The Tumours Made Me Interesting (22 page)

There must have been at least twenty of them, all lined up and ready for war. They were wearing flak jackets and peaked cabassets. One tumour, slightly larger than the others, barked cadences that the others repeated with gusto. The bark was so guttural that it sounded like death metal vocals. This tumour looked familiar to me. This was the guardian Fiona had filmed during my first endoscopy. I recognized its cold, black eye.

The door to the attic started to shake as police officers pounded their fists against it.

“Are those things going to do anything?” asked my mother who pushed hard against the door with her giant hand.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

Half the tumours began marching toward the door and the other half formed a semi-circle of protection around me.

“Open up!” called one of the officers. “We’re only here for the tumours. Surrender them to us and you will not be harmed.”

“Just give them the bloody tumours, Bruce,” said my mother.

“These tumours have done nothing wrong!” I yelled.

My mother left her guard of the door and wriggled toward me. So much rage boiled within her that steam spat though her pores. With the back of her head pressed into the floor, she lifted her whole arm and gave me a hard slap across the face. I tumbled over and stared at my mother in horror.

“You’re just like your father!” said my mother. “Those things have done everything wrong and you’re too bloody stubborn to realise it!”

Before the harsh observation had a chance to fully register, the attic door splintered apart. Police officers flooded through, each brandishing rubber bands, stretched between their fingers poised to fire. I felt a rubber band slap into my forehead.

“Ouch!” I cried. “Mum… get out of the way.”

She squealed as rubber bands bounced off her arm. More rubber bands flew toward me. Some I managed to dodge, most I did not. The tumours quickly consumed each rubber band as it fell to the ground, ensuring they couldn’t be used again. My mother cowered and whimpered beneath the rubber fusillade.

“Leave her alone!” I implored. “She’s innocent.”

“There’s no such thing as innocent,” said one of the officers.

Tumours began bouncing with great speed around the attic.

“Stay completely still,” said one of the tumours by my foot.

Their speed accelerated to the point where all I could make out were blurs. Suddenly one of the officers fell. Blood pumped from his jugular, staining the ground around him.

“Mum… Belinda… Don’t fucking move.”

The officers swatted at the blurs to no avail. With each pass, more fell in explosions of gore. I watched the way their hapless bodies distorted as my tumours tore through them. I marveled as their insides became outsides and that which remains hidden by the fragility of our flesh was now exposed. I reflected upon my own body and how intimately associated with its occult functions I had become. I truly knew what was inside me, maybe better than what resided on the surface. The body narrates its decline to the owner. Our bodies are always narrating their condition. Most of the time we just never listen to them – why would we? I certainly didn’t. Who knows how long I’d been growing my tumours? What signals had my body given me that I ignored? The first time my stomach ached, was that the genesis of my disease? The first time my bowel movements started to resemble French mustard… was this significant? I began to mentally tick off possible demarcation points as the violence continued before me, distancing myself emotionally from the chaos. While I clutched onto this mentality, lives weren’t being lost – they were merely exposing themselves and becoming something new. I could hear my mother sobbing somewhere in the distance. The sound had forged deep cognitive roots, ensuring that whenever I heard it, I became more hopeless. My mother’s sobbing was its own language – a language that penetrated deeper than words and spoke louder than teens at a roller disco. It was a language that, whenever absorbed, reinforced the inescapable nature of my obligation to her. I’ve been responsible for each tear. 

I was left standing in the sticky remnants of the police officers. Belinda and my mother were huddled in the corner, afraid to speak lest their words reanimated the intruders. They looked to me for guidance and I looked to them for the same.

My tumours were strewn about the attic, breathing heavily and laughing. They were laughing because they’d earned their freedom. I wanted to scoop them up and swallow them back down into the depths of my body. My stomach made the sound of crying orphans, which I tried to soothe with the gentle movement of my hand. And as the sound of my stomach began to abate, it hit me… hunger. I was ravenous. Thoughts of food swelled like an orchestra, drowning out everything.

“Does anyone have any food?” I asked with breathless desperation.

Having broken the silence, Belinda and my mother edged toward me. Belinda foraged about in her pockets and pulled out a ball of lint the size of a softball. She held it up toward me. Through my fog of hunger, I convinced myself it was a culinary delight. In her hands the lint ball became rich plum pudding, dripping with custard. Salivation poured from my mouth and reached out for the lint with thin, wet arms. Belinda passed the lint to my waiting hands. Imaginary custard leaked through my fingers. I rushed it toward my gaping mouth, not wanting to waste any. My teeth tore through the lint. I forced each mouthful down, coughing up moth limbs with each swallow.

“You should eat something a little less ridiculous than that,” said my mother.

I paid her advice no heed and gorged myself until the last of the lint ball was travelling toward my empty stomach.

“I can’t believe you actually ate that,” said Belinda, trying her best not to giggle.

“I was hungry,” I replied, slightly embarrassed.

Although they both chastised me, I could sense how grateful they both were. While they assailed me with tandem mock, they were achieving the fortitude required to face the fact they had witnessed slaughter. Most of the tumours were on their feet now and sharing their own tales of battle. The three of us cast our attention their way. These fleshy balls of disease had prevented a rubber band massacre… our skin was less irritated thanks to their efforts and, more importantly, Fiona had been kept at bay. She was still a problem though and she wasn’t about to give up. As far as she was concerned, my body was still stuffed with her babies and she was going to find a way to get at them. I walked toward the window, nearly slipping over in a smear of former officer. I peeked around the window frame trying to minimise my visibility as best I could. Fiona was there alright, flanked by Arthur, Vince and Belinda’s mother. Fiona’s brow was furrowed in frustration to such an extent that her eyes were no longer visible. Arthur was sipping at a cup of tea, which Fiona swatted away. I watched the cup fly away with a tail of earl grey tea in its wake. Its trajectory was interrupted by a helicopter, which spiraled toward the ground, bouncing to a stop without explosion. The pilots clambered out in a daze, scratching at their confused heads and walking aimlessly up a side street, leaving their helicopter in the middle of the road. Fiona’s face was flushed red with anger and her cheeks were engorged as if she were playing an invisible trumpet. Vince started walking toward the fallen helicopter, but a leash around his neck cut his walk short. He fell to the ground and barked.

“What’s happening out there?” asked my mother.

“They look pissed,” I replied. “They’re not going anywhere unless I’m with them.”

Belinda scuttled toward me and embraced my leg. “I don’t want you to go with them,” she said.

“Neither do I… we have to think of something.”

“All she wants are those bloody tumours,” said my mother. “Just let her have them and we can forget this ever happened.”

I glanced over at my tumours. Even if I agreed to give them to Fiona, there’s no way they’d go and they possessed the moxy to ensure it wouldn’t happen. Besides… if they weren’t going to be with me, they deserved their freedom.

“No,” I eventually said. “We have to find another way. I’m not letting her have them. I can’t allow it.”

“Well what do you proposed we do, Bruce?” implored my mother.

“
We’re
not going to do anything.” I gesticulated to the gore painting the attic floor. “Look what’s happened… this could get even worse and there’s no fucking way I’m going to put you through that. The two of you are staying here and I’m going to lead Fiona away. She isn’t interested in you, mum. Besides… you’re a fucking arm… you’ll slow me down.”

I walked toward my tumours and lowered myself to one knee. They stared up me, their faces so proud. I gave them a salute, which they returned with passion.

“Look, guys,” I said. “You’ve done so much for us and you deserve to do whatever it is you feel you need to. I know that I can’t keep you here and even though I’d like to, I’m not going to ask you to return. Can I just ask one more little favour?”

One of the tumours broke away from the group. “What did you have it mind?” it asked with suspicion.

I nodded toward Belinda and my mother. “Keep them from following me. Just for a little while. I need to get away from here and I don’t want them to get hurt.”

A smile spread across the tumour’s face. “Yeah… we’ll give you 30 minutes.”

“Bruce!” screamed my mother. “You have no right to leave us with those… those…
things
!

I turned to face my mother, my face radiating anger that filled the room with a dull, red glow. My mother’s objection melted under the weight of my intensity.

“Listen to me, mum… it’s you who has no right. You have no fucking right to make me responsible for the two of you getting hurt. I’m sick of feeling responsible for you all the damn time!”

She said nothing and her face avoided betraying whatever my words were making her feel. Belinda tip toed toward her and nestled into the crook of her elbow.

“Okay… go,” said my mother.

I nodded and took one last look out the attic window. Fiona was still there – the intensity of her furrow growing. The tumours formed a circle around Belinda and my mother, preventing them from leaving. I knew that by the time I got back (if I got back), the tumours would no longer be here. My time with them was over. I didn’t know how to feel. Via their presence, I’d been imbued with something I didn't think I ever had… self-respect. In order to achieve this sense of self-respect, I had to destroy all those parts of me which I found impossible to respect, which was pretty much everything. I blew a kiss, not minding too much if it landed on my mother, Belinda, or one of the tumours – they all deserved it. The kiss landed on Belinda and she gobbled it down with furious hunger for affection. I took one last look at the tumours I was leaving behind and made my way downstairs.

6.

I
made my descent with such confidence, yet I had no idea what I was going to do. Plans would start to form in my head and begin turning into episodes of Dawson’s Creek long before they had a chance to form legitimate courses of action. I started to army crawl toward the window. My profound lack of vitality, however, saw the army crawl soon become a pathetic worm-like wriggle. But it achieved its purpose and I soon found a vantage point where I could see what I was dealing with. Fiona still cast her gaze toward the attic window, which was comforting. She had no idea I was making a break for it, which meant that I had a few precious seconds on my side. The police officer’s ladders were still parked on the curb. If I could get to one before they got to me, I could make my getaway. I nodded agreement to no one in particular and moved toward the front door. My heart was a shore-stricken fish of anxiety, flopping furiously within me.. The ladder couldn’t have been more than ten steps away from me, but each of those ten steps promised to offer intensifying levels of terror. At school we used to play chasey, and I had gained a reputation for dropping instantly to the ground in order to avoid the fear of the pursuit. This reputation came with an ample dose of scorn, which, at the time, I was an expert at absorbing. I assimilated the mockery of others and became it. I didn’t just obsess over my failures. I became the perfect embodiment of them. This wasn’t something I could do anymore.

I crossed myself like they do in Western movies just before a gun down and made a break for the nearest ladder. The environment around me whirled like a slow motion blender. My sense of perspective boiled away in the build up of lactic acid that assailed my legs. I saw a shape that resembled Fiona turn toward me. She yelled something I couldn’t decipher. I couldn’t tell how close I was to the nearest ladder, or even if I was still running in the right direction, but I dove. I flew through the air, feeling my weightlessness and wondering when gravity would take me. As I thumped into the ground, my world snapped back into focus. Fiona was running toward me, screaming Conway Twitty lyrics with war cry ferocity. My hand was slumped against a ladder. Adrenaline made love to my body and I pulled myself aboard. An array of pedals, levers and buttons confronted me. I pushed and pulled at random, completely unfamiliar with the mechanics of drivable ladders. Each new combination elicited choking sounds and plumes of foul smoke.