Forever Is Over (44 page)

At ten past ten, nerves in tatters, I got the call,

“
Richard Billingham, Dr.Whiteside will see you now.
”

I crept over to the receptionist to avoid disapproving looks from
the pensioners, who by now, en masse, had buried their heads in the
magazine offerings of the surgery, the aforementioned Readers Digest,
Woman and Lancashire Life.

“
Excuse me,
”
I timdly began,
“
whereabouts is the Doctor?
”

The receptionist fixed me a look from above her spectacles, balanced
on the tip of her nose, as though I had passed her a second hand
instrument from an Ann Summers catalogue, with a wiry hair still
attached and asked her to demonstrate it to the whole waiting room.
Disgust was not the word.

“
Second door on the right, you fucking idiot!
”
she said, but the
last three words were silent, they just passed from her brain to mine
telepathically.

I walked out the coughing/coffin room, into a creaking hallway and along to a second door on th
e right. I knocked and waited,

             
“
Come in!
”
replied the rather jovial voice from the other side.

I pulled the door to me. Nothing happened so I pushed. Doors were
always
“
push
”
in that scenario, with the exception of toilet doors which
were often
“
pull
”
. I cursed my unconscious incompetence. Nerves, I figured.

Dr.Whiteside sat behind a large mahogany desk, looking like he
had been there since he had been in short trousers, placed in Ormskirk
to provide prescriptions since the end of World War II. He dressed in a rare mix of colourful shirt, dickie bow and a cardigan containing an
array of browns and greys.

“
Take a seat,
”
he gestured.

There were two. I was unsure if this
was a psychological test, but
concluded it was more likely a spare for anxious mothers. I suddenly
had visions of childhood. Mum dragging me down to the Doctor
’
s,
describing my ailments as if I was mute. On reflection, this was the first
time I had ventured to the Doctor
’
s alone. I felt very alone. I sat.

“
And what appears to be the problem?
”
Dr.Whiteside probed.

I started to blush. I knew within a few minutes he would be
inspecting my scrotum. I prayed to the God that I did not believe in to
save me from an inopportune erection. Throughout my teenage years,
I was always in fear that it would decide to stand to attention when I
least wanted it to.

“
I have a lump on one of my testicles.
”

By now my face was crimson. I felt like Dr.Whiteside was going to
take an egg out his pocket and fry it on my face.

Dr.Whiteside began to take notes.

“
When did you first notice it?
”

To avoid sounding like an idiot, I made a reduction. A year sounded
too long.

“
A few months ago, I thought it may just clear up by itself, but it
hasn
’
t.
”

“
Does it hurt when you touch it?
”

“
No, not really.
”

“
Does it feel uncomfortable?
”

“
It
’
s hard to describe, it just feels strange. Like a small piece of wood
is trapped in there.
”

Dr.Whiteside put his pen down.

“
OK. Take yourself behind that screen, pop your trousers off, then
once you
’
re done, climb on that bed over there.
”

Five uncomfortable minutes followed. Thankfully
when
Dr.Whiteside asked if I could just take my boxer shorts down, nothing
stirred, in fact, it probably shrank a little. Sometimes you just worry that
if your brain is saying,

“
Don
’
t have an erection! Don
’
t have an erection! Don
’
t have an
erection!
”

Your willy might just think,

“
This
’
ll be a laugh!
”

Luckily, this was not one of tho
se occasions. After a minute or
two
of inspecting, Dr.Whiteside told me I could pull my boxer shorts back up
and get myself dressed. When I came out from behind the screen, I felt
strangely liberated. I now felt I could
ask him anything. Dr.Whiteside
had seen my lumpy bollock, the only
person to see it other than my
brother, Jim. What else could there be that would be anywhere near as
embarrassing? I thought I may as
well ask the $64 000 question.

             
“
Do you think it
’
s cancerous?
”

I fixed him a glance. I was looking for Dr.Whiteside to shift
uncomfortably in his chair or develop a nervous tick, which I concluded
would be a give away, but he did not flinch.

“
That
’
s not something I can rule out at this stage, Richard. All I can
tell you at this stage is that cancer is a possibility. What I will need to
do, is write you a referral to go to see a consultant urologist.
”

I was disappointed. I was expecting answers today.

“
How quickly will I get to see the consultant?
”

It had taken me months to get the nerve to go to the Doctor
’
s.
Now I had managed it, I wanted to ride on this rare wave of bravery. I
wanted to get to see the consultant as quickly as possible, get the whole
humiliating period out of the way as fast as I could. Dr.Whiteside
twiddled with his dicky bow.

“
Richard, given your age, the fact that a number of months have
elapsed since the lump came to your attention and the very natural
concerns I appreciate you must have. I will get a letter written up today
for the consultant urologist and will ensure it is marked as urgent. Within a couple of weeks, you will be notified of your appointment
date.
”

Standing up, I was going to reach across and shake his hand but I
could not recall whether Mum had done that and not knowing if it was
the done thing or not, I awkwardly extended my arm and then pulled
it back about halfway into the stretch.

“
OK. Thanks Doctor! Thanks very much!
”

I was out of there in a flash. My sec
ond one within minutes. I felt
relieved that I had at last made my first step towards a diagnosis, but
was annoyed with myself for not challenging Dr.Whiteside with regards
to the appointment date. OK, I would get
a date within a fortnight, but
that date could be 1999 for all I knew. I suppose I just had to accept it
would be dealt with as quickly as the urologist could manage. From then
on, it would be
“
Phase Two
”
- rather than worrying about what it could
be, I would be dealing with cold, hard facts. My anxiety could then be
over or my concern may be multiplied as I would be dealing with what
the lump actually was, not what it could be, what it was.
In life, there is nothing scarier than the things you cannot
change. I decided, on my way home from the Doctor
’
s surgery, that 
although I could not change the diagnosis, at least I could change how
I was dealing with the lump. Bottling things up, not sharing my fears and worries with Kelly, was surely the wrong way forward. I was off
to the Everton-Norwich FA Cup Semi Final the following morning,
which would provide a twenty four hour distraction, but had arranged to see Kelly on Sunday. I would break the news to her then. Little did
she know change was coming.

On Sunday, Kelly would discover the person she thought was
perfect was anything but, his body was malfunctioning and his mind
was struggling to cope. I was scared what this would do to her. As far
as sixteen year old girls go, Kelly was pretty street wise but it was a big
thing for anyone having a boyfriend with cancer, if that
’
s what it was
or at the very least some sort of cyst on his privates. For my own sanity
though, I needed to share this with someone, someone other than Jim,
who was a better brother these days but still not exactly the perfect
confidant. I needed to unburden myself. I
’
ll tell her Sunday, I told
myself. I
’
ll tell her Sunday, no matter what.

Jemma

After I was 100% certain Vomit Breath was dead, I gave myself ten
minutes before ringing the emergency services. The first thing I did,
was make my way through to the kitchen to see what Vomit Breath had
left behind. Unsurprisingly, there were several cans of special strength
lager scattered around the work surfaces and a topless vodka bottle on
the kitchen table alongside a lipstick marked crystal glass. Not a huge
amount of the vodka had been drunk, it was a half-bottle and three
quarters still remained, so I put on some oven gl
oves, picked the bottle
up, poured the majority of it down the sink and then returned it to the
table. Mum was a drinker, a massive one, but I just needed to emphasise
the point to anyone from the emergency services who may be heading
round.

I then went back upstairs to see Kelly. The sound of sobs could be
heard before I climbed a stair. Some tough love was called for here,
otherwise Kelly was digging a big hole for herself, a big hole that led
directly into a prison cell.

As I went into her room, she was sat upright on her bed sniffing
and sobbing.

“
I
’
m a murderer Jemma! Nothing can ever change that now! For the
rest of my life, whatever happens, I will always be a murderer.
”

             
I didn
’
t say a word. I just walked over to Kelly and slapped her face.
I was careful not to slap her too hard, as the last thing I wanted was
Kelly to have a hand print on her face when the ambulance arrived, but
hard enough to sting.

“
Oww!! What are you playing at Jemma! That hurt!
”

“
Kelly, do you want to go to jail?
”

“
Of course I don
’
t! But I will!
”

“
What for?
”

“
Murder. We
’
ve both just seen me kill our mother.
”

“
I didn
’
t see a thing, Kelly.
”

“
Yes, you did!
”

“
No, Kelly, I didn
’
t. I heard a thud, which woke me up. I went to
investigate and that was when I saw Mum, at the bottom of the stairs,
in a heap. I didn
’
t see a thing.
”

“
Jemma, they won
’
t believe us!
”

I grabbed Kelly. Not aggressively. I just brought her towards me,
stressing a point.

“
Kelly, remember what I said before. You didn
’
t even hear anything,
did you? You
’
re a heavy sleeper. The first thing you knew about all this
was when the paramedic woke you up.
”