Matthew Revert - The Tumours Made Me Interesting

I remembered my stool-top cancer speech and I felt anvils of shame flatten me. I remembered tent girl coming to my aide and wiping the puke from my face. That means… if she did have sex with me, it was out of sympathy. This possibility sat very poorly, and I began instinctively scrubbing at my body with a cracked bar of soap. It wasn’t right. I’d used my cancer like a divorced man uses his children to attract women. I’d become somewhat desirable by virtue of my impending demise. I wanted to throw up again but my stomach was too empty to wretch up anything other than foam. I needed to lie down. I needed to go to sleep and bypass waking up. All of a sudden, my death couldn’t come too soon.

Bed was really kind to me, hugging my body in all the right places and cocooning me from the world in general. This made the shrill ring of my phone all the more frustrating. I ignored it at first, adamant that whoever was trying to destroy my warm bliss would lose the fight. I remained still with my eyes stubbornly closed for what must have been 15 minutes. Then I started counting the incessant rings. 90 minutes and over 500 rings later, I gave up. I caught a glance at my bedside clock. It was 2pm and it was a work day. This sped my pace dramatically. I couldn’t believe I’d allowed work to slip my mind. I had only ever been late for work once and that was because my home was invaded by Spaniards. This was a case of getting shitfaced and sleeping in. This wasn’t on. I dived for the phone (although, after nearly two hours of ringing, the last minute dash seemed inappropriate). I snatched the receiver and held it nervously against my ear. It wasn’t an angry supervisor like I expected. Instead my ears were being caressed by a gentle, measured female voice.

“Hello, may I speak with Bruce Miles please?” asked the voice.

“This is him.” My voice sounded like it was broadcast from ham radio, fighting its way through a hangover static.

“Hi, Bruce. My name is Fiona Sinclair and I’m a counselor calling from the Bad Bowel Institute. I understand you recently received some very difficult news.”

“Umm… Yeah, I guess…” I might have hung up right then if her voice hadn’t been so soothing. Why did she have my number and what business was it of hers?

“I’d like to meet up with you, Bruce, and discuss your options.”

“Options?” I scoffed. “I was led to believe I didn’t really have any.”

“We all have options, Bruce. We can investigate the potential for treatment or at the very least, I can help prepare you.”

“Prepare me for death?”

“That’s right,” she responded. Her voice maintained the calm.

“How did you get this number?”

“Your GP. He was concerned about you.”

I laughed so hard that the mouthpiece became coated with saliva. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy? The doctor I saw was a bit of a bastard.”

“Look, Bruce, I’d love for us to meet tomorrow morning and have a chat. You don’t have to go through this alone. There is help out there.”

I thought back to the night before. Me on the stool, regaling a room of strangers with my tales of woe. I’d had enough of cancer talk. All I wanted to do was live my life as normal until my body gave out. When the time came, I’d hide away in my bedroom with a boxset of Jem cartoons and fade out. What else was I going to do? I wasn’t so naïve that I believed there was genuine hope for me. Cancer doesn’t just happen. It grows inside you. When it first strikes, it does so without warning and remains within you as a clandestine intruder, sucking away your life in order to make it strong. I wasn’t coming out of this illness. I had no doubt it would take me as it had taken so many others before.

“It’s a very nice offer but I’ll have to pass,” I said with determination.

Before she could get another suspiciously soothing word in, I slammed the phone down. The last thing I needed was to sit down and discuss the tumours in my arse with another stranger, no matter how soothing her voice was. Maybe meeting up with this Fiona woman wouldn’t result in an attack of invasive fingers, but it would still be invasive, and that’s exactly what I didn’t want.

I was in a mild panic. It was nearing 4pm and I still wasn’t at work. I had been pacing my apartment compulsively until a short knock on the door broke my trance. I approached my door like it was a sleeping guard at the entrance of a stronghold. I flung it open in one swift motion then realised I was still naked. I instinctively fell to my knees and found a bouquet of bark leaning against the entryway. I snatched it up and commando rolled back inside, knocking awkwardly into a floor lamp and cringing as it began to fall. As it did, it struck the top of my head. I could feel the developing bump inflate. I allowed the pain to subside and cast my attention toward the bark bouquet. An envelope was attached stating that it was ‘a bouquet of bark’. There was a letter inside from my supervisor, Kerry. It read:

Bruce,

We all chipped in and got you bark.

I couldn’t be sorrier about the cancer if I tried (and I have).

Jerry wrote a song about you but it’s not very good. It’s called ‘Bruce’s Triumph’.

Take all the time you need unless you need more than the allotted sick leave allowance specifies. If this occurs, I’ll submit an E95 leave extension request on your behalf.

We’ve found a trio of meerkats that are happy to do your job until you return.

I was torn between anger toward Jerry for spilling the beans and elation at the feeling of freedom my absolution from work inspired. I’d never been given the green light to stay at home before. Once I had a five day weekend but that was only due to a front door malfunction at work. If my hangover hadn’t been so severe, I may have attempted a little jig. But then there was that part of me that couldn’t help but conjure absurd scenarios relating to office gossip about my bleeding arse. I imagined contorted, laughing faces, bowel cancer impersonations, but maybe worst of all, the feeling that half my co-workers were asking the inevitable question, who the hell’s Bruce? I wondered how much the bark bouquet had cost and what the average contribution per employee was. I wondered how fond of the meerkats my coworkers would become. I wondered if I’d ever live long enough to find out.

I had an urge to go back to the tent-themed bar and find the tent girl who quite possibly fucked me. Shame at my drunken behaviour prevented this urge from sprouting. Instead I recalled the ambiguous nipple that my mouth had so gratefully sucked upon. I hoped like hell it was hers. The phone rang again. I picked it up straight away.

“Tent girl?” I asked.

“I urge you to reconsider, Bruce. We should talk.”

It was that Fiona woman again. She was a persistent sort. “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,” I said honestly.

“That’s where you’re wrong. If you’d just give me ten minutes of your time. It won’t cost you a cent.”

“If I accept, will you stop calling me?”

“Of course I will.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever you want.”

“Fantastic! Thank you, Bruce. I can’t stress enough how much you stand to gain from this.”

I wrote down all the details and agreed to meet her the next morning. I wasn’t going to do it of course, but it got her off my back. I had become the centre of morbid attention and although it was exhausting, I kind of liked it. I wondered what Fiona meant when she said I stood to gain from meeting her. It was probably just some manipulative way to trick the dying into adhering to mandated process.