The Tumours Made Me Interesting

by Matthew Revert

  Lacking natural light and victim to decades of neglect, the pharmacy wasn’t a pleasing environment. It was a perfect accompaniment to the illnesses they specialised in treating. Health posters from the 70s still adorned the walls and spreading damp coloured the low ceiling. Against the far wall sat the counter. As ever, standing proud and round behind the counter was Arthur Pecks, the world’s most socially inept pharmacist.

  “Huzzah, Bruce!” said Arthur upon spotting me. He reached out his arm to give my hand a shake. Our hands met, he shook and forgot to let go. Five minutes went by, ten minutes went by – at the 15 minute mark I had to request an end to the shake. With a bumbling apology, he broke the hand lock and grovelled, bowed and curtsied before losing his footing and falling backward into poorly assembled and overly laden shelves. This wasn’t unusual. A long, wooden stick was propped against the counter for this exact purpose. I shoved the stick into the collapse and fished Arthur out. After struggling to his feet, he simply asked, ‘So what’ll it be today, Bruce?”

  This month’s prescription called for Sulfasalazine, which was most commonly used in the treatment of Crohns and Colitis. I handed the prescription to Arthur.

  “Oh boy! This is a good’n. I used to live on the stuff in 'Nam,” said Arthur.

  Knowing full well that Arthur had never fought in Vietnam, I simply smiled politely and took a seat while he prepared my mother’s chemical feast. Listening to Arthur forage around behind the counter had always amused me. He never failed to break or knock something over. He was possibly the clumsiest person I’d ever met. Despite his chronically accident prone tendencies, he always maintained such a positive mood. I was the kind of person who flew into a brief fury at the mildest hiccup. Arthur’s positive attitude was bound to grant him an extended, albeit dangerous, life.

  Despite being the only customer in the store, Arthur still found it necessary to announce my name in an officious tone when the prescription was ready. I took the drugs, and against my better judgment, participated in another painfully extended handshake before leaving.

  Other than pulling over briefly to masturbate while indulging in ‘wool-mouthed sluts’, I headed straight to my mother's. I spent most of the drive mentally rehearsing the best way to break the cancer news to her. I wondered if perhaps a comical approach would work but ousted that idea when I remembered that laughter made her nose bleed. I had to be upfront. It would be like tearing off a Band-Aid. Just get the critical dialogue out and spend the rest of the time dealing with the aftermath. Whenever my inner coward reared its head, I reminded myself that this was better than her finding out about my death one day without context. It was with this resolve that I lurched up her driveway.

  With the assistance of nerves, the pain in my stomach kicked up a few million notches. Vomit climbed my throat like mercury in a thermometer. A flush of diarrhea swam through my bowel, begging for release. I clenched every muscle, shut my eyes and focused on breathing. I don’t know how long I was involved in this for, but when my eyes eventually opened I was feeling somewhat better. Before my body had a chance to turn against me again, I escaped the car and made a beeline for the front door.

  My mother’s house was a time capsule. Without the benefit of easy mobility, her home was virtually untouched. A cleaner came by once a week to tackle dust accumulation and remove garbage but that was it. For this reason, her home had a distinct early 80s luster. This environmental stasis filled me with comfort. I always knew what to expect and being reluctant to embrace change, this was superficially a good thing. I could always watch the residual echo of a childhood version of me running through the house. These nostalgic echoes have the strange ability to project abject happiness… no matter how little it rings true.

  “Bruce, baby… is that you?” my mother called from the bedroom.

  “Yes, mum. I’ll be right there. I have the new meds.”

  I took one more deep breath, reaffirmed my resolve and entered her bedroom. Seeing her lying on the bed helplessly threatened my resolve in one quick burst of despair. Tears began to scratch my eyeballs and the careful breathing that helped me reach this point became a lost talent. She flashed a smile warm enough to bake muffins and her eyes beamed as if snatched from a cartoon. I choked at the sight. The reality of my death hadn’t hit as clear as it did in this moment. Mum’s arm/body sprawled over the bed, bruised and twitching occasionally. Who would look after her when I was gone? I was all she had. How could life be so cruel as to take me away from her? For the benefit of us both, I avoided further eye contact as I sat myself down at her bedside.

  “Give me a hug, dear,” she requested.

  With eyes still averted, I leant down and cradled her head in my arm. “Hi mum,” I mumbled. “How ya been?”

  Giving my arm a gentle kiss she began giving me a breakdown of the television she’d seen, the mail she’d received and food she’d consumed. It all flew from her mouth in one unbroken sentence, assailing me with redundant information. The parent/child relationship, especially when the child has entered the world of adulthood, often descends into a series of practiced platitudes. The automatic drive to conduct the relationship without emotional interference enforces itself. I saw my mother multiple times a week and each conversation was a variation on a well-practiced theme. I broke the hug and finally caught her eyes again.

  “Mum… I gotta tell you something… something pretty important.”

  “What is it dear? You look upset.”

  My mother was no fool. The slightest variation in my emotional demeanor was seized upon by her instinct. When you spend long enough in the presence of another, you can read the energy around them. The moment I pulled up in the driveway, I have no doubt a strange knot formed in the pit of her stomach. That knot was about to get so much tighter.

  I took one more choked breath. “Okay, so I need to just say this so please, just listen to what I have to say and we can discuss it afterward.”

  “Okay… go ahead, love.” Worry filled her voice.

  “I’ve been experiencing some pretty messed up health issues lately… so much so that I went to the doctor. I mean… I don’t just decide to go to the doctor. It has to be serious. Anyway, I had some tests run to see what was up… It turns out… I have bowel cancer. It turns out… that I’m going to die.”

  After these words left my mouth, we both sat in total silence, our eyes locked. The silent seconds were a painful drag amplifying the dread that permeated us. A single tear drizzled from my mother’s left eye and travelled down the wrinkles on her face, leaving a wet stain. I bit my bottom lip, warding of my own water works, biting as hard as I could to keep them in. A bead of blood consumed my front teeth.

  “So, what do we do?” she finally asked in a disarming, professional tone. “We’ll sit down and write a list… concoct an attack. We’ll approach it methodically and sort this out.”

  “Mum… I don’t think there’s anything we can do…”

  She began to jitter and her tears fell freely. I shuffled closer and held a tissue to her nose, which she filled, wet and warm with snotty tears. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into me, feeling her sadness soak into me. A sickness in my muscles made them feel heavy and my brain felt like wood, pushing against my skull, trying to break through.

  “How can you say there’s nothing we can do?” she screamed. “I’m not going to lay back and watch my baby die!”

  I’d never heard such desperation in my mother’s voice. As I cradled her, I felt heavy dread crawl over me like thousands of ants. My body tickled and stung. I wanted to hug all of her fear away, even if it meant taking it on myself. The truth was my body was already full of so much fear that I doubted I’d have found room for my mothers… but I’d try.

  “I’m going to get help for you,” she said, the big hand that concluded her body balling into a tight fist. “If there’s anything that can be done, we’re doing it. I’ll call every damn doctor in the country if I have to. Someone somewhere must be able to
do something. People get cancer all the time. Technology has become better than you or I will ever imagine. There’s probably a pill you can take that’ll dissolve the cancer. There’s natural remedies, faith healers, dietary plans… there will be something we can do.”

  I was a fool to believe she’d just accept it. That wasn’t her style. I was my mother’s world and she wouldn’t let me go without a fight. In the condition she was in, I didn’t want her fighting on my behalf. I thought about that Fiona woman and her pledge to help me. Her contact details were seared into my memory, despite trying to swallow them. If it would help my mother, I’d see her. I’d make an appointment the second I got home. If there was something to be done, I’d do it. Sure, my mother raised a quitter, but it wouldn’t help to let her know that.

  “Mum, there’s someone I can see. She’s a counsellor. She said she could help me. I’ll make an appointment when I get home.”

  She lifted her head and nodded gratefully. “See! You’re going to be fine dear.” She buried her face into my shirt again.

  “I know, mum,” I replied even if I didn’t believe it.

  I sat in my car, completely drained with my head slumped against the steering wheel. From the passenger seat, the wool-mouthed sluts were smiling at me, promising me a brief escape. I drove to a quiet side street and masturbated, knowing intuitively that ejaculation would bring more self-hatred… more fear.

  6.

  I slumped through my front door, chock full of post-orgasmic guilt. The apartment I entered didn’t look like mine. They key opened the lock, which suggested this was definitely my place. What struck me the most was the cleanliness that now surrounded me. I had never seen my apartment so clean. It was confronting. I stepped inside cautiously, like it was a trap. Even the stale odour was gone, replaced with a pleasant citrus scent. How was this possible? Where had all the rubbish gone?

  “Oh, Bruce! Came a voice through the hole in my wall.

  It was Rhonda, wearing an apron, a feather duster and what looked like a steel wool bra. She waved and came bounding toward me. I instinctively cowered.

  “I hope you don’t mind, dear, but I straightened up a little. I just thought, in your condition, you needed a nice, clean place to relax. You don’t mind, do you?”

  She looked genuinely concerned, like she’d broken the cardinal rule of the faceless neighbour. I didn’t respond straight away. I was still entranced by the state of my apartment. It looked immaculate. I wanted to run my tongue over every surface. Not only wasn’t I angry, but I wanted to pick Rhonda up and kiss her. I wanted to hold her close and thank her again and again. “No… I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all. Thank you.”

  She beamed a relieved smile. “I’m so happy you’re not angry. I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I just saw a mess and had to clean it. Ask Vince. I do it all the time. I think I have a touch of the obsessive compulsives when it comes to this.”

  “This must have taken you hours.”

  “Not really. I have the whole cleaning game down to a fine art. You break it down into quadrants and just attack it. If you get better, I’ll teach you…” As those last words escaped her mouth, she took a few steps backward. “I’m so, so sorry, Bruce. I didn’t mean to say ‘if’. I meant ‘when’. When you get better.”

  I brushed it off. “It’s okay.’ I stared at her. “I’m probably not going to get better. That’s just the way it is. I’ll be fine. People get cancer every day.” I walked to my armchair, embracing the absence of clutter that usually blocked my path. I let my body fall and the cushions kissed me. “Would you like something to drink, Rhonda?”

  “No, dear. It’s fine. I was actually going to invite you to eat with Vince and I. I’m making Baked Meal tonight. There will be more than enough.”

  “You’ve already done enough. It’s fine. Think I’ll probably have an early one, but thank you, Rhonda. I mean it.”

  She walked toward me and gave me a peck on the forehead. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s strange to admit this but when you fell through our wall yesterday, I was happy. It feels like we gained a roomie. Feel free to come on by anytime. If you’re hungry or just bored and want a chat. With Vince working all day, I get quite lonely and it’s always nice sometimes to just talk.”

  I was staring in disbelief. I didn’t know it was possible for anyone to be this kind. I wanted to shake and pinch Rhonda to see if she was real. Part of me expected her to be a figment of my imagination that would float away like dandelion spores the second I got too close. “Thank you,” I said once more as she walked away.

  “Oh, one more thing, Bruce. There’s a queer stain on your kitchen ceiling. I couldn’t get at it. You may want to give it some attention if you feel up to it. I’m sure it wouldn’t take long to clean. I would have done it, but I’m shorter than a postman’s temper. Take care.”

  She disappeared through the hole in the wall. I spent some time lost in thought. Not bad thoughts either. There was an undeniable pity involved in Rhonda’s actions but there was definitely more to it than that. She was a good person… the sort of person whose existence I had always doubted. When she gave me permission to enter their place uninvited, I knew she meant it.

  I craned my head and stared at the stain on the kitchen ceiling. It had a dark green edge that darkened to black in the centre. I’d never really noticed it before. It looked conspicuous in the newly cleaned surrounds. It was a vulgar indicator as to the squalor I had been living in only hours before. It pulsed ever so slightly and I swear I could hear it wheezing. Who knows what I’d allowed to grow up there. I made it my mission to remove it. I didn’t want to let Rhonda down. It was my duty to prove to her that her kindness did not go unnoticed. Before I did that, I needed to give that Fiona woman a call. I had no desire to meet with her, but the look on my mother’s face was too heartbreaking for me not to. If Fiona could provide my mother with hope, I wasn’t going to turn it down, even if the hope provided was ultimately bound to be false. It would be easier for her to accept my fate if she believed I had gone down fighting.

  She answered the phone after the first ring. She didn’t even ask who I was – just went right ahead and greeted me by name. This Fiona was a self-assured sort. I wasn’t given a hard time for my no-show (which I’ll admit, had caused me some anxiety) and made an appointment for the next day. I was given a time, an address and that was it. No foreplay – just business. I guess that’s all I was to her. I was probably one of 100 terminal losers she was meeting with that day. I’d listen politely to what she had to say, thank her and go home. I doubted the possibility of a follow-up session. This was merely so I could look my mother in the eye and honestly tell her that I was doing everything I could.

  It wasn’t worth wasting anymore think space on the cancer, my mother or the appointment with Fiona, so I focused my attention on the ceiling stain in the kitchen. I’ve never been taught the fine art of cleaning, so I had no idea how to tackle it. I couldn’t reach the ceiling with a damp rag (my usual approach to stains) so I settled with poking at it with a broom handle. I scraped cave wall-like symbols in the stain, which summoned a shower of toxic dust to float upon me. The surface of the stain was hardened with age. Just below this surface was a sludgy interior that began to drip and kick up a sickly sweet stink. It felt like I was making progress so I poked harder, revelling in the movement of my arms more than anything else. With a burst of unnecessary momentum, I pushed the broom handle through the stain and then through the ceiling. It lodged itself pretty tight and I met a lot of resistance gently trying to tug it to freedom. I wrenched at it, freeing the broom and bringing the surrounding ceiling down with it. I fell backward as the plaster and wood ravaged my kitchen floor. I surveyed my body for damage, found nothing and turned my attention to the damage. Beneath the ceiling rubble something was writhing – something big. My body froze, except for my left arm, which crept toward the broom. Whatever it was, I was going to fuck it up. With my weapon in tow, I slowly got to m
y feet and made a creeping advance. I prepared to strike the mess in its writhe but lost my concentration when an arm broke through. In its hand was an unsullied cup of tea. I was too confused to attack.

  “Excuse me, sir… would you mind giving me a hand?”

  Whatever lurked beneath the collapse had an awfully proper English accent, which disarmed my fear somewhat. English accents, I’ve always reasoned, are unfair… a nice English accent can deliver the most terrible news and still find a grateful ear. I kicked away the mess, revealing more of this odd intruder along the way.

  “That’s a good lad,” he said while wobbling to his feet.

  He was an old sort, in his sixties by the look. His right eye socket munched on a monocle and he was dressed impeccably in a two piece suit. “What the fuck?” was all I managed to say.

  “I’m awfully sorry about this. I’m not sure what happened really. I was resting and then all of a sudden… I found myself in this unusual situation.”

  I stared at his cup of tea. “You were resting with a cup of tea?”

  “Of course, old chap. I never go anywhere without a nice Earl Grey.”

  “You didn’t spill a drop.”

  “When you’ve been enjoying the Earl for as long as I have, you get rather good at it.”

  “Who the hell are you?” I finally asked.

  “How embarrassing to have not afforded you an introduction. Arthur Middleton, at you service.”

  Arthur extended his hand toward mine. It felt like a dead fish, which made me hungry. “Do you live on the floor above?”