Matthew Revert - The Tumours Made Me Interesting

“What’s wrong, my love?” she asked.

“He was an arsehole,” I replied.

“Who do you mean, dear?”

“Dad… he was a fucking arsehole…”

My mother gave me a slight nod of solemn understanding. She struggled her way onto the bed and stretched out beside me. We both stared at the ceiling.

“You father wasn’t always like that,” she eventually said. “But yes… he did slide somewhat toward the end there. The man who left us was not the man I married.”

“What happened?” I asked, for the first time in my life.

“When I met your father he was a brilliant gravy maker. In gravy-making circles, he was a bona fide celebrity. Back in those days, gravy was a pretty big deal — a darn sight bigger than it is now. That instant stuff all the kids drink today was only available in back alleys and abortion parties. He was gravy man of the year back in ‘62. He could have had his pick of the gravy groupies that followed him around like bad smells. These women were attracted to the fame… their loins inflamed at the taste of your dad’s gravy. At the time I wasn’t much into gravy. I was working as a gravy boat model at GravyCon’s International convention in ’63. These conventions were huge back in the day — attracted scores of enthusiasts. Your father was the star attraction that year. I remember when he entered the building. His hair was slicked back like a woodshop teacher and he wore the most stunning set of glittered overalls you’d ever seen. As you’d expect, the ladies swooned and threw themselves at him. Your dad though… he wouldn’t have any of it. His eyes were glued to one thing from the minute he set foot in that place… the T-model Excelsior Gravy Boat I was modeling. He couldn’t take his eyes off that thing. He sought me out after the convention and asked to look at the gravy boat. It had been carefully packed away for the next leg of its international tour at this point and your poor dad was so dejected. I offered to take him out for dinner to try and cheer him up. Well… he accepted, we got to talking, fell madly in love and were married minutes later.”

As my mother told this story, the most content smile I’d ever seen sat on her face. My eyes drank this up and I felt something within that resembled strength.

“So we were very happily married for several years,” she continued. He taught me all about the art of gravy and never once did he let his lifestyle interfere with our love. He was so caring… so considerate.”

“When did that start to change?” I asked.

“Shortly after your older brother was born,” she said with a sudden distance in her eyes. “Your father wasn’t really cut out to be a father I’m afraid. He didn’t understand children. He would spend hours just staring at your brother trying to figure him out… became obsessed with it. In his daft mind, he was sure that children were entering the world with the soul purpose of sullying gravy. He reasoned that each generation ensured a weakening in the sanctity of pursuits from generations prior. So although he didn’t know how, he looked at your brother and saw a gravy botherer. And it didn’t matter what I said. He’d just accuse me of sabotage and storm out. He’d go away for weeks at a time and come back with dried gravy all over his body. Then I became convinced he was fooling around with gravy groupies. When I confronted him about this, he flew into a rage and punched the wall with his gravy making hand. He suffered nerve damage that prevented him from making gravy up to a standard he was accustomed too. He turned his back on the whole lifestyle and became a completely different person. When you were born, you met a different man. And yes… your new father was an utter bastard. He was already convinced children were responsible for his problems and by the time you were born, you were, as much as it kills me to say it, an enemy. And when I got sick shortly after your birth, he was convinced you were responsible and in possession of great evil. He would stay up at night plotting ways to get rid of you, which used to send me into a panic. And it was only due to that tiny ember of love he still had for me that he didn’t try anything stupid. He never discussed his plans to leave with me, but I guess he couldn’t take it anymore. Your father was a profoundly damaged man, Bruce.”

I wanted to feel angry as my mother’s story concluded, but I couldn’t. My father had just been painted as such a deeply pathetic man that I felt a crude, patronising sympathy for him.

“Before he left… he told me that it was my fault. That I’d made you sick. There hasn’t been a day gone by since that I haven’t believed that.”

“Oh, Bruce… darling,” replied my mother, as she snuggled in closer behind me. “You can’t believe something like that. It’s not healthy.”

I felt my mother’s body, exuding warmth, comfort and understanding. In this space, nothing mattered and the guilt that dictated my life didn’t feel important.

“It’s hard not to believe I’m responsible,” I said. “You started getting sick the minute after I was born.”

“Let me tell you something, Bruce… The seeds to my illness were sewn long before you were born. Life is the illness. The mere act of breathing and putting yourself out there is hard on the soul. The only way to prevent illness is to have never been alive. There can never be one sole arbiter of our pain and heartache. It’s a process that develops and has more parts than we can possibly fathom. Whether you were born or not, I was already sick, Bruce.”

“That’s pretty depressing,” I replied.

“No!” she countered. “It’s not depressing at all. While life may be at the heart of all sickness, it’s also the cure.”

My mother’s words were true. I hadn’t deciphered their importance yet, but I knew they were true. The disease that lies at the heart of us all can erupt at any time. We walk around, zombie-like, in perpetual response. It leaves us so fragile. We collate misery like a macabre census and feed off the results. More often than not, we want to be unhappy because it gives us an excuse to avoid responsibility. Although we’re not aware, we invite so much illness into our lives. And when it’s there, we hold onto it like children with a teddy bear. It keeps us safe. It diverts our attention from the cure. By the time we become aware of it, it’s usually too late. The illness has dug itself so deep that it’s never coming out.

My mother’s body was pressed tightly against mine and for the first time, I felt as if I were in her care. Her giant hand, firm and loving, rubbed my leg, filling me with re-assurance. My past was evaporating, which terrified and excited me. The guilt I had always been in response to was leaving. My mother’s hand maintained its vigil, keeping me safe, assuring me I was okay. Her skin, unaccustomed to life outside of bed rest, was so soft. And it was this that stayed with me as I fell asleep in her arm. So soft…

So soft…

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