revert

  THE TUMOURS MADE ME INTERESTING

  by

  Matthew Revert

  Published by: LegumeMan Books

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Matthew Revert

  Cover & Design © 2011 by Spatchcock

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law

  Dedicated to my mother

  PROLOGUE

  I had to walk to school each morning with my older brother. He was only two years older than me, but that was enough for my presence to cause embarrassment. He was always a good thirty seconds ahead of me and would grow visibly agitated if I tried to catch up. As far as my recollection is concerned, it was always winter back then. In each childhood memory, swimming up there in my brain stew, I’m always so cold.

  This morning was the same as most other mornings I can recall. I awoke in a jelly-like sweat by the abhorrent sound of my mother warbling folk songs in her bedroom. These songs had never been heard before – songs invented in the moment. Her spontaneous outbursts of musicality, as poorly sung as they were, made me so happy. My mother was sick. As the year progressed, she spent more and more of her time in bed. I had no idea what was wrong. I was under the naïve belief that it was merely a really bad flu. My experience with illness didn’t extend beyond that. I tried to help her the same way she would help me when I was sick. I made her hot water bottles, almost always scorching my hands and injuring the kitchen sink cassowaries in the process. I’d hold tissues up to her nose and force her to blow, whether there was anything to evacuate or not. I’d make her the healthiest breakfasts I knew how to make. Our cupboards didn’t really contain much of what one would term ‘healthy’ food. Once a week, dad would go shopping and buy whatever his meager income would allow from the sort of supermarkets most people had never heard of. This resulted in some unusual culinary adventures. On this particular morning, I made my mother a breakfast consisting of fried chinchilla fat and yeast. I’ll never forget the woeful smell. Smoke would waft from the battered pan, filling up the kitchen and reaching for the other rooms in the house. It was usually the smoke that woke my older brother. He’d stumble from the bedroom in his underwear, coughing and trying to hit me through the smoke – his grip on wakefulness still too tenuous to allow his fists to connect.

  Every morning dad would leave the house long before we woke. I have no idea what time he got up. One morning, jolted awake by a nightmare, I swear I heard him leave for work. I remember looking at the clock and seeing a time I’d never seen before. For many years after that, whenever I saw a clock, I couldn’t help but search for that esoteric time. When my mother first got hit with her perpetual flu, my father sat me down and asked me to make breakfast for her each morning before I left for school. I remember the sense of pride this instilled in me. Previously, my father had only ever asked for my help when he needed tiny fingers to fit into something marginally bigger. This request felt like genuine responsibility. This was a responsibility I took very seriously, at the expense of everything else. I’d spend my days planning the next morning’s breakfast and then, without an iota of cooking ability, I’d fashion something vaguely edible, which my mother, in a constant battle with the rancid taste, would force down her throat. If my morning duties didn’t include wiping vomit from her chin, I’d done well.

  My brother would make me wait for a minute after he left for school before I could start walking. My brother had fists like balls of asphalt and I didn’t want to be at the receiving end of them, so I obeyed. With each step toward school, my blood would lower in temperature until it was a plasma slushy forcing its way through my veins. My brother, unless in a particularly bad mood, remained in sight, steam billowing from his little body with each breath. The steam dwarfed him in size before dissipating into the freezing sky. He’d often stop and talk to people, which meant I’d have to patiently stand still until he started moving again, lest I caught up. On this morning he happened across a naked man on stilts sitting on a rubbish bin. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. All I could think about was how cold this man must be. They passed things back and forth to each other – I couldn’t make out what they were, but they glittered in the daylight. My brother put them in his pants, and very carefully resumed walking. By the time I passed the naked stilt walker, he was silent… nothing to suggest he was even still alive. I didn’t dare try and find out otherwise.

  I pulled the sleeves of my jumper over my balled fists, trying my best to keep them warm. I don’t know how effective this technique was. It was usually early afternoon by the time my hands had thawed enough to de-fist. This was in spite of the school grilling the poorer students each morning before class.

  There were about 10 of us who had to assemble in the school cafeteria upon arriving at school. We were the students whose family couldn’t afford a warmer method of travel to school other than walking. We were an unwilling posse of the disadvantaged. The lunch lady would meet us, filling us all with an unnamable fear. Her apron was more stain than material and as she gave us a morning hug, we’d all cop a whiff of months of rotting food. There was a large grill, big enough to fit five of us at a time. We’d lay our freezing bodies on the grill, side-by-side, and wait anxiously for the lunch lady to push us below the flame. When this was done with care, it was a beautiful feeling. The heat would penetrate our little bodies just enough to let our blood start moving again and remove the corpse-like colour our skin had attained. When, as was often the case, we were grilled poorly, our skin would burn and blisters would form. More often than not, this was the result of an ill-timed cigarette break on the lunch lady’s part. I still have red lines down my body from the school grill. They no longer cause pain. They tattoo my body with unwanted memory, impossible to forget.

  On this particular morning, I was, along with the other children in my batch, over-cooked. The lunch lady squeezed cream that smelled like rotten eggs onto our burnt skin and rubbed until it was absorbed. This would cool our bodies rendering the previous attempt to imbue us with warmth useless. It was in this state that I sat in class, my hands too cold to hold my pen, and disappeared into a mental world that the basic education we were being given couldn’t penetrate. Math class was the worst. I had a teacher who opted to wear a monocle on each eye rather than standard bifocals. His eye sockets chewed down on them, causing a constant furrow on his brow. He would revel in making examples of students like me. Math has always been a source of frustration. Whenever I am faced with a math problem, the numbers start fighting in my head until there is nothing left but mathematical gore. This teacher, whose name now escapes me (he was more a concept than anything else), saw fit to jolt me from my stupor with a ruler across the back of my neck. My burns started howling, which made the other students laugh and imitate the sound. The teacher confronted me with a math problem that required the multiplication of decimals. My pupils morphed into momentary question marks and the urge to cry begged for satisfaction. Instead, I sat silent, completely unable to tackle the problem. When my inability to answer the question became obvious, I was made to stand on my desk. The other students were then requested to write math problems onto sheets of loose leaf paper, ball them up, and hurl them at me. Amidst a sea of increasingly malicious laughter, this continued until the class was over. I was made to stay back awhile so the teacher could throw a few at me himself outside the gaze of my fellow students

  None of this was a rare occurrence. I wasn’t the only one treated this way. Each class had a couple of daydreamers, who couldn’t bring themselves to leave their own imaginations long enoug
h to appear connected to the world. We were all made examples of. If anything, it just re-enforced our desire to remain within ourselves. In my mind, I was always warm and cooking mouth watering meals for my mother. In my mind, I was one meal away from the perfect combination of food that would rid my mother of her nasty flu.

  What made this day different from all the rest was that which awaited when I arrived home. I always enjoyed the walk home. It was never quite as cold and the promise of my mother’s affection was a mere 30 minute walk away. I would be given a generic biscuit to tide me over until dinner and then I would stand beneath the comfortable warmth of the shower until the water heater decided it was sick of heat and went cold. I was gearing up for this routine as I walked in the door. My father’s work van (he delivered pens that didn’t work to those who only liked pretending to write) sat in the driveway, dripping with sweat. I ran my fingers along its length and made my way toward the front door. It was slightly ajar, making my entry just that little bit easier.

  As I walked toward the kitchen in pursuit of my daily biscuit, the muffled sound of my mother crying floated from the bedroom. I started running toward the sound, but collided with my father before I could offer help. I bounced off his legs and scrambled about on the floor. He was staring down at me, not offering to help me up, not offering any comfort. He was dressed in a tuxedo I’d never seen before. I wasn’t even aware we had clothes that one might call ‘fancy’. He brushed away the creases our collision had caused with firm hands. Our eyes were probably only locked for a few fleeting seconds, but in my memory, we stared at each other for lifetimes. It was while staring into his eyes that I intuitively saw the collapse of everything. In his eyes I saw my birth and my death. And as I stared, I just knew this was going to be the last time I ever saw my father. He knelt down until our eyes were level and placed a hand on my shoulder. The pressure of his hand was such that I was sure I would fall. Before I had a chance, he ushered me into my bedroom and shut the door.

  I can only recall a few conversations with my father. Up until this point, the conversations seemed so inconsequential they were rendered useless. In light of the way everything turned out, I often find myself scouring these banal conversations trying to glean significance. My father didn’t talk much to my mother or about my mother – he just looked after her. Since the flu had started, he had been a vigilant caregiver, but nothing else. I don’t know what my father used to do before he delivered pens, but I get the impression at one point he was quite an important man. When he sat by my side in the bedroom and told me he wanted to talk about my mother, I didn’t know what to think. I just listened. He told me that my mother’s flu wasn’t really the flu at all. He said that my mother had something very serious and that she would always be sick. I wanted to hug my father, but something about his body language filled me with fear and I couldn’t bring myself to show him affection. He very calmly explained that my mother would only continue growing more sick and eventually she would be unable to move. Up until this point, I didn’t even know it was possible to get this sick. I figured being sick was a transient state and I was sure that this was the case with my mother. The tone of my father’s voice convinced me that I had been wrong. As he spoke, I knew he was right.

  After detailing what he understood of my mother’s condition, my father then made of point of letting me know that she started getting sick on the day I was born. I didn’t know what to make of this information. Then he looked me in the eyes, draped and arm over my shoulder and with something resembling a smile, told me that I was responsible for my mother’s illness. With his free hand, he poked my forehead with a finger and repeated, “You made her sick. You made her sick.” While this occurred, my mother continued to cry from her room. I wanted to break down the wall that separated us and hold her. I couldn’t understand why she was crying or, more importantly, why my father wasn’t there to comfort her. He told me to stay on the bed and quickly left the room. I was only 9 years old, so rather than disobey, I sat frozen until he returned. He was holding a black, leather briefcase with gold clips. He sat beside me once more, unclipped the briefcase and foraged around inside. When he found what he was looking for, he removed it and closed the briefcase. I was told to hold out my hand, which I did. He placed an antique looking cigarette lighter onto my palm. It was bronze and engraved with a picture of a farting aristocrat with stink lines emanating from his backside. He told me to keep this lighter safe – to make sure I never lost it. I closed my hand as tightly as I could, feeling the cold of the bronze infiltrating my bones. My father stood up, planted a kiss atop my head, picked up the briefcase and said goodbye. I heard his footsteps leave my room and walk outside. I clamored toward the window and watched as my father stood at the curb, glancing every so often at his pocket watch. A short while later, a large falcon swooped down from sky and dug its talons into each of my father’s shoulders. The falcon began to flap its wings, kicking up refuse much like the blades of a helicopter. Soon after, the falcon had lifted my father from the ground and slowly flew away, until he was little more than a speck in the sky. The last thing I remember before he vanished from our life completely was him checking his watch, presumably not wanting to be late for wherever it was he was going.

  With the antique lighter still in my hand, I ran toward my mother’s room and dived onto the bed. I threw my arms around her and held on until her crying subsided. My memory tells me this took days, but it’s hard to believe it was really that long. All I know is that I refused to let go until her tears were no more. I didn’t ask her to explain what had just happened, and she didn’t offer an explanation. It wasn’t important. All that mattered was looking after her – making sure she was okay. I now knew I was responsible for her illness, therefore I was responsible for her care. I fixed us both a horrendous dinner and sat with her until the sun came up.

  With my father’s paltry income now gone, there was no money coming into the house. I took it upon myself to find a job in order to ensure we could continue eating. Although my brother was older, I couldn’t rely on him. He had recently discovered death metal and I didn’t want to disturb him. Besides, I was the cause of my mother’s illness. It needed to be me. Had my brother tried finding work, I would have actively sabotaged his efforts.

  There weren’t many people out there willing to employ a nine year old child, therefore my options were limited. After managing to fool an interviewer into thinking I was older by donning a fake moustache, I landed myself an entry-level job as a lecturer of Occult Mime Studies at a local university. The pay was poor, but it allowed something resembling food to fill our stomachs. I had no idea what I was doing and most of my classes were nothing more than an amalgam of random words and doodles scrawled on the blackboard. In what one must consider an indictment on our educational system, this didn’t seem to matter.

  My brother spoke to me very little after this. We never talked about dad’s absence and he started spending more and more time away from home. I was later informed that he had started a death metal band and was involved in some never ending tour of local train stations. It was really just my mother and I after that. I did absolutely everything I could to keep her comfortable and happy, even as her condition began to deteriorate in ways nobody could understand. The more she deteriorated, the more vital my care became. My mother went from resisting it to depending upon it. My father made no effort to re-enter our lives. It was probably for the best. Had he returned, he would have found his place occupied by his youngest son. The wife he once had was gone. She was now defined by her disease. Most of us wind up caring for our parents – some just start doing it sooner than others.

  Our childhood is like a really complicated recipe, made of many ingredients. These ingredients form a batter that is cooked into the people we become. It’s virtually impossible to get this batter right, and any inconsistencies will show up in one way or another when we’re finally cooked. The inconsistencies in the batter form our humanity and are just as important as e
verything else. Perfect batter will give birth to boring results. When it comes right down to it, some of us are just made with really low quality batter and when that batter is cooked, nobody feels like eating it.

  PART ONE

  1.

  I haven’t been in a doctor’s office for nearly 15 years. It’s not that I don’t get ill – quite the contrary. I just avoid the urge to parade my various illnesses and injuries around. When your wage is lacking like mine, bolstering the pockets of some, already overpaid, GP doesn’t sit in my stomach quietly. So I suffer my ailments until they retreat. What can a doctor really do to aide a cold or flu? They excel at giving you easily researched advice before removing valuable money from your malnourished wallet. For these reasons, and so many more, I avoid the doctor.

  And what does it mean to be ill anyway? The body regenerates itself. It’s more resilient than a teenage boy’s wanking hand. The truth is, if it weren’t for the fact so many workplaces require proof of one’s ailments, we wouldn’t waste time going to a doctor at all. I’m the sort of person who goes to work when they’re sick anyway. You know those work colleagues who cough up wads of phlegm onto their computer screens just before asking you to come over and double check some sales figures? That’s me. I’m the guy who blows his nose just before shaking your hand. There’s usually a disease infested hanky in my pocket that I utilise regularly. When you hate your job as much as I do, it’s those subtle acts of sabotage that give you reason to continue. If I were being honest, I’m probably more comfortable when I'm sick. It gives my miserableness something to hang on to – it gives me an excuse. Why would I go to a doctor? I’ll leave that task to those I infect. To even consider seeking professional help, I have to be really fucking sick.