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Description
Kay didn't want it.

No, no, no, no, no.

"No."

She screwed the shiny leaflet up into a tight ball, not caring that the sharp edges dug into her palms, and threw it into the open fireplace, smugly watching the flames eat up her information. It was permanently ingrained now anyway.

She didn't want alopecia. To have to wrap her bald head in scarves and wigs that itched. She didn't want to vomit her stomach up every time she tried to keep some form of nourishment in it. She didn't want her red blood cells to die away so all she had energy for was to lie down and sob. She didn't want her skin to be so sore and fragile her legs would bleed freely every time she shaved, and one good sneeze could be detrimental. She didn't want her nails to blacken and split, her flesh to swell up, bulbous and shiny and bloated. She didn't want to tremble and convulse, and not have a steady enough hand for icing, or enough nerve endings to feel the soothingly smooth skin of her husband's body. She didn't want to burn.

She didn't want to lose her memory, or her sex-drive. The potential loss of fertility wasn't such a great trauma, Kay was 48 and already borne her three beautiful children. But to lose the memory of them... and Rob. Wonderful Rob.

They had met 30 years ago at university, accidental roommates after a mix up at the sorting office. Rob's easy going chilled attitude was a far opposite to Kay's indignation (more at the mistake than the situation). They agreed it was only until the admins sorted the damn mess out. By the weekend, they didn't need two beds in the room.

Rob and Kay graduated with honours and went on to become (respectively) slowly but steadily successful writer and editor, now both managing their own work from home schedules, and having more free time than they knew what to do with. So they filled it with laughter. They filled it with joint puzzles and cooking and impromptu road trips to places neither of them had never been. They filled it with sleep, sometimes even random naps in the middle of the afternoon, gently draped across each other on the sofa. And then the slow act of waking, each being the other's first sight, and the creeping grin they couldn't contain; the simple quiet joy of being together.

The simple quiet joy, that is, until college and school let out, and all hell broke loose as the rest of their pack came barging through the front door, throwing kilos of books onto the dining table, which boomed and wobbled precariously. The "what's for tea?" the "Top Gear's on tv!" (immediately followed by earth shattering 'vroooooms'), the sofa that was recently your place of relaxation now bombarded with three less-than-teeny tots. But Kay loved it. Her cubs.

Now they were leaving. The eldest was heading toward making a nest of his own, the other two lost in study, they didn't even need her anymore. So why suffer the added indignity of the chemotherapy? Why not just let the cancer eat her from the inside out. She was past it anyway, Rob would soon be looking for something tastier, and this added stress would surely drive him to his wits end. She didn't even want the boys to know anything... she'd made Rob swear. Another reason treatment would give the game away.

But...could she really bear the idea of someday soon, after the cancer had grown and spread and killed and maimed every healthy tissue in her, could she bear the thought of never seeing them again? Untreated cancers have been known to disappear, and what if the treatment didn't work and she relapsed anyway? The rest of life filled with medication or radiation. No more laughter. No more road trips.

That had been her first thought upon letting the heaviest words she'd ever heard sink into her ears.

"You have cancer."

Such simple, short words, but that vital 'C' one, the hiss of it, the snakelike way in which even the kindest of tones couldn't conceal. She thought right then, barely three weeks ago: "I am going to die. We won't laugh anymore". And since then she'd bottled that terror up, bottled the 'C' and held it tight inside, pushing it back and pretending it was already vanquished. What else to do? They had to have laughter.

It all clicked. The risk of letting it fix itself was too great. She needed to attempt to secure that there would be happiness ahead, even if there'd be hell first. She needed to live longer than her sons' 25th birthdays, she needed to see them graduate and walk down the aisle and she needed to babysit her grandchildren and teach them to cook and write and laugh. She needed to wait, and live; and die later, maybe with Rob, maybe together, warm and holding each other close in their bed. She couldn't leave him alone.

She picked up the phone (noting the great ease of the action she may come to miss) and dialled the doctor, face set and fingers still steady. Waiting for pick up, she forcefully breathed out those three vital little words.

"Fuck you, Cancer."

© Tamzin Williams 2009

Description
Kay didn't want it.

No, no, no, no, no.

"No."

She screwed the shiny leaflet up into a tight ball, not caring that the sharp edges dug into her palms, and threw it into the open fireplace, smugly watching the flames eat up her information. It was permanently ingrained now anyway.

She didn't want alopecia. To have to wrap her bald head in scarves and wigs that itched. She didn't want to vomit her stomach up every time she tried to keep some form of nourishment in it. She didn't want her red blood cells to die away so all she had energy for was to lie down and sob. She didn't want her skin to be so sore and fragile her legs would bleed freely every time she shaved, and one good sneeze could be detrimental. She didn't want her nails to blacken and split, her flesh to swell up, bulbous and shiny and bloated. She didn't want to tremble and convulse, and not have a steady enough hand for icing, or enough nerve endings to feel the soothingly smooth skin of her husband's body. She didn't want to burn.

She didn't want to lose her memory, or her sex-drive. The potential loss of fertility wasn't such a great trauma, Kay was 48 and already borne her three beautiful children. But to lose the memory of them... and Rob. Wonderful Rob.

They had met 30 years ago at university, accidental roommates after a mix up at the sorting office. Rob's easy going chilled attitude was a far opposite to Kay's indignation (more at the mistake than the situation). They agreed it was only until the admins sorted the damn mess out. By the weekend, they didn't need two beds in the room.

Rob and Kay graduated with honours and went on to become (respectively) slowly but steadily successful writer and editor, now both managing their own work from home schedules, and having more free time than they knew what to do with. So they filled it with laughter. They filled it with joint puzzles and cooking and impromptu road trips to places neither of them had never been. They filled it with sleep, sometimes even random naps in the middle of the afternoon, gently draped across each other on the sofa. And then the slow act of waking, each being the other's first sight, and the creeping grin they couldn't contain; the simple quiet joy of being together.

The simple quiet joy, that is, until college and school let out, and all hell broke loose as the rest of their pack came barging through the front door, throwing kilos of books onto the dining table, which boomed and wobbled precariously. The "what's for tea?" the "Top Gear's on tv!" (immediately followed by earth shattering 'vroooooms'), the sofa that was recently your place of relaxation now bombarded with three less-than-teeny tots. But Kay loved it. Her cubs.

Now they were leaving. The eldest was heading toward making a nest of his own, the other two lost in study, they didn't even need her anymore. So why suffer the added indignity of the chemotherapy? Why not just let the cancer eat her from the inside out. She was past it anyway, Rob would soon be looking for something tastier, and this added stress would surely drive him to his wits end. She didn't even want the boys to know anything... she'd made Rob swear. Another reason treatment would give the game away.

But...could she really bear the idea of someday soon, after the cancer had grown and spread and killed and maimed every healthy tissue in her, could she bear the thought of never seeing them again? Untreated cancers have been known to disappear, and what if the treatment didn't work and she relapsed anyway? The rest of life filled with medication or radiation. No more laughter. No more road trips.

That had been her first thought upon letting the heaviest words she'd ever heard sink into her ears.

"You have cancer."

Such simple, short words, but that vital 'C' one, the hiss of it, the snakelike way in which even the kindest of tones couldn't conceal. She thought right then, barely three weeks ago: "I am going to die. We won't laugh anymore". And since then she'd bottled that terror up, bottled the 'C' and held it tight inside, pushing it back and pretending it was already vanquished. What else to do? They had to have laughter.

It all clicked. The risk of letting it fix itself was too great. She needed to attempt to secure that there would be happiness ahead, even if there'd be hell first. She needed to live longer than her sons' 25th birthdays, she needed to see them graduate and walk down the aisle and she needed to babysit her grandchildren and teach them to cook and write and laugh. She needed to wait, and live; and die later, maybe with Rob, maybe together, warm and holding each other close in their bed. She couldn't leave him alone.

She picked up the phone (noting the great ease of the action she may come to miss) and dialled the doctor, face set and fingers still steady. Waiting for pick up, she forcefully breathed out those three vital little words.

"Fuck you, Cancer."

© Tamzin Williams 2009