Jenny Downham: Before I Die aka Now is Good

‘Have I got peripheral disease?’

‘You and I don’t know each other very well, Tessa. Wouldn’t you rather wait for your father?’

‘Just tell me.’

He sighs very deeply, as if he can’t quite believe he’s about to give in. ‘Yes, we found disease in your peripheral blood. I’m very sorry.’

That’s it then. I’m riddled with cancer, my immune system is shot and there’s nothing more they can do for me. I had weekly blood tests to check for it. And now it’s here.

I’d always thought that being told for definite would be like being punched in the stomach – painful, followed by a dull ache. But it doesn’t feel dull at all. It’s sharp. My heart’s racing, adrenalin surges through me. I feel absolutely focused.

‘Does my dad already know?’

He nods. ‘We were going to tell you together.’

‘What options do I have?’

‘Your immune system is in collapse, Tessa. Your options are limited. We can keep going with blood and platelets if you want to, but it’s likely their benefit will be short-lived. If you became anaemic straight after a transfusion, we would have to stop.’

‘What then?’

‘Then we would do everything we could to make you comfortable and leave you in peace.’

‘Daily transfusions aren’t feasible?’

‘No.’

‘I’m not going to make eight weeks then, am I?’

Dr Wilson looks right at me. ‘You’ll be very lucky if you do.’

I know I look like a pile of bones covered in cling film. I see the shock of it in Adam’s eyes.

‘Not quite how you remembered me, eh?’

He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

But I think this is what he was always scared of – having to be interested when I’m ugly and useless.

He’s brought tulips from the garden. I stuff them in the water jug while he looks at my get-well cards. We talk about nothing for a bit – how the plants he bought in the garden centre are coming along, how his mum is enjoying the weather now that she’s outside more often. He looks out of the window, makes some joke about the view across the car park.

‘Adam, I want you to be real.’

He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.

‘Don’t pretend to care. I don’t need you as an anaesthetic.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t want anyone being fake.’

‘I’m not being.’

‘I don’t blame you. You didn’t know I’d get this sick. And it’s only going to get worse.’

He thinks about this for a moment, then kicks off his shoes.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Being real.’

He pulls back the blanket and climbs into bed next to me. He scoops me up and wraps me in his arms.

‘I love you,’ he whispers angrily into my neck. ‘It hurts more than anything ever has, but I do. So don’t you dare tell me I don’t. Don’t you ever say it again!’

I lay the flat of my palm against his face and he pushes into it. It crosses my mind that he’s lonely. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You should be.’

He won’t look at me. I think he’s trying not to cry.

He stays all afternoon. We watch MTV, then he reads the paper my dad left behind and I have another sleep. I dream of him, even though he’s right next to me. We walk together through snow, but we’re hot and wearing swimming costumes. There are empty lanes and frosty trees and a road that curves and never ends.

When I wake up, I’m hungry again, so I send him off for another Strawberry Mivvi. I miss him as soon as he goes. It’s like the whole hospital empties out. How can this be? I claw my hands together under the blanket until he climbs back into bed beside me.

He unwraps the ice cream and passes it over. I put it on the bedside table.

‘Touch me.’

He looks confused. ‘Your ice cream will melt.’

‘Please.’

‘I’m right here. I am touching you.’

I move his hand to my breast. ‘Like this.’

‘No, Tess, I might hurt you.’

‘You won’t.’

‘What about the nurse?’

‘We’ll chuck the bed-pan at her if she comes in.’

He very gently cups my breast through my pyjamas. ‘Like this?’

He touches me as if I’m precious, as if he’s stunned, as if my body amazes him, even now, when it’s failing. When his skin touches mine, skin to skin, we both shiver.

‘I want to make love.’

His hand stalls. ‘When?’

‘When I get back home. One more time before I die. I want you to promise.’

The look in his eyes frightens me. I’ve never seen it before. So deep and real, it’s as if he’s seen things in the world that others could only imagine.

‘I promise.’

They swap like porters. Dad comes every morning. Adam comes every afternoon. Dad comes back in the evening with Cal. Mum visits randomly, managing to sit through an entire blood transfusion on her second visit.

‘Haemoglobin and platelets coming right up,’ she said as they hooked me up.

I liked her knowing the words.

But ten days. I even missed Easter. That’s too much time to lose.

Every night I lie in my single hospital bed and I want Adam, his legs entwined with mine, his warmth.

‘I want to go home,’ I tell the nurse.

‘Not yet.’

‘I’m better.’

‘Not better enough.’

‘What’re you hoping for? A cure?’

The sun hoists itself up every morning and all the lights in the town wink off. Clouds rush the sky, frenzied traffic dips in and out of the car park, then the sun plummets back to the horizon and another day is over. Time rush. Blood rush.

I pack my bag and get dressed. I sit on the bed trying to look perky. I’m waiting for James.

‘I’m going home,’ I tell him as he examines my chart.

He nods as if he was expecting this. ‘Are you determined?’

‘Very. I’m missing the weather.’ I point at the window just in case he’s been too busy to notice the mellow light and the blue-sky clouds.

‘There’s a certain rigour needed to maintain this blood count, Tessa.’

‘Can’t I be rigorous at home?’

He looks at me very seriously. ‘There’s a fine line between the quality of the life you have left and the medical intervention necessary to maintain it. You’re the only one who can judge it. Are you telling me you’ve had enough?’

I keep thinking about the rooms in our house, the colours of the carpets and curtains, the exact positioning of furniture. There’s a journey I really like making from my bedroom, down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the garden. I want to make that journey. I want to sit in my deck chair on the lawn.

‘The last transfusion only lasted for three days.’

He nods sympathetically. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘I had another one this morning. How long do you reckon that’s going to last?’

He sighs. ‘I don’t know.’

I stroke the bed sheet with the flat of my hand. ‘I just want to go home.’

‘Why don’t I talk to the community care team? If I can get them to guarantee daily visits, then perhaps we can reassess.’ He clips my chart back onto the end of my bed. ‘I’ll phone them and come back when your dad gets here.’

After he leaves, I count to one hundred. A fly grazes the table. I reach out my finger for a touch of those flimsy wings. It senses me coming, sputters into life and zigzags up to the light fitting, where it circles out of reach.

I put on my coat, drape my scarf round my shoulders and pick up my bag. The nurse doesn’t even notice as I walk past her desk and get into the lift.

When I reach the ground floor, I text Adam: REMEMBER YR PROMISE?

I want to die in my own way. It’s my illness, my death, my choice.