by Raz Shaw
I needed to get on with it, though, as it was made clear to me that time was not on my side and the sooner I deposited, the sooner I could get on with chemo. In other words, the quicker I pumped stuff out of my body, the quicker stuff could be pumped in!
Like all NHS things that need to be speedy, this was speedy. An appointment was made for 9 a.m. the next day.
15 JUNE 1995. 8.50 A.M.
I was in the waiting room of the Fertility Clinic at the Queen Charlotte Hospital. Bottle in hand. Ready to fill it up. Well, actually, not ready. At all. Under instructions to fill it up. Only forty-eight hours earlier I had been diagnosed with cancer. I was not exactly in ‘fill the bottle’ mode. And the bottle was small. The end of the bottle was narrow.
How can I…?
Will I spill…?
What if I miss, do I tip it back…?
Are they better swimmers than me? I hope so.
How long before they cease to be active?
Don’t those mini-mes have cancer too?
Do I need both hands to…?
I honestly think those few minutes at the Queen Charlotte Hospital were about the most surreal of my whole illness. There were a thousand things floating around my head. These included:
Cancer
Life
Death
Death
Sex
Desire
Babies
Breakfast
Cancer sperm banks
Banks
Life
Life
Life
Life
The intangibility of death
The possibility of death
The likelihood of death
Death
Life
Life
Life
Bacon
Sperm
Sperm
Sperm
Eggs
Eggs
Bacon
Sperm
LOUD HEAD
It was 9.01 a.m. It was pretty quiet in the waiting room, but pretty fucking piercing in my head. The madness running around in there wasn’t conducive to getting turned on enough to be able to fill a thimble let alone a bottle.
Do I have any dark fantasies in the recesses of my mind reserved for a rainy day? Do I? God, I hope so, because it’s fucking pouring in here!
MY NUMBER’S UP
And so my number was called. Number one. I was number one. I was directed down the hallway, bottle in hand, to the first door on the right. A sign outside the door said ‘Partners Welcome’. I was alone. Thank God. I opened the door. I was transported to a seedy bedsit in Paddington in the 1970s. Not that I ever frequented a seedy Paddington bedsit in the 1970s. I would have been under ten years old. That would have been weird. Even weirder than this. And this was pretty off the scale weird.
BROWN
I closed the door behind me. Directly in front of me there was a single bed with a brown sort of bobbly corduroy-type bedspread on it. The brown curtains were well and truly closed. There was actually muzak playing. I white-noised it in my head. I didn’t want to hear any words. That would not help. So I didn’t hear what was playing. Maybe it was themed. Maybe ‘Be My Baby’ or ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ or ‘Stairway To Heaven’. Maybe. I don’t know. There was a small table next to the bed on which sat a glass of water, a box of tissues and a pile of well-thumbed ‘magazines’ – with some pages stuck together no doubt. Next to the small table was an empty wastepaper basket.
I placed the specimen bottle on the table and sat on the bed. I stared straight ahead. I waited for inspiration. And waited. And waited. I looked around the room. This must be what prison feels like. Come to think of it (or should it be, think to come for it?), the room did somewhat resemble a prison cell.
I thumbed through the top magazine. Cheryl, twenty-three, from Cleethorpes followed my gaze. She knew she could do nothing for me. The opposite, in fact. She was taunting me. ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ I wasn’t. I closed the magazine. Trite, one-dimensional, vapid nakedness has its place, but this was neither the time nor the place.
JUST FILL THE BOTTLE
I took the bottle and the matter in hand. I closed my eyes and dug deep into that well of dark fantasy. Thankfully, the well was not completely empty. It was just about accessible. It was a long way down and it took ages to reach, but whatever was there seemed to do the trick. To some degree. I even managed the procedure without any spillage. And that was the second relief of the day.
I had been instructed to fill the bottle and take it immediately to the lab to make sure they were good enough swimmers. Otherwise no point in storage. Never store dead swimmers in the fridge. Pointless. I took it to the hairy man in the white coat standing behind the counter. I think he was a scientist. He wasn’t instructed in the art of bedside manner (I am pretty sure having him in the room with me while I was trying to fill the jar would not have helped. But, then, you never know.). I gave the bottle to the hairy scientist and he said:
‘Is that all?’
IS THAT ALL??? That’s not really what you wanted to hear after you’d just mounted Everest.
DOUBLE THE LOAD
Humiliation laced with anger laced with deep embarrassment is not a cocktail to be wished for. However, I am English:
I smiled.
I apologised.
I apologised again.
I apologised once again.
I think hairy scientist man realised he had been a bit brusque (you think!) as he then very gently explained that what I had produced was only about three months’ worth of sperm. In layman’s terms (that is me), that means that when trying to get a woman pregnant that would give us only three goes (one go a month). Hairy scientist man suggested that for it to be a worthwhile storage, I needed to double the load. Six goes is a fair crack of the whip to make a baby, apparently.
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS FOR REGENERATION
Hairy scientist man explained that I needed to leave forty-eight hours for ‘regeneration’! This really is beginning to replicate one of the more surreal episodes of Star Trek. First series, of course.
So I left. I had to postpone my first chemo appointment. AGAIN.
They understood. Of course. They were the most understanding people I have ever met. And I mean that with absolutely no hint of irony whatsoever.
TAKE TWO
My next appointment at the fertility clinic was set for 11 a.m. That didn’t hold any significance for me until I arrived. I realised that previously I had had the luxury of being first in line. As I sat there waiting for my turn, I watched a series of men go through the depository door before me, bottles in hand. My mind couldn’t help imagining what they were doing in there. Well, not exactly. I knew what they were doing in there, I just couldn’t get those images out of my head. And not in a good way, you understand. I couldn’t help wondering why all these men were there. How many reasons could I think of for a man having to give sperm? Despite it being a good game to pass the time, it was in no way going to help me do what I was about to do.
The guy before me was a vast bear of a man wearing a shiny suit that seemed three times too small for him. It was impossible to get out of my head the noise this man might make on point of ejaculation.
A kind of high-pitched, self-satisfied squeal. ‘Ooooooooaaa-aaaeeeeeeeee.’
Not helpful. Not helpful. Not helpful.
My number was eventually called and I entered the all too familiar stale smelling fertility cell. No welcoming partner by my side. Just me, my bottle and the faint echo of a giant’s screeching orgasm. That wasn’t the only thing to remind me of him. Being about tenth in the queue that day meant that the wastepaper basket next to the table was overflowing with used tissues.
Dark fantasy, dark fantasy, fantasy. Come to me. Please. Please. I can’t do this without you. Pleeeeeeeassssse… Oh my, now that IS dark. Wow! How did I get there? Wow. Fucking wow! This is good.
I lost myself for a moment and it was
working and it was really working and…
yes, get the bottle…
yes, no spillage…
yes, every month counts…
yes…
and yes…
and YES…
There it is.
A done deal. A ton of stuff in there. Wow. At least three months’ worth. Hairy scientist man’s going to be really pleased with me. Yep. Good job.
I added to the used tissue mountain, and took my bottle out to hairy scientist man. He didn’t really say much this time. He nodded, took the bottle, checked my name, registered the said bottle and left. And that was it. I was free to go. So I did. Go.
I went from the fertility hospital straight to the cancer hospital for Chemo numero uno.
And on the Tube from Hammersmith to South Kensington, I got the fear for the first time. Well, the first time since the diagnosis anyway. Up till then I had been occupied in doing stuff. Now something was going to be done to me. Something to try to kill the invasion inside me. And that was a bit bloody scary. It was. And the fear took me by surprise. And stepping through the doors of the Royal Marsden Hospital felt like the opening sequence to my own gothic nightmare.
No turning back now.
It makes sense to me now why they were so adamant that I make a deposit before my treatment. The start of a process like this is daunting and disorienting. You need any security that life can give you. Having sperm in the bank was definitely a comfort. Still is. Back then it was a nod to the normal life I would one day hopefully get back. Today it feels like a beautiful, tangible living symbol. A symbol of a time when I was allowed just a little bit of control over my life and its future, at the very moment when everything around me seemed to be going off kilter. More than that, it is a simple but glorious indication that life goes on.
Even on a shelf in a fridge somewhere in Hammersmith.
DIAGNOSIS CANCER
As a word. As just a word, CANCER does sound quite sinister. Say it out loud now.
C A N C E R
It’s a very breathy word.
There’s almost too much air inside it.
C A N C E R
Try different ways of delivering it.
C
A
N
C
E
R
See how it sounds and how those sounds make you feel.
C
A
N
C
E
R
Sing it to the tune of ‘Amazing Grace’:
Can-cer, ca-a-ancer, can-cer, can-cer, can-cer ca-a-ancer, ca-an-CER
Can-cer, can-cer, can-cer, can-cer, can-cer ca-a-ancer can-cerrrrrrrrr
Creepy and glorious.
WARNING
If you are sitting on a bus reading this and obligingly following these instructions, be warned:
ߦ If you are whispering it, you may sound like the ‘cancer mouth bomber’. The Cancer Mouth Bomber is a strange evil loner with squinty eyes, wearing an eighties parka, who is often to be found on the top deck of the number 73 bus. The Cancer Mouth Bomber is endeavouring to infect the population by means of Cancer Whisper.
ߦ If you are giving full vent to your lungs and shouting the word CANCER out loud and long, you will seem just plain scary and, before long, you will no doubt be arrested and removed by the cancer police.
ߦ If you are singing it full pelt, like a hymn, you will just sound plain bonkers.
Regardless, it’s one of those fantastic words that is so evocative and emotive that it is hard to know whether the actual form of the word or the letters within the word add to its power.
Let’s say CANCER was called something different. Something softer with smoother vowels.
Shoop, maybe, or shoom.
Shoom. Yes. SHOOM.
Would that make a difference?
‘What’s wrong with me, Doctor?’
‘Well, I am sorry to say you have stage 4 Shoom.’
Would that make things feel less deathly? Or soften the blow? Probably not. But it might help fewer people visibly wince when they hear the word.
For a while anyway. But it wouldn’t last for long. The disease is such that any word would eventually take on the same iconic ugliness that pervades the word cancer. You can change the word but you can’t change the illness. The only thing you have control of is how you respond to the diagnosis.
Diagnosis Shoom.
PART TWO: THE TREATMENT
CANCER NEW
I loathe first days. Abhor them. First days at school or at work fill me up with paralysing, nausea-inducing dread. Every. Single. Time.
First day of chemo was like all first days rolled into one.
The Cancer Emperor of first days.
Everything was new.
This hospital was new. These doctors were new. Cancer was new.
And it wasn’t fear that I was feeling. Not really. Just this immense new consciousness of being out of control. I hadn’t yet learned the hospital/chemo/cancer routine. And I do like a routine. Until I have established a routine, there is no routine. And without routine I am in the deep end with no sodding armbands.
ROUTINES AND RITUALS
BC (Before Cancer), I had a whole phonebook of routines and rituals. I am not good with doubt. I like to know what I am eating, where I am going, who I am going with and who I’m going to meet there. I don’t want to be surprised by an unanticipated visitor or an unexpected turn of events. I want to know what I know and know that that will in no way change.
So, entering this vast white chemo world with cancer under one arm and no routine under the other was not my idea of heaven. So to speak. What I needed was a few things to latch onto that would remind me of me. That would hopefully replenish me with some of the me that I had before this craziness began. And make me feel more equipped to cope.
The thing I needed most to make a routine out of a nightmare was to familiarise myself with my surroundings. To be comfortable in a building, I need to both know its architecture and be familiar with some of the people working within it. That is still the case today. When I work in a theatre for the first time it takes me a while to get the lie of the land. I know I have started to feel at home when I find myself confidently striding around tipping my head at people like some kind of nodding dog. So if you happen to have been in the Royal Marsden Hospital around the middle of June 1995, you may recall a strange, Jew-froed young man wandering seemingly aimlessly around the building trying to smile and make contact with as many people as possible. This may have been me trying hard to get to know my surroundings or someone altogether more sinister. Either way my advice would have been the same. Avoid at all costs.
I also discovered that I could trick myself into thinking hospital life was akin to home life by bringing with me a heap of stuff. Me stuff. Me stuff is ever-changing. By definition (mine), me stuff is just things that I surround myself with that put me at ease in an otherwise uneasy environment. Like my own personal comfort blanket of stuff! That doesn’t make me eccentric at all. NOT AT ALL. Actually, you can’t be eccentric if you know you’re eccentric so that must mean I am totally normal. Totally. Anyway, my June 1995 stuff included:
ߦ The new Nick Hornby novel – High Fidelity.
ߦ A fake Sony Discman with Bruce Springsteen’s Greatest Hits CD inside it (normally sacrilegious for a true Bruce fan to buy a greatest hits album but those commercially savvy record company types – aka ‘money grabbing bastards’ –cleverly added five new songs at the end of it to make it a ‘must have’ or a ‘can’t NOT have’.)
ߦ A cutting from the Guardian on Arsenal’s new ‘unknown’ signing Dennis Bergkamp.
ߦ A copy of Terry Johnson’s play ‘Dead Funny’ (no comment on my future prospects intended!)
Strangely, the one trait, above any other, that has always made me feel ‘me’ and has sat comfortably with me for as far back as I can remember is also something that I don’t often actively think about. Can�
�t think about. Until now. It’s just in me. It’s just me. Namely, the ability/desire to flirt. With just about anybody. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that flirting was and is an inalienable part of my identity. I have no idea why. I have no idea where the need comes from. I suspect it’s linked, in some small way, to my addictive personality.
But looking back on it now, the more adept I became in the art of flirting, the more I was able to suppress the deeply shy little boy that lay large inside me. That discovery was huge to me. As a young boy/man my shyness often felt overwhelming and paralysing. So without really being conscious of it, flirting was a language that would help me navigate my way more comfortably through my life.
FLIRTATION COMFORT ZONE
By the ripe old age of twenty-eight I had become, so I thought, somewhat fluent in that ancient lingua franca of flirt and so, when I stepped through the doors of the Royal Marsden Hospital, it didn’t take me long to notice that a fair proportion of the cancer nurses were young, attractive and, oddly, from New Zealand. I say oddly not because they were actually odd or because coming from New Zealand makes you odd, but because the Royal Marsden seemed to be swarming with men and women in nurses’ uniforms from down under. An Antipodean nursing carnival.