by Drew Hunt
“Can you hang on for a minute? I need to have a word with someone.”
Trevor nodded absently as his mind went back in time to his dad’s funeral. The church had been packed. He never realised so many people had known his dad. He recalled the big oak coffin next to the altar. Trevor had wondered if his cabinetmaker father would have approved of his mother’s choice of casket.
It was obvious even to a young boy like him that the vicar had never met his dad. Trevor’s overriding memory of the day, however, was how the service seemed to drag on and on.
Trevor had been afraid to stand too close to the graveside, in case he fell in. By this time his mother was an emotional wreck. He did what he could to comfort her, but fortunately one of his aunties stepped in.
“Okay,” Paul said, coming back into the room and sitting down next to him. “I’ve had a word with Mr Brandon. He’s agreed to let you have as much time off as you need. He’s also—”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I’m sure I can—”
“We’ll see. The time off is there if you need it.” Paul squeezed Trevor’s upper arm. “He’s also agreed to let me take some time off to—” Paul raised his hand to silence the protest that hadn’t quite made it to Trevor’s lips. “And I’ll be taking you to the doctor’s. I’ll stay in the waiting room if that’s what you want, but you’re not going to face this alone.”
That was it, Trevor couldn’t hold in his tears any longer. Paul was being so kind. He wasn’t sure why, but he was glad.
“Hey now.” The voice was just as soft, just as caring.
“I’m sorry. Bloody hell, what must you think? Stupid queer crying over the least little thing.”
Paul grabbed his arm tightly. “Firstly,” the voice was harder now, “I don’t think of you as a stupid queer, and this is hardly an insignificant matter.”
“You’re so kind.” He lapsed into silence, then he remembered something. “But you’d arranged to go out with Cindy this afternoon.”
“I’ve already called her to cancel. She only wanted me to go clothes shopping with her, you know what women are like.”
Trevor didn’t really, but wasn’t going to remind Paul of the fact. Cindy was, well, essentially Paul’s girlfriend, though Trevor noticed he never used the term. They’d been going out occasionally for about a month. Trevor liked Cindy; he thought she was good for Paul.
“You ready to go home yet?”
“But the appointment isn’t until this evening, I could stay—”
“It’s all arranged.” Paul stood up. “You’re hardly going to be able to concentrate on work, are you?”
Trevor didn’t respond.
“And before you even say it, no you’re not going home on the bus by yourself. I’m taking you home and staying with you.”
“Thanks.”
He had to be strong, because there was no one he could lean on, he had to do it all himself. He wasn’t comfortable about leaning on Paul. The guy was kind, considerate, not to mention drop dead gorgeous. Trevor could, if he allowed himself, fall very heavily for Paul. Shaking his head he got to his feet. “All right, I’ll go quietly.”
“Good, because I didn’t fancy having to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of the building.”
“Damn, I should have held out. I could have had all my caveman fantasies fulfilled.”
Paul shook his head. “Daft bugger.”
Trevor was surprised his friend hadn’t pulled a face or said something truly disapproving. He knew Paul didn’t like it when he camped it up.
* * * *
Sitting in a deep cushioned chair in the hospital outpatient’s waiting room, Trevor reflected on the events of the previous couple of weeks.
First had come the visit to his doctor, an understanding older man who had done his best to be reassuring. That the guy had pulled out all the stops to get him an urgent appointment with a urologist didn’t exactly ease Trevor’s fears.
“You want a cup of tea?” Paul nudged Trevor’s arm. A volunteer had wheeled in a drinks trolley and was busy doling out Styrofoam cups.
“Uh, I’ll have an orange juice if they have any. Here, I’ll—” Trevor reached for the wallet in his back pocket.
“I’ll get them.”
Paul had been a brick. Trevor knew he’d been moody, one minute high as a kite, the next down in the dumps. But through it all Paul had been supportive, understanding and at times obstinate in not letting him wallow. Trevor felt he was beginning to rely on Paul a little too much for comfort. He promised himself that once the immediate crisis was over, he would have to shore up his defences again. He mustn’t allow himself to depend on Paul. The man was straight and would be moving out within a month or so. The repairs to his house were going well. Trevor had helped out when he could, but was ashamed to realise he hadn’t been that much use the past couple of weeks.
It had taken three days of forced inactivity since he’d told Paul about the lump before Trevor felt like climbing the walls. On the fourth day he had announced to a reluctant Paul that he would be going back to work the next day. Privately Trevor had to admit he wasn’t as productive as maybe he ought to have been, but Trevor knew he was better off working and trying to take his mind off it.
The second medical visit came a week after seeing his doctor. Trevor had to have an ultrasound scan. This passed off without incident. Trevor knew there would be no needles, something he hated. The only mild discomfort had come from the cold gel the technician had spread on his scrotum to aid better contact with the probe. Later Paul had told him the lady tech was hot, but Trevor admitted he hadn’t even noticed.
“They didn’t have orange, so I got you apple juice.” Paul handed him a small carton with a straw wrapped in cellophane stuck to the side. Trevor had no more than punctured the little foil circle in the top of the carton before a nurse called his name.
Trevor’s heart began to beat rapidly. With one hand Paul took the apple juice from him, and with the other gave his hand a squeeze.
“Want me to go in with you?”
Trevor nodded and got to his feet. As they made their way down a short corridor, Trevor felt like the condemned man shuffling toward the scaffold.
“They’re not going to execute you, Trev.”
Trevor lessened his grip on Paul’s hand. How did Paul know what he’d been thinking? Why was he still holding the bloke’s hand? Why hadn’t Paul removed it?
“Just take a seat, Mr Pierson,” the nurse in her pressed light blue and white uniform told him, giving him a small smile. “Mr Barraclough shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“Thanks,” Trevor finally let go of Paul’s hand, immediately missing the contact.
“Why’d you reckon surgeons are called Mister, but physicians are called Doctor’?
“Dunno.”
Trevor didn’t want to talk, but still mulled over Paul’s question. He thought the practice had begun way back, when physicians were university educated and were the only ones who could be addressed as Doctor. Surgeons didn’t have a medical degree so couldn’t use Dr and—Why the hell was he thinking about stuff like this anyway?
They had to wait about ten minutes, most of which was spent in silence, before being ushered into the presence.
The urology consultant had the bedside manor of a lump of wood. Cold didn’t even come close. Trevor sat nervously in a chair, Paul sending him reassuring glances as Mr Barraclough read medical notes, examined ultrasound films, at no time looking up, speaking to or even acknowledging that Trevor was present.
After scribbling something down, Mr Barraclough capped his fountain pen and looked up. “Are you sexually active, Mr Pierson?”
“Why, you interested in a quickie?” The remark left Trevor’s lips before he could stop it.
The balding, slightly overweight doctor’s eyebrows shot up so high Trevor thought they’d go all the way to the top of his head.
“Trevor, behave,” Paul said softly.
Still b
ristling at the doctor’s unexpected question, Trevor said, “No, doctor, I’m not sexually active.”
The guy looked at Trevor, then Paul with a disbelieving expression on his face. “Go into the next room, please, and strip off below the waist.”
Paul shot Trevor a look, quelling his reply. Trevor got to his feet and deliberately minced into the adjoining room.
Lying on the examination couch while the urologist did his poking and prodding, Trevor wondered if it was a prerequisite for all doctors to have cold hands.
“Does it hurt if I press here?”
“Uh, not really.”
“And here?”
“Ouch!” Did the bloke have to squeeze quite so hard?
Despite the clinical nature of the examination and the likelihood of impending doom being announced, having his unaffected ball played with was mildly arousing. He knew though that there was no danger of him getting hard.
“Hmm,” the doctor said, but didn’t add anything more constructive. He continued to poke and palpitate. Trevor was growing bored, not to mention cold. The window was open and the resulting draught was chilling.
Trevor asked the urologist why the left side of his scrotum had inflated to such an alarming size, and why it felt so heavy.
“Each testicle is held in a sac. In your case the left one has filled up with fluid. It’s a way for the body to protect itself.”
“Oh right.”
“You say the amount of pain you’re experiencing has diminished?”
“Yeah, almost gone now.”
“Hmm.” Back to the clear and concise communication.
The examination continued. Did the bloke secretly get off on fondling his patients so much?
Eventually the man nodded, withdrew his hands. The examination was mercifully over. Trevor was told he could get dressed.
Back in the consulting room Trevor found Mr Barraclough writing. He sat down and waited. Eventually the consultant opened a book and leafed through a few pages.
“I’d like to have a closer look at this in the operating theatre.”
Trevor felt his blood run cold. He had been afraid this would happen.
“I—”
“There’s really nothing to worry about, Mr Pierson.”
“Easy for you to say, you’ll be on the blunt end of the scalpel.”
“Quite. It may be necessary to remove the entire testicle, but I won’t know that until I see what’s happening.”
Trevor shuddered. “Do you think it might be, uh, cancer?”
It wasn’t until later that night as he lay in bed, sleep having eluded him, before Trevor realised the surgeon hadn’t given him a direct answer.
* * * *
“I didn’t think it would be so soon.”
“It’s best it gets sorted out.” Paul’s calm voice never changed.
“Suppose.” Trevor slumped further down in the passenger seat.
They were on their way back from the hospital. Trevor got that disconnected-with-reality feeling again. It seemed to be happening more and more. He knew the doctor would recommend surgery, he just knew it.
He couldn’t tell Paul how scared he was, how once they opened him up they’d find incurable cancer. How…Paul wouldn’t understand, he couldn’t.
“It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
“Yeah.” Trevor wasn’t convinced.
“Uh, your dad…he didn’t have, uh, testicular cancer, did he?”
Trevor shook his head. “No, he got a tumour on his liver.”
Paul took a hand from the wheel and gave Trevor’s knee a squeeze. “So there’s no link, no reason to think that what your dad had is related to your current problem.”
“Suppose.”
“The chances of what you’ve got being cancer are really small. And didn’t you say your pain is less than it was last week? That’s gotta mean—”
“And when did you get your medical degree?”
The car fell silent.
“I’m sorry.” Trevor truly was. He knew he’d been hell to live with for the past couple of weeks. “You’re right, I know I’m over-reacting. Sorry.”
“I understand.” Paul continued trying to be positive, “Remember he said he might not have to take the whole thing.”
Trevor didn’t feel especially comforted by that remark.
After a brief silence, Paul asked, “You wanna go for a pint?”
“No. I’m not in the mood to be out in public.”
“How’s about I get some cans in then, and we can get drunk at home?”
“Yeah.” The idea had merit, two buddies dealing with a problem by trying to drown it in alcohol. It wasn’t Trevor’s usual style, but why not. “Thanks.”
* * * *
Trevor hadn’t had a minute’s sleep all night. He couldn’t claim it was because of pain from the wound: that seemed to be behaving well. It was kind of interesting to have a succession of people wanting to take a look at his dick. Okay, they were more interested in the small bandage next to his dick, but a boy could dream. Except Trevor didn’t dream because he’d been kept awake all night. The bloke in the next bed kept coughing repeatedly, bringing Trevor back to full wakefulness just as he was about to drift off. If his bed-neighbour’s bronchitis wasn’t bad enough, the nurses at their station in the corridor outside his bay kept up a steady stream of talking all bloody night. Hadn’t they got anything better to do than chin-wag? The final straw came about two A.M when a patient directly opposite started having a heart attack. Alarms went off, nurses and doctors ran into the room, turning on lights. Trevor had kept his eyes shut, wishing he was anywhere else. After they got the bloke stabilised, they wheeled him off to the coronary care ward, turning off the lights as they went. However, Trevor knew he wouldn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of getting any more sleep.
Paul had loaned him his iPod, so Trevor spent the rest of the night listening to soft jazz, praying for the morning to arrive. The sleepless night gave Trevor’s mind too much time to mull over the past twenty four hours.
* * * *
Paul had driven Trevor to the hospital and stubbornly refused to leave him. Secretly Trevor was touched, but again felt his resolve not to get too used to Paul’s kindness beginning to crumble.
“No wonder we’re called patients,” Trevor groused as he sat on the made bed, unsure if he should change into pyjamas and get under the blanket.
It was more than an hour before someone showed up to officially admit him, telling him that yes, he could get changed, giving him a God-awful gown that fastened up the back. At least he was able to put on his dressing gown, which covered his exposed arse.
Trevor again told Paul to go home, back to work or his own house to check on the progress of the various repairs. There seemed little point in him just sitting by his bed waiting. But again Paul refused to budge.
When an orderly showed up bearing a razor, Paul decided that maybe he ought to leave after all.
“Don’t want to see my pubes being removed, eh?”
Paul said he could live without the experience. Ever since Paul had moved in, Trevor had been scrupulous about not making his guest feel uncomfortable. He made a point of never hovering whenever Paul took a bath or got changed. Therefore his remark surprised him. At least it got him to go, Trevor thought.
The orderly set about shaving the upper part of his legs, a process Trevor quite enjoyed, despite the man’s clinical approach. Then he was told to move his dick aside so he could get at his bush.
“But why, uh, I mean my scrotum is already shaved, why do they want me to be smooth there, too?”
“The doctor will make his incision here,” the orderly pointed to a spot about an inch above and slightly to the left of the root of Trevor’s dick. “They will want to take as much of the chord as possible, just in case.”
Trevor didn’t need to ask in case of what. He wished he hadn’t asked his question.
Eventually it was his turn to go down to the operating the
atre. The two porters were efficient and cheerful, but their joking around didn’t lift Trevor’s mood. He merely settled himself on the trolley, closed his eyes and began to pray. The pre-med pill the nurse had given him to help him relax didn’t seem to be having any effect. He still felt tense, panicked even.
Apart from feeling an initial scratch on his wrist, Trevor knew nothing of the next hour or so. He had vague memories of waking up in the recovery room, a nurse smiling down at him. “All over, Mr Pierson, someone will be here soon to take you back to the ward.”
“Thank you,” Trevor croaked. He’d been told the anaesthetic would make him hoarse, but it would soon pass.
“Are you feeling okay? Any pain?”
Trevor assessed how he felt. In truth nothing hurt, which surprised him. “No, I’m fine, thanks. Will I be allowed to go home tonight?”
The nurse looked up at the clock. “That’ll be for Mr Barraclough to decide, but because you were last on the list and it’s getting late, he’ll probably want you to stay in overnight, just in case.”
Trevor hated the Just in case part. It could cover an endless number of scenarios, none of them very pleasant. He was about to ask how the operation had gone, what exactly they’d taken away, but part of him didn’t really want to know, the other part knew the nurse wouldn’t tell him, saying the consultant would answer all his questions in the morning.
Sure enough her next words were, “Mr Barraclough will see you on his rounds tomorrow, he’ll be able to answer all your questions then. Try not to worry.”
Had his face showed how worried he was? Trevor smiled and closed his eyes.
* * * *
The breakfast cart being wheeled into the ward was the most welcome sight Trevor could remember. It meant morning had arrived; he would soon be released. Removing his headphones, Trevor sat up in the hard-as-concrete bed and attempted to mound his pillows into something comfortable and supportive. The pillows had other ideas. After doing the best he could, Trevor reclined and awaited the culinary delights that would be breakfast. His cynicism was not disappointed. The offerings were bread and butter with either marmalade or jam. They didn’t run to toast. He was also offered a bowl of cold cereal. The only items that were above room temperature were tea or coffee. He’d sampled the tea the evening before, so chose a cup of coffee. On tasting the bland beverage, obviously made from an inferior brand of instant powder, he wished he’d opted for a glass of milk. Still, eating and drinking passed some time, though it seemed hours before the surgeon showed up.