by John Young
Nerves have been growing in recesses of my guts that I never knew existed. I don’t say much after the ferry. Frank is probably happy about that, because between barfs I haven’t shut up the whole way. Mum back, Dad back, me back (I’ve only been away for about a week, yet it feels like months), Skeates, hospital, the calm after the adventure and anxiety about what the hell they meant by ‘compassionate grounds’.
Finally, we pull up outside my house.
“Is this your place here, Connor?” asks Frank.
“Yeah, just on the left, thanks Frank,” I answer with more calm than I feel.
Frank walks in with me, even though I tell him not to. I guess it’s part of his job to deliver me to someone. I’m shitting myself, partly because I’m about to see Dad, but the words ‘compassionate grounds’ linger like gangrene. My natural worry beads rattle; maybe Dad is ill or Mum has had an accident and they wanted to tell me in person.
Happily there’s no sign of death, disease or insanity as both my parents are waiting at the door. The handover of escaped child occurs in full view of twitching curtains. I don’t care about the neighbours and I give both my dad and mum a hug. We go inside and Dad grabs me.
“Look at you, Connor,” he says and lifts me off the ground like I’m nothing. He must have been working out in prison.
I nestle in close; he smells stale, male, animalistic and smoky, like old ingrained cigarette smoke. His blue t-shirt has been washed too many times and is rough.
He points to my now thankfully clean t-shirt. “Look, The Proclaimers. I remember that shirt.” He looks really chuffed to see me wearing it. His voice is course and scratchy.
I glance at Mum and she’s grinning like I’ve never seen.
“And you Mum, how are you?”
“Grand, Connor. Stress, they said.” She nods to Dad. “I knew his hearing was coming up and I couldn’t cope. I wasn’t sleeping, then there’s bills, you… The last few years have been hard and I just crashed.” She looks sad for a moment then adds, “I needed rebooting,” and chortles to herself. “But I’m fine now. I’ve closed all my windows and shut down for a wee while.” She laughs again without strain showing on her face and I think of how well she’s coped – and how unappreciative I’ve been of everything she’s done for me.
“Aw mum,” I say and hug her. I don’t remember the last time I hugged her like that, even wee Scottish guys should be able to hug their mums unreservedly.
I think that our trouble-free life is about to start. We tire of hugs and go to the kitchen for a caffeine fix for Mum and a beer for Dad. Surprising us both, my mum breaks every preconception I have of her by unveiling a big homemade cake, covered in chocolate and candles. I have to hug her again. She continues to hold me, laughing as I try to break off to grab a knife to cut the cake.
“Here, let’s celebrate,” says Dad as he cracks open a tin. “It’s braw to be home. Now, just what do you think you were doing going all the way to Shotts? Eh, Connor?”
“I just wanted to see you, Dad.”
He laughs and laughs. “You’re supposed to escape from prison, Connor. Not break into it.”
I grin sheepishly.
“Who’s the boy you were away with?” asks Mum. “I hadn’t heard of him before.”
“Skeates.” They give me blank looks. “Just a guy from school. I never used to like him, but he’s cool. He took me all the way to see you, Dad. And you’d escaped!” I laugh.
“Not quite escaped. Not like you, anyway! I think they let me out because of you, though. You being missing made the headlines and I was up for parole. And you being ill and all.”
Mum glances to me and back to Dad, and Dad stops momentarily. I don’t catch the meaning in the look, but the words, ‘ill and all’ clearly have greater meaning for them than me. I tell myself they’re just getting to know each other again. Dad even flirts a bit – I’m glad that I was away for their reunion. Too much lovey-dovey parent stuff is hard to watch, even if you’re glad for them.
As I watch them chat I wonder why the justice system would suddenly let him out with me being ‘ill and all’. It’s not like anything has changed; I’ve always had cancer. So I ask, “But I’ve been ill the whole time you’ve been away. Why didn’t they let you out sooner?”
Dad looks at Mum, pausing for a moment before answering. “Well, they had to get their pound of flesh,” he says. “They only consider parole after a certain time, and only did because I didn’t cause any trouble inside. Illness and family circumstances aren’t strictly relevant but I think I got the sympathy vote, ’cause you were missing.” He quickly changes the subject. “You’re a hero, wee man. Look, where’s the paper?”
Mum scrambles about and pulls out an old copy of The Scotsman. I worry about Dad’s avoidance of telling me the truth, but put aside my paranoia as I read. Photos of the car crash at Perth are all over the front page:
RUNAWAY ROUNDABOUT RESCUERS!
Heroes on the run rescue Sheriff and husband from burning car!
The detail describes our hideout in the bushes and how Skeates and I were commended for our brave actions. ‘Those lads deserve medals,’ was a quote from Inspector McCloud of Perth Police.
I grin, feeling chuffed that I’ve done something for my parents to be proud of, when they have every reason to be raging that I had run off.
Underneath the grins, backslapping and cake I sense something. It may be me suppressing my own built-up anger – things that had been itching me for years, swelling like a big boil: Why hadn’t I been allowed to visit? Why was Dad in prison? Anger at Mum for not taking me. Or it’s my natural suspicion that they’re still hiding something. Quick glances between them, laughter often subdued, nervous twisting of Mum’s hands, all suggest they have something to get off their chests.
No doubt the questions will come out at some stage, but not now. For now that seems unimportant; the wind has been taken out of my sails at their happiness in seeing me, and my pleasure at seeing them together. Like me, they squash down their feelings in favour of good times. We all let it play out, hoping that time will make us forget.
“So tell us all about it,” says Dad, slapping his hand on his thigh and grinning in anticipation.
I don’t know where to start and I blurt out, “I went skiing!”
“No way,” they say in unison.
My dad laughs. “You? Skiing?”
I feel hurt that he laughs, but glad I can prove his assumption about me wrong. “Yeah, I skied. You can do anything if you want to.”
I tell them the rest of it: Gumbo, camping and the accident, the train with the football hooligans, being chased by the gang and the dogs, even the nightclub. I leave out the bit about the stolen Vauxhall, but I save the best bit for last.
“Skeates took me up to our old house in Edinburgh. I dug this out of the wall.” I show them the photograph. “I was so pleased to see this, you couldn’t believe it.”
They both look at the photo in silence. Dad clutches Mum’s hand.
“That’s incredible,” says Dad. “Given how ill you are, you’re a Marvel superhero. Here, give us a hug, pal.” Dad squeezes me until I’m about to burst.
“Here we were thinking you were in a ditch somewhere,” says Mum, her smile fading. “Lorn Macauley was devastated when he found out you hadn’t gone to the hospital.”
“Ach, I’m alright,” I say and try to wriggle free, feeling a pang of guilt for the situation I put Gumbo in. “I only missed my meds for a few days. I should have known, but it was all too much fun.”
Their faces change and the bubbles go out of the atmosphere.
“What?” I say.
“He needs to know,” says Mum.
“Know what?” I ask.
They look at each other, hoping the other one will take the lead.
Eventually my dad says, “Connor, we have to take you to hospital tomorrow. It’s not just you missing your meds. The tests they took before you left – well, they weren’t good. You may
need more treatment.” He hesitates. “You will need more treatment. We don’t know everything yet. That’s why I’m here.” He turns to Mum and smiles weakly. “Compassionate grounds.”
“I must be bloody bad to let you out!” I don’t know what to say. “I thought the compassionate grounds was about one of you two, not me. How bad is it?”
They don’t answer.
I’ve always been ill; we’ve always talked about it. It has to be really bad for them to be acting like this.
“Well?”
“We have an appointment tomorrow morning at Raigmore Hospital. We can’t tell you any more until we see the doctor.” Dad swigs his beer nervously.
I panic that the pains in my stomach have nothing to do with missing meds, that they’re signs that the cancer is back for good.
Chapter 29
We All Have to Die Sometime
The following day Mum, Dad and I make the trip to Inverness. I see Gumbo at the port carrying out repairs to his boat and I hobble over to chat. He’s full of praise about car accidents and roundabouts, but I know what’s coming.
“Hoy, I have a bone to pick with you.”
“Yeah?”
“You told me you would go to the hospital.”
I feel guilty and shrug sheepishly.
“I had some explaining to do to the polis about you and your mate Skeates,” he says. “Not to mention your poor mother.”
Typically, I hadn’t thought about the consequences of Gumbo helping us. “Sorry,” I say weakly.
He smiles at me, puts down his hammer and walks over. I stand stock still as I feel glum about getting him into trouble.
“Don’t worry, I’m just glad that you’re OK.”
I nod.
“Those two blond boys were giving me grief too,” he says.
“The two ducks?” I say and he smiles.
“Yep, the two ducks. They were pretty serious, so take care.”
“Yeah, well, I have more urgent things to worry about right now.”
“O aye?” he says.
“We’re off to the hospital for checks.”
He crosses his fingers and holds them up. “You’ll be grand, Connor.” Although I see doubt and worry in his eyes.
However, I feel better today now that the steroids have come online again and am more optimistic about the hospital appointment. “Aye, I know, it’s just a check up,” I say.
As I walk away he shouts after me, “That sweater has grown more than you! It’s now a seven-sheep jumper!”
***
We arrive early and wait. The nurse asks the usual load of questions about age, date of birth, then she weighs and measures me. She leads me down the corridor away from the ward.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To see the doctor.”
We stop outside Room 9. The smiley face is still on the door and I don’t want to go in because I know what this room is for. I look at Mum and can see that she knows too.
“Come on, son,” says Dad. He wasn’t here for the last appointment and he won’t know I call it ‘Death’s Door’.
We sit and the oncologist, Dr Bents, stares over pointed hands, like she’s praying. I see a newer Where’s Wally book on the table. The old posters that used to line the walls have also been replaced.
“Thank you for coming in,” she says and gets straight down to business.
“How are you feeling, Connor?”
“OK,” I say.
She gives me a short examination with a stethoscope and checks my blood pressure. “No pains?”
“My stomach has been a bit sore the past week. I think because I missed my meds.”
He eyes furrow at this. “I have to tell you that the tests taken in Stornoway a few weeks ago have been confirmed by the ones taken in Glasgow, the day before yesterday.”
“What does that mean?” asks Mum.
“It means, Mrs Lambert, that we may only be able to give Connor palliative chemotherapy.”
Dad’s eyes rise in query.
“It’s treatment to ease the symptoms, but it’s unlikely to cure him,” she explains.
“Is he going to die?” Mum bursts into tears.
“We all have to die sometime…” She’s done this before, I can tell, and I don’t think that she is finding it any easier with me than any of the others. I don’t know how medical people deal with this day in, day out. “…But some of us die sooner than others,” she carries on in her soothing gentle voice. Maybe she gets this role all the time, because the skill set has to be unique: tough, yet soft and caring. Even Skeates would break down doing this shite all day. I wish I could tell her how much I admire her for what she does. I can’t because the tears are threatening to tear my eyes out.
“By ‘some of us’, do you mean me?” I ask.
“You and many others.”
I don’t say anything else, and let my parents find out more details. If I was sixteen I would be treated as an adult, be brought in here by myself, unless I requested support. As it is, they do most of the talking. They talk about me rather than to me, which pisses me off a bit, but they have my interests at heart and ask the questions that I would ask anyway, if I was thinking clearly. So I sit like a spectator, glad in a way that they are here to act as a buffer to the bad news. ‘You’re going to die!’ sounds much worse than ‘Connor is going to die’, even if it means the same thing. I wonder how Skeates would deal with this. He would take it on the chin.
‘OK,’ he would say, ‘give me the drugs, bring it on!’ Swagger swagger.
I’m inspired to do the same but Mum interrupts my thoughts.
“Is there nothing you can do?” She’s coping better this time, maybe because Dad is here or perhaps she’s already resigned herself to my fate. Even so, she snuffles through the Q&A session. For the first time I really respect her for everything she’s done for me.
“With treatment, Connor can live longer.” She looks at me. “Long enough to build some special memories.”
“How long?” I ask. “‘Special memories’ doesn’t sound long.”
“Without treatment, not long. The cancer has progressed.”
I worry I may have brought it on myself by missing my meds. I don’t want to ask the question. Mum looks like she’s thinking the same thing. Thankfully she doesn’t voice it. Bad news is always made worse by seeking out reasons to blame the victim. I notice that Dr Bents doesn’t say anything either. Maybe I was doomed anyway. I look around Room 9, a space I’ve become so familiar with, despite only being in here a few times.
The doctor continues. “With treatment, Connor will live much longer and there is still a very small chance that he will respond better than we expect, in which case we will arrange for more radiotherapy too.”
“So if he doesn’t get radiotherapy he’s stuffed, is that what you’re saying?” asks Mum.
“Not quite, Mrs Lambert. What I mean is that if this treatment is successful we will follow it with radiotherapy. If that happens, Connor will have a real chance. Because the cancer is so advanced, what is more likely is that Connor’s body won’t respond to treatment, in which case radiotherapy will not be of use.”
“So when does he start treatment?” My mum is doing all the talking. She must’ve got her shit together whilst I’ve been away – or they’ve changed her drugs. Normally she’s all over the place like a blue-arsed fly when we get bad news.
Dad hasn’t said anything and I look over to him and see why. He has the same look as me; the bitter lemon face of swallowing tears. I guess the thought of holding another of his children’s hands as it grows cold is too much for him.
“I don’t want any more chemo,” I say. Up to now I’ve been sitting in the sidelines listening, everything out of my control, no responsibility. Now the choices are being discussed I don’t want that decision to be made by someone who has no idea of how unpleasant the whole chemical treatment is. Chemo is shit: hair loss, vomiting, the smelly night feeds with that nasal ga
stric tube. I don’t want to go through it again. I would rather just get the whole thing over with.
“Be brave, son,” my dad whispers.
“That’s fine for you to say,” I yell, “you don’t need to go through it. It’s not you that has to fill up the sick bowls, piss blood, eat and shit chemicals, is it, Dad?”
The three of them look at me in shock. Dad makes to speak. The poor guy looks like he’s about to start greetin. Dr Bents interrupts before the tears flow.
“Connor, it’s your decision,” she says. “I can only advise you. My advice is that, although the treatment has side effects, those effects are temporary. Without treatment there is only one result and it will be comparatively swift.”
“You said that treatment will only give me a bit of time. So what’s the point?” I say.
“Yes, the treatment will definitely allow you more time – maybe more than a year, maybe two. I also said that there’s a slim chance the treatment could be successful. It is slim, but it does sometimes happen. I can’t say for definite because cancer affects everyone in a different way. What I can say is that without treatment you will not live for long.”
“How long does the treatment last?” asks Dad.
“We will provide several doses of chemotherapy over a period of six weeks, then take tests.”
“Six weeks is worth it. Who knows what they will invent, take your chances, son.” Dad stumbles over the words as if all his efforts hiding his emotions are making it tough to talk. He looks to the doctor for hope, but doesn’t get any encouragement.
I don’t know what to do. I wish Emma was here and the thought of her picks me up because I know what she would say. I know now what I will do.
Chapter 30
Suiting Up
Doctors make it simple for cancer boys like me to get meds. A surgeon sticks a permanent line in through my chest wall and hangs a wire out so that drugs and blood can be administered without fuss. Nurses ram a medication line up my nose and down to my tummy. When that goes in it feels like vomiting and sneezing all at once. With my orange Ray-Bans and Gumbo’s sweater added to this mix of tubes, I look like a punk-rocking octopus stuffed into a sheep. The tubes are attached to a tall, chemical-filled trolley to give me freedom to move around during the long periods of treatment.