Becky Bananas

by Jean Ure

  He means children like me.

  13. The Bad Times

  When you were ten years old, something happened

  and you had to go into hospital.

  The same as Bryony. I have got what Bryony’s got. I suppose, really, that’s what made me write the book.

  Uncle Eddy is the only person who has read it. I can’t show it to Mum because she would start crying. Mum cries very easily. And Sarah wouldn’t like it because she doesn’t like anything to do with illness. She likes to pretend it isn’t happening.

  I can’t even show it to Zoë. Zoë is the same as Chloë in my book. Chloë is her.

  Zoë was the one who told me right at the beginning that you have to stay in remission for five years before you are properly cured. If you come out of remission before that time, then you probably won’t ever be cured.

  The sooner you come out of remission, the worse the prognosis is. That is what Zoë told me.

  Prognosis is just a word which means outlook. Like, the outlook is good. Or the outlook is bleak.

  If you come out of remission in the first year, then the outlook is very bleak.

  That is what Zoë told me. Right at the beginning, when I didn’t even know what chemo was.

  I don’t know how she found out about all these things. Asked the doctors, I expect. Zoë always wants to find out about everything. She’s ever so much braver than me.

  She’ll come on my programme for sure!

  Zoë is like a lion! The only thing that really upsets her is not seeing her dad.

  The first time Uncle Eddy came to visit me, Zoë went and buried herself under the bedclothes and wouldn’t come out. When he’d gone I heard her crying. I’d never heard her cry before. Not even when they stuck a tube in her chest so that the drugs could be dripped straight in without having to be injected. She really didn’t want them to do that but she still didn’t cry. But she cried that day when Uncle Eddy came.

  When I asked her what the matter was she said, “It’s all right for you, you’ve got a dad!” She thought Uncle Eddy was my dad! I didn’t know then that Zoë’s dad never came to see her. Her mum came as often as she could but even her mum couldn’t come every day because she lives out in Essex and she couldn’t always afford it. So that was when I decided to share Uncle Eddy with her. I think it cheered her up a bit to know that I hadn’t got a dad, either.

  We were in hospital for ages together, me and Zoë. They couldn’t get us into remission. With some people it happens almost at once, but with me and Zoë it took weeks. And then Zoë went and got sick with this infection, which was the only time her dad ever came to visit her.

  It was horrid when she had the infection because they separated us and I wasn’t allowed to see her in case I caught whatever it was. I missed her so much! We always told each other everything, Zoë and me. We used to compare notes about what the doctor had said and what the results of our blood tests were and how we were both doing. And now I was on my own!

  They put another girl in Zoë’s bed. She was only little, only about seven years old; she didn’t know what was happening. She kept screaming whenever the nurses came to take blood samples.

  I felt sorry for her, but she was too young to talk to the way I could talk to Zoë. I was terrified in case Zoë didn’t come back. Or in case she died and they didn’t tell me.

  I knew that people died. There was this little boy called Kris that was only a baby. He was only about Danny’s age. He died. A girl that was there, a big girl called Amanda, she tried to tell us that he had gone home. I believed her. It was Zoë found out what had really happened. She found out that he had died. Zoë always finds things out. She’s like a magpie. Inquisitive. But she says it’s better to know than not.

  I suppose she is right.

  My favourite nurse is Carol. I’d want her to be on the programme!

  She used to be on nights, but now she’s on days so I see more of her.

  When Zoë had her infection, Carol knew that I was frightened. She told me not to worry, that Zoë was going to be all right. And she promised to make sure she was put back in the same bed.

  I wanted to believe her! But Zoë had already warned me about them not always telling the truth. She said that when she first came, there had been someone else in my bed. There had been a girl called Trudi. One day she had disappeared and not come back and Ellen, who is another nurse, told Zoë that she had gone into remission. It was only later Zoë discovered she had died. So I still went on worrying, until one afternoon I woke up and there was Zoë, grinning at me from the next bed. She said, “I’m back!” and Carol said, “I told you so,” and I felt mean for not trusting her.

  Zoë said, “Why feel mean?” She said, “They lie all the time. I can’t stand being lied to!”

  I don’t think they lie, exactly. I think they just want to protect us. They don’t want to tell us bad things unless they absolutely have to. They think we will find it upsetting, knowing that people the same age as us are dying. But as Zoë says, we’re not babies. When you’re eleven, you know what’s going on.

  I think personally it would be a comfort if you knew you could always rely on them, the doctors and the nurses. And parents, as well. If you knew that they would tell you the truth. That way it would mean you wouldn’t get to worry quite so much.

  This is why Zoë and me made a pact that we would always tell each other what was happening and not smile brightly and say everything was all right if it wasn’t. Like if we’d just had a bad result from a blood test, we would tell each other. Which we always did.

  When we had been having chemo for a few weeks, our hair started falling out. Zoë’s started first, because she’d been having chemo longer than me. She said, “It doesn’t happen to everybody. Maybe you’ll be lucky.” But then I woke up one morning and found bits of hair all scattered about the pillow and I knew that it was happening.

  I kept trying to pretend to myself that it wasn’t but every time I brushed my hair the brush would be all full of it, and I kept looking at Zoë and seeing these bald patches and I just couldn’t bear it, the thought that I was going to end up looking like that.

  Zoë did her best to make me brave. She said things like, “It’s only temporary,” and “It’s only hair,” and “What does it matter so long as we’re going to get better?” She said that lots of children with leukaemia get completely cured. “But they have to lose their hair first.”

  I wailed, “But I grew mine long, specially! Specially for ballet! It took me ages!”

  Zoë said, “It’ll all come back again. Mine did.”

  At first I didn’t realise what she was saying, but then I said, “What do you mean, yours did?” And then she told me, she’d had chemo before. She’d had it when she was seven years old. She said, “I’ve been in remission all this time. Almost five years! If you’re in remission for five years, they reckon you’re cured.”

  Another few months, and Zoë would have been cured. But she said she wasn’t worried. She said, “The longer you stay in remission, the better your chances are.” She said if she’d only been in remission for a month or so, then she would know that she was probably going to die. But as it was, she was going to go back into remission and this time she was going to stay in remission and when she grew up she was going to be a nurse and come and look after other children that had leukaemia.

  “Because then I’ll be able to tell them that I’ve been through it.”

  We talked a lot about what we are going to do when we’re grown up. Zoë said that when I was a famous dancer I would have to come and visit her in her hospital ward and talk to all the children with leukaemia and tell them that I’d been through it, as well. I promised that I would. We agreed that it would be nice if some well-known person that had had leukaemia and their hair had fallen out would come back and talk to us. It would cheer you up.

  There must be some well-known people that have had it.

  Mum told me that there is a famous singer cal
led something I can’t remember, something Spanish, and that he has had it, but it is not the same because he had it when he was grown up, not when he was a child. And I don’t know whether his hair fell out or not. Maybe it doesn’t if you are grown up. Or maybe it had fallen out anyway, like Mr Tucker’s at school, simply because he is old. It wouldn’t be so bad if you were old. It is horrid when you are still young.

  It’s not only hair falling out, it’s other things, too. Like your mouth getting sore and your gums bleeding so you can’t clean your teeth properly. And people sticking needles into you all the time to take samples or give you drugs. Some of the drugs are foul, they make you feel really ill, and some of them make your skin burn. Zoë said she didn’t have to have these ones when she was only seven but they were giving them to her now because of her having relapsed, which is what it is called when you come out of remission.

  These are the ones that made me cry. I told Uncle Eddy I didn’t want them any more and he held me and let me weep over him and said that I was his brave girl. But I’m not! I’m not in the least bit brave! I haven’t any bottle at all. I hate it!

  Even Zoë hated it when her skin got burnt. It’s really painful. But Zoë never cries. She just gets cross and swears. I wish I was more like Zoë.

  Something that happened to me and not to her was nosebleeds. I’ve had dozens of them. I’ve had so many I’ve sometimes thought they’re never going to stop. Once I bled all over a picture of Darcey, in a book that Mum gave me for Christmas. That made me cry again, when that happened. It seemed so terrible, to nosebleed over Darcey. Zoë tried to rub her clean for me but there were still all these horrible browny smears.

  When mum came to visit me she couldn’t understand why I was so weepy, and when I showed her the picture she said, “Oh, darling! Don’t worry about that. I’ll buy you another copy.” But I still felt awful. I hate my body doing all these horrible, disgusting things and me not having any control over it.

  I’ve tried explaining this to Mum but all she says is, “That’s the problem with being a dancer. You expect too much of yourself. You ask the impossible.”

  She says there are times when you can’t expect to have control. She said, “Like, for instance, when I was pregnant with you … there you were, growing away inside me, and me getting fatter and fatter, and not a thing I could do about it except just wait for you to get big enough to come popping out.”

  That is true, but Mum wanted to have me. I didn’t want to have AML. I didn’t want to get sick and bald and bleed all over Darcey! Mum had a baby to look forward to, but what have I got?

  Mum says that I’ve got the future. She says, “That’s what you must hold on to. You’re putting up with all this now, so that in the future you can be well and strong. Whenever you feel low, you just keep reminding yourself.”

  I do try, but sometimes it’s not easy. Sometimes it seems as if I’m just saying it to myself and it doesn’t really mean anything. Sometimes I think I’ll never be well and strong.

  It was better when Zoë was here. I felt braver when I had her to talk to.

  Zoë got out of hospital before me. She went back into remission and they let her go home. She promised she’d come and visit me, and she did for a little while, because she still had to come back to the hospital once a week for tests, but then I went into remission as well and we didn’t see each other very much after that. Only just now and again when we had an appointment on the same day, except once when Uncle Eddy had to drive down to Essex and he took me with him and left me at Zoë’s and we spent the day together.

  We went up to her bedroom and looked at ourselves in the mirror and giggled because Zoë said, “We’re like a pair of boiled eggs!”

  Usually I didn’t look like an egg because I wore my wig that Mum bought for me. It’s a special one made out of real hair the same colour as mine, so that nobody at school ever knew that really I was bald. But Zoë’s mum couldn’t afford a wig, so when I went to her place I didn’t wear mine. I took it off and left it in the car so as not to upset her.

  Lots of children, when their hair has fallen out, they wear scarves, but Zoë is too proud. She just went walking round bald and didn’t care who saw her. “It’s trendy,” she said. “It’s the new fashion.” I think that is really brave.

  I am too vain, I suppose.

  14. Jokes!

  At last, you went into remission.

  We had celebrations when I came out of hospital. Uncle Eddy came and we all went for a meal, me and Mum and Uncle Eddy. We left Danny at home with Ana-Maria, who’s our au pair, because he is too young. He is just a silly nuisance in a restaurant.

  Mum bought pink champagne, and we all got to drink it. Even I was allowed a glass!

  Mum and Uncle Eddy toasted to me. They clinked glasses and said, “To Becky!” Then Uncle Eddy winked and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid!”

  As a matter of fact, everyone in the restaurant was looking at Mum. They always do. She can’t go anywhere without being looked at. But that evening she didn’t mind. She was really happy! She hugged me and said, “Darling, I know the drugs are perfectly horrid, but you see, it has been worth it, hasn’t it? Now you can concentrate on getting strong again!”

  All I wanted to do was start back on my ballet classes. Dr Stanhope, who is my doctor that looks after me at the hospital, said that I could do one class a week but that I was to stop if I got tired. Mum was scared it would be too much for me, but Dr Stanhope talked to me about it and I told him how I was going to be a dancer when I grew up and how important it was to me to have classes, and he spoke to Mum and then it was all right.

  I really like Dr Stanhope! He is another person I will have on my programme.

  He is a person who understands. He told Mum that if ballet meant so much to me, then I must be allowed to do it.

  Uncle Eddy agreed with him. I heard him talking to Mum when they didn’t know I was there. He said, “I know it’s difficult for you, kid.” He calls Mum kid just like he calls me, even though she’s older than he is. He said, “I know the temptation to wrap her in cotton wool, but she’s got to be allowed to live her life.”

  Uncle Eddy understands as well! I don’t think Mum always does, or maybe it’s just that she worries more. Every week when I had to come back to the hospital for tests she would ring up from the studios to check if everything was all right. She said she couldn’t concentrate properly until she knew.

  Ana-Maria used to bring me to the hospital. I would have rather it was Mum, but on the other hand at least Ana-Maria never got nervous, like Mum did when she came. When Mum came she gave me the jitters. I didn’t have the jitters as a rule because I was used to it. Also, I knew everybody. People used to say hello to me. The nurses and the doctors and the men with the trolleys.

  And sometimes Zoë would be here and then we would have fun, giggling together.

  I always giggle with Zoë. When I am a dancer and she is a nurse and I go back to visit her to talk to her patients, we will probably still giggle. She is the sort of person you can’t help giggling with.

  I haven’t got anyone to giggle with now. Now that I’m back in the hospital. I just lie here and think. What I think about mostly is dancing Swan Lake. I dance it in my head and imagine that I am on stage. So long as I can imagine that, I am all right.

  It is just sometimes, when it stops being real and I know that I am only dreaming it, that I get frightened. Time is rushing past and I am missing all my classes. I should be having at least three a week! I haven’t had any for at least two months. How am I going to be a dancer if I can’t have classes? And my hair was growing back and now it’s all starting to fall out again and I hate these horrible drugs that make me feel sick, I feel sick, sick, sick all of the time and my mouth hurts and I’m having nosebleeds again and sometimes I think that I am going to die.

  Sometimes I think that I wouldn’t mind dying if it meant no more of the horrible drugs.

  But I am not going to! I am going t
o live to be a hundred!

  I am going to be like Bryony and dance in Swan Lake. And then they will say Leukaemia girl beats illness to become ballerina. That is the sort of thing that they say. And there will be interviews on radio and television and in the magazines. People will come to the theatre, to my dressing room, to talk to me and write articles, like they do with Mum. But unlike Mum I will not be recognised all over the place in supermarkets or when I am walking down the street as not so many people recognise ballet dancers. Lots of girls at school didn’t even recognise Darcey until I told them who she was!

  That is incredible, not recognising Darcey. Everyone recognises television stars. That is because more people watch television than go to the ballet. But that is all right. I don’t specially want to be recognised. I just want to dance!

  I have got to get better quickly or it will be too late.

  I am trying to think of some jokes.

  What did one magnet say to the other magnet?

  “I find you attractive.”

  Ha ha. That is not very funny.

  Where did the Vikings drink?

  At a Norse trough.

  Neither is that. They are the sort of jokes you find in Christmas crackers.

  I have just remembered one that someone told me yesterday.

  This is the joke. There’s this boy who’s just started at a new school. The teacher asks him if he can read and write. He says, “I can write, but I can’t read.” So the teacher says, “All right. Here’s a piece of paper. Show me how you write your name.” So the boy writes something on the paper and the teacher picks it up and looks at it and it is just scribble. “What’s this?” she says. And the boy says, “How should I know? I told you, I can’t read.”