by Tracy Bloom
‘Have you told Mark?’ she asks.
‘About what?’ I cough and draw myself up. I’ll put funerals away somewhere for now to distress myself over when I have room.
‘Everything,’ she says, sounding slightly exasperated that I’m so complicated.
‘No,’ I reply firmly. ‘And I’m not going to.’
‘What?’
Now it’s Maureen’s turn to look taken aback.
‘I’m not telling him I have cancer or that I know he’s being unfaithful,’ I declare.
She falls back in her chair, funeral popularity numbers forgotten.
‘You have to tell him, Jenny.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s your husband.’
‘No, he’s not, he’s a two-timing little shit.’
‘Well, he’s that as well, but he is still your husband.’
‘He gave up all rights to expect me to treat him like my husband the moment I caught him having sex with another woman.’
‘You can’t keep a secret like this from him. He has a right to know.’
‘What, like I have a right to know if he’s decided our marriage is over and he’s gone elsewhere? He has no rights as far as I’m concerned.’
‘But what if he finds out from someone else?’
‘I’m not telling anyone apart from you.’
Maureen stares at me. It’s not often she’s speechless but I can tell she’s struggling just at this minute.
‘Parents? Friends? What about your children? You’re being ridiculous, Jenny. Are you in denial? You did walk into this room and tell me you have cancer yesterday, didn’t you? Because if you haven’t then I have broken my arm for nothing.’
‘I thought you’d just sprained it?’
‘Broken, sprained, what’s the difference when you’re talking utter gibberish? You have to tell people, Jenny, if you really do have cancer. Or is that it?’ she says, her eyes narrowing. ‘Do you not have it at all and this is all a wicked plan to get me to hand over my savings for some bogus life-saving surgery and then you’ll disappear off to Australia with all my money? Is that what you’re up to? I have to say that’s actually quite ingenious.’
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Of course not. I really do have cancer.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I have cancer,’ I shout at her. How dare she question my morals when I have a terminal disease?
‘Well, you’re not acting much like it,’ she replies.
‘What do you mean, not acting like I have cancer? What am I supposed to do? Roll around on the floor wailing? Attach a sign to my head with a skull and crossbones on? Dress in muted colours?’
‘You don’t look good in yellow actually,’ interrupts Maureen, nodding at my lemon-yellow wool sweater. ‘Makes you look awfully pale.’
‘I have cancer, Maureen, which is probably why I look pale.’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s never suited you. You should steer clear of pastels.’
I blow my cheeks out. Maybe Maureen isn’t the right person to be confiding in.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘My mother, well, I’ve told you about my mother, haven’t I? I know this sounds awful but me getting cancer would be just another way I have failed her. I’m not the daughter she wanted. I didn’t turn into the professional like my brother did. In fact the only thing I think she has ever been proud of me for is marrying Mark and look how that’s turning out. She wouldn’t support me. She wouldn’t be there for me like a mother should. All it would mean to her would be the inconvenience of losing her babysitter for Dad,’ I add bitterly.
‘And I can’t tell Dad,’ I say when Maureen doesn’t speak. ‘He can’t process it. It would just add to his confusion.’
‘That’s very sad,’ mutters Maureen. ‘The poor man.’
‘And as for my friends,’ I continue, starting to get worked up. ‘I’ve stupidly let the good ones slip through my fingers.’ The photos from last night flash before my eyes, cluttered with friendships dropped purely because of geography and time. ‘They’re far away where they can’t do anything and I don’t want to talk to them over the phone. The ones who are left, well, let’s just say I can’t see any of them being the rock I need right now.
‘But it’s okay,’ I continue. ‘This is good. Really it is. I realised last night I don’t want to tell anyone, not until I have to. I don’t want to be that person. Why would I want to be the person with cancer? That’s a terrible person to be. I can’t bear the thought of the pity or the sympathy or, worse, people standing in front of me totally tongue-tied or saying something totally stupid that I have to somehow respond to.’
‘You mean like some miserable cow telling you to be positive, it will all be okay?’ offers Maureen.
‘Yes, that’s it exactly,’ I cry. ‘I can’t stand the thought of someone telling me to be positive. I can’t stand the idea of anyone trying to give me advice. Who do they think they are? You can’t give someone advice when you have never felt how it feels to be told you are dying, can you?’ I demand.
‘No, absolutely,’ agrees Maureen.
‘I’m just not putting myself in that position, not yet. I’ve decided I want to be me, Maureen, until I have no choice and I have to become the cancer version of me.’
Maureen is nodding slowly. She’s getting it, I think. I need her to get it. I need her to reassure me that I’m not a lunatic and this actually makes sense. Doesn’t it? To be perfectly honest, when I was lying in bed at three o’clock in the morning wide awake, listening to the creaks and moans of the house, I was questioning my sanity. But when I woke up it was as clear as day to me. This is the only way I can deal with it.
‘I understand,’ she says softly.
‘Brilliant.’ I heave a sigh of relief. Making decisions makes me feel better. I feel back in control.
‘And I have decided something else,’ I say, trying to sound confident. ‘I don’t want to be this me,’ I say, waving my hands disparagingly over my lemon-clad body.
‘You want to be someone else?’
‘Yes – well, no.’
Maureen looks confused now.
‘I want to be the old me,’ I clarify. ‘The 1996 me, to be precise.’
‘Right,’ she says, although clearly she has no idea what I’m talking about.
‘I figure actually that if I’m not going to be cancer me then I might as well choose to be the best me and the best me was 1996 me. I’m going back to 1996, Maureen, to be that person again. Because that’s when I was happiest. That’s when I was really living. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
I look at her expectantly.
Maureen’s mouth is now hanging open. I’ve thrown too much at her this morning. She’ll think she had too much sherry last night and this is all some bizarre dream. She has nothing in her to respond. What do you say to a woman who yesterday told you she has cancer and her husband is having an affair and today announces she wants to be twenty-five again?
‘How utterly marvellous,’ she eventually responds.
Sixteen
Surprisingly, it’s a harder task to convince Doctor Death of my ‘treatment plan’.
The hospital left a message on the answerphone yesterday to confirm a further appointment this afternoon. It feels like I’ve lived a whole lifetime since I was last in that soulless office only two days ago. I’m curiously proud of where I’ve got to in my head. I feel I’m in control, I feel I have a plan and that’s soothing, comforting.
Until the doctor walks in with his dose of reality.
He sits down in front of me with a warm smile.
‘Are we just waiting for your husband?’ he enquires, flicking through papers in my file.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘He’s not coming.’
His eyes flick up to look at me, his warm smile gone.
‘Oh dear,’ he says. ‘I thought he was coming with you this time.’
‘Well, no,’ I say, starting to feel uncomfortable. ‘He’s not.’<
br />
‘Have you told him?’
I look away, for some reason feeling like a schoolgirl being told off by the headmaster.
‘No.’
‘I think you would find it really helpful to have someone to support you. To come with you when you see me so you both understand what is going on.’
‘Well, I would find it helpful too.’ My defiant schoolgirl side is kicking in. ‘However, since I found out about his affair I’m not sure he’s the kind of support I need. So it’s not my fault,’ I add, which is something I haven’t felt compelled to add to any conversation since attending South Moor Comprehensive.
‘Oh,’ he says, putting the papers down and leaning back in his chair. ‘Well, I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there someone else who you can call on?’
‘I’ve told the people I need to,’ I say sharply, not wanting to discuss this any longer.
‘There are other people you can talk to,’ he says, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a leaflet. ‘You don’t need to feel alone,’ he adds, pushing it towards me.
I look down and read the title, ‘WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT CANCER’. I stare at the word ‘CANCER’ and I’m felled. I’m down for a moment, unable to get up again. Suffocated by its meaning. I push the leaflet back towards him.
‘I have people I can talk to,’ I try to say with conviction. ‘I am not alone.’
‘Good, good,’ he nods.
I pray for him to put the leaflet away. I can’t look at that word throughout our consultation, it’s blinding me. He doesn’t, so I discreetly turn it over whilst he consults my notes again.
‘So do you want me to repeat what I told you on Wednesday?’ he asks. ‘So you are absolutely clear.’
‘I think I’ve got it,’ I swallow. ‘I have inoperable cancer of the cervix and bowel. I should have chemo to try and reduce it, which may prolong my life, but it is extremely unlikely I will be cured. A guess at my time left would be eighteen months to two years.’
He doesn’t confirm my diagnosis, just studies me. He’s trying to weigh me up. The woman with the cheating husband, who has cancer and who is speaking quite dispassionately about her prognosis. Is she for real, he is thinking. Suddenly he breaks out of his internal thoughts and leans forward again.
‘That’s about the long and short of it, yes. So today I wanted to take you through your different options on chemotherapy, of which there are a few so it might be an idea to take notes.’
‘I don’t want chemo,’ I say.
He studies me again.
‘That’s a very big decision,’ he says, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘May I ask why you have come to this conclusion?’
‘I want to be me, at least for a bit longer,’ I say.
I don’t add that I don’t actually want to be me, I want to be 1996 me, for fear he might rub his eyes out with confusion.
‘The minute I start treatment I wave goodbye to me. My life is over. I’ve decided for the time being I’d like to keep living. Well, live even better in fact, knowing my time is limited. Until of course I have no choice.’
I feel as if I’m in a job interview. As if I’m trying to impress a prospective employer of my ability to make decisions about my own life. I rub my hands together nervously. I’m not sure what else I can say. Neither, apparently, is he. I suspect he’s thinking he’s not sure yet that I’m up to the task.
‘Are you sure that this isn’t a reaction to the situation with your husband?’ he asks. ‘I think you need to think very carefully about whether that is clouding your judgement here.’
I do actually consider what he is saying. Would I make a different decision if I was in a happy marriage, if I hadn’t found Mark having sex in his office? The answer is, I don’t know. Because that isn’t my situation. The doc is right, if Mark was beside me now I could be saying something entirely different, but I would be making decisions based on the false premise that I had a faithful husband. I can’t think about other possibilities because they would be lies. I can only make decisions based on what I know to be true.
‘I have to factor my husband out of the decision-making process,’ I say bluntly. ‘What else can I do?’
‘You have children?’ the doc asks.
‘Yes,’ I nod and swallow hard. He’s going to fell me again, I can feel it coming.
‘Do you think this decision is the best for them?’
I start nodding vigorously because if I don’t I might falter.
‘I want to be their mum for a while longer. Just their mum.’
I’ve thought about nothing else to be honest. I ended up taking the picture of them in the bath to bed and tucking it under my pillow. Never have they needed a mother more. More than when they were five and three. And I don’t mean a dying mother: they need a real mother. That’s what I am going to be, whilst I still can. Whilst I still have the chance to have some influence.
The doctor nods. I’m getting to him. This could be within my grasp. What else can I tell him to convince him?
‘I used to be a holiday tour rep,’ I blurt out. Instant bewilderment crosses his face again. ‘It was my job to make sure people had the time of their lives for however long they were with us.’ Still bewilderment. ‘That’s all I want to do,’ I plead. ‘Have the time of my life however long I’m with us.’
He takes a long sigh. Easier to treat me than not to treat me. He’s not trained to do nothing. This is a big ask.
‘Okay,’ he says slowly. I smile. ‘But I’d feel much happier if you got some counselling. I need to know you are talking this through with at least someone.’
‘Oh, I am,’ I say.
‘You have a counsellor?’
‘Not exactly. A very old friend.’ This makes me smile. Maureen would kill me if she heard me describe her as that – I must remember to tell her.
‘I’d prefer it if you were also talking to a professional.’
I screw my nose up. The thought of sitting in an airless room every week talking about my death with a well-meaning stranger makes me want to vomit. Give me Maureen and her funeral guest list any day.
I reach out and take the leaflet still sitting between us.
‘Perhaps I’ll try someone in here,’ I say and stuff it in my handbag, never to be seen again.
‘Good,’ he nods. ‘That’s good. And I think I’d better see you again in a couple of weeks, just to make sure you haven’t changed your mind.’
‘Okay,’ I say. I suppose this is fair enough. He is casting what appears to him to be a lunatic with cancer out on to the streets. There is something, though, that I hope he can help me with in the meantime. ‘I know I’m not having chemo but is there anything you can do to help with the pain?’ I ask.
‘Are you in pain?’ he says.
‘Sometimes, yes.’
I know I haven’t mentioned pain before now. Not mentioned the physical impact of my illness apart from the stunning weight loss which has taken me back to my 1996 body. That’s because I’ve been trying to ignore it. Not that I really can. Sometimes it’s okay, sometimes it’s just a dull ache, and then other times it’s excruciating. It tears through me like labour pains and I hide myself away and weep into my pillow. I don’t want pain reminding me that I have cancer. And of course my energy levels are down, but I’m going to bed early and taking it easy. I’ve not mentioned the pain before because it’s tedious and I don’t want it in my brain.
‘Right,’ he says, turning to his computer. ‘Let’s see if we can get you in with the pain specialist.’
‘There are drugs for the pain then?’
‘Oh yes,’ he nods. ‘You haven’t a problem with those type of drugs then?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely not.’
He nods at me and says no more. I wonder what he’s thinking. Am I just another person on death row to him or am I the one with the cheating husband who is refusing treatment? Is that how he’ll discuss me with his col
leagues later? I’m neither, I think. I’m Jenny. Jenny Sutton. Walking out of here as 1996 Jenny and, with any luck, a pocket full of pain-crushing drugs. Time to start living.
Seventeen
‘I’m getting a divorce,’ I eventually tell Dominic the hairdresser. I’ve sat there for two and a half hours and we’ve been through the usual subjects such as holidays, reality TV, music and the latest diet fads. There is nothing left in common to cover unless we start to get personal.
I guess I started it really. I asked him which pubs and bars he frequented in an effort to appear in the know about the local nightlife. He said that he and his boyfriend mainly went to restaurants or friends’ houses, as the gay scene was pretty dire. And there we have it: we’d broken the seal. His sexual orientation was out (not that I’d ever been in doubt, given his over the top admiration of my suede skirt). So it was open season on personal questions as we faced the next hour together whilst he completed my hair extensions.
‘I knew it,’ he gasped, the minute I said the ‘D’ word. ‘Women of your age, if you don’t mind me saying, only come in here for a new look when divorce is on the cards. Are you a before or after?’
‘A what?’
‘A before or after? A before is contemplating an affair so is all out with the new hair and the new diet and the new clothes in the hope they can get in his knickers. An after is the one whose hubby has left them and they realise they need to start making an effort again or else they are on the scrap heap. Either way, new hair, new life. They always go together. Always.’
I nod at him in the mirror as he waves a comb enthusiastically at my reflection. I try not to dwell on the word ‘life’ in his conclusion.
‘So I assume you are an after given that divorce is already on the cards? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. And I didn’t. Actually, talking about my fictitious divorce was blessed relief. ‘I don’t mind. He had an affair with someone at work.’
‘Classic,’ says Dominic, delving into the back of my head. ‘How long had you been together?’
‘Since 1996,’ I reply. His head pops round from behind me and looks at me in the mirror, then looks back down at the picture leaning against the hairdryer. There is Geri Halliwell from the Spice Girls in all her glory performing at the Brits in her Union Jack dress, blue knickers available for all to see.