TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (11 page)

Each specialist I met and article I read predicted vaguely what may occur to me along this journey. Seizures: likely. Memory loss: probably. Weight loss: possibly. Weight gain: maybe. Anaemia: sure, why not. But the one aspect everyone seemed to agree on, were the ever intensifying headaches. I couldn't imagine them getting worse at the time, but everyone was right. They are getting worse, and although my stash of Corticosteriods are growing in strength and abundance, they only offer so much relief. Which, as it turns out, is nowhere near enough.

After a while, the various meetings and tests blurred into a single nightmare, but one visit remains clear: Dr Windrow, and his frank, blank-faced, and honest ways.

"Well, Mr. King, I'm afraid it isn't good," said Windrow, in his flawless white office within the centre of an overly posh London suburb.
 

"That's what I hear."

"What would you like me to say?" he asked, his strong Queen's English breaking through his tense chin.
 

"What do you mean?"

"Well, young man, you've seen several of my esteemed colleagues, so I'm sure by now you know what you face. Would you like me to be like them, or would you like me to be frank?"

"Oh," I paused, startled by his abrupt manner. "I guess I would like your honesty," I said, simultaneously wary and relieved.

"Good. I don't like mollycoddling," he said, bridging his two thumbs, his aged, wise, wrinkled face hovering above them. "It doesn't look good, young man. As you know, we cannot operate, and as you also know, it's in a position that makes treatment difficult. We can treat you with Radiotherapy or Chemotherapy, or both, but this tumour is rare, and to an extent, fairly new territory. I know you want me to give some secret ingredient or new drug or an avenue everyone else has missed. But I cannot, and I cannot, because there isn't one."

I laughed, not because what he said was funny, but because he said it with such a straight face.
 

He smiled. "I'm guessing my colleagues approached this differently?"

"You could say that," I said, still laughing.
 

"I imagine you're rather tired of this, am I correct?"

"A little."

"Yes, I thought so. It's not to say there isn't hope, but I feel it's important you know what you face. Months... years... whatever... hardship awaits."

Everything within me deflated; shattered hope, maybe, or possibly relief?

"Ask me questions, young man. I will answer everything."

I looked around the room for a few seconds, at his awards and qualifications and pictures of his family. "In your opinion, is it worth trying Chemo or Radiotherapy?"

"Of course I do. I'm a doctor, therefore I believe in the treatments we use. However, your chances remain slim, and somewhat unknown."

"Okay, do you think the pros outweigh the cons?"

"No."

"What would you do, in my shoes?”

"That's the one question I won't answer. This is your choice. It's impossible for me to place myself in those trainers of yours."

Nodding, I arched my neck from one side to the other.

"You know of the side effects, yes?"

I continued to nod.

"Hair loss, skin issues, drowsiness, anaemia, bruising, bleeding, muscle pain, et cetera et cetera..."

"Yes," I said, exhausted from the endless lists presented before me.

"This is what you must choose, young man. Some of these will happen with or without treatment. It's merely the cancer's way of attacking you."

"So, you're saying I should try and fight it."

"No, I didn't say that. I said this is your choice. It's a horrible, and somewhat winless choice. But it's yours."

Sighing and shaking my head, I clenched my fists. "Just be honest with me, okay. Do I have a chance?"

"There's always a chance, young man. However, you'll more than likely delay things. But you already know this. You have a few months, Mr. King. That's all."

Swallowing a breath, I held back the tears, refusing them access to the conversation. "I know. I know." I pushed my hands through my hair and tensed my jaw. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, young man. And I'm very sorry," he said, his straight face wavering for the first time.
 

"So, what will happen to me?" I asked, analysing his desk: neat stack of black notebooks, silver letter opener, dark blue laptop.

"I honestly don't know," he said, standing up and moving towards his third floor window. "All I can say with any certainty is those headaches of yours will get worse. After that, I'm not sure. Like I say, this is rather new territory for us."

"I know, but will I be able to live a somewhat decent life? Or will I... you know... deteriorate?"

He rubbed his chin and straightened his white doctor coat. "Again, it's hard to say, but you're young and strong. It's going to be tough, Mr. King, but I do believe you can live a somewhat normal life. For how long, I don't know. But for a couple of months, at least."

"Okay."

For the first time, a silence spread between us. I hadn't noticed until then, but a sharp tick rang from a nearby clock. I couldn't see it, but I heard it ticking down my seconds one-by-one.
 

"I'm sorry, Dante. This is a cruel thing to happen to somebody so young. It's cruel for anyone, but for a young man like yourself... well, it's a cruel world, I'm afraid." Walking around his desk, he placed his hand on my shoulder. "This is your decision, the last major decision you may ever make. Do what feels right. If you wish to fight, we will fight. If you don't, that's fine too. Just remember how precious life is. None of us know how long we have, and most of us waste far too much time on things we shouldn't. Embrace what you can, young man. Embrace what you can."

It's easy to reason it was this moment that decided my fate, but in all honesty, it happened long before. Dr. Windrow's words were the first honest ones spoken. They confirmed so much, but were nevertheless hard to hear. I often picture his stern and immaculately groomed face during the tumour's torture. It's amazing how accustomed you become to any and all regular aspects of life, and I learn new ways to blank out the pain each and every day.

Humming, for instance, or counting to ten with each inhale, and again, during each exhale. Sometimes I pour all of my pills onto the bed sheet before one-by-one placing them back into the small white tub. I count ceiling tiles, too, and how many deep breaths I can take in a single minute. Whatever I can do to keep the pain inside, I do. If Danii awakes, she tries to help and comfort me, but there is no comfort during such times. I live it regardless, but with silent cries and gritted teeth, I allow her, and Ethan and Wil, to remain oblivious to at least part of the agony I suffer.

Picturing my mother's face also helps, largely because I've never done so before; I've never had to. She's always been there, and I stupidly didn't bring a picture of her, but in a way, I'm glad, because it forces me to conjure up bits and pieces of memory, like the random scene from a holiday in Spain when I was ten, maybe eleven-years-old, her standing over me as the sun shone through gaps in her hair.

Or the time we were in the car, she in the passenger seat, twisting and smiling at me in the back. She didn't say anything or ask a question, simply basked in pride and offered a love I've never understood.
 

Of course, the image of her reaction when I told her my news always creeps to the front. It's always there... haunting me... taunting. I have little control over the memories and thoughts that spill forward. It's not like the conscious world, where I direct the orchestra of my past and present. During my morning torture, I'm at the mercy of whatever lurches.

Thankfully, it didn't take long for this morning's pain to pass, and soon, the four of us were outside in the relentless rush of Rome. It's a city I instantly fell in love with, but I fear will soon hate. Everything we longed to do has been done, and once the excitement of the Coliseum and Fountains and ancient lovelies has been captured, the realisation of Rome's ruthless abuse comes to light. It's a full-blooded war. Tourists, locals, scooters from all directions, and the unforgiving horns blaring at all times. Rome isn't busy, it's alive with passion. You don't stroll around this city, you battle your way through it.

Today's morning sun turned to afternoon cloud, and now, as the evening gives way to night, a full overcast blanket rests above. A succulent dark orange invigorates the clouds, turning them from grey to fire and ending the day in style. It'll be hard for night to take over such a sight, but in the coming minutes, it will.
 

"Ethan, m'boy; Dante, m'lad, the time has come to leave this place," says Wil, looking at Danii.

"Thank god," says Ethan, dropping his slice of pizza into a clumsy heap. "I can't take this damn city anymore."

"I like it," says Danii, twirling a piece of cheese on her finger.

"No, I'm with Ethan," I say. "It's great, but I'm done. We need a beach and some sunshine."

"Ah yes, ah yes, good thinking old Kingsley, m'lad. A quiet, old, peaceful beach town is what I think—maybe in Greece or Spain or Africa—oh, Africa, oh Africa—yes, yes."

"I'll start researching as soon as we get back," says Ethan, leaning in his chair and grinning.

I picture Ethan back home, and whether he would lean in such a way. He's dealt with the spontaneous life of travel better than I expected, although his rational ways always sneak through. As soon as travel needs organising, he steps forward, and when an issue arises—in the hostel, maybe, or at a tourist hotspot—he reacts in an instant and takes charge. Still, change engulfs him more each day. Maybe it's his hair—the gel not as tight, his thin, wispy strands flowing in the breeze—or his t-shirts—the same retro designs from 1970s bands, only these days untucked and creased—or how Wil doesn't tease his style on a daily basis; rather, complementing his new rugged look.

I can't imagine my cousin being anyone but my crazy rational cousin, but I do hope he changes enough to enjoy the life around him.
 

Taking a bite of pizza and filling my gums with the hum of tomatoes and spice, Ethan catches me staring, putting down his own chunk of dough and sizing me up. I know his routine well. It's predictably simple: he stares, relaxes his mouth, straightens his shoulders, and waits... waits... waits... only this time, he doesn't, smiling instead of waiting.

"Everything okay?" I ask, raising my thumb and nibbling away at the nail.

"Sure,"

"Positive?"

"Yeah, how about you?"

"I'm fine," I say, continuing to nibble.

"Really?" he says with a sudden serious tone. The table goes silent, Wil fidgeting in his seat, placing his hands on his knees, then under them, then on top of them again.
 

My nibble transforms into a chomp. "Yeah. Why?"

Ethan waits, saying nothing. Wil continues to fidget, looking left, then right, then left, then down. Taking my hand, Danii rubs her thumb into my palm's centre.

"What?" I say. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"It's time you let us in," says Ethan. "We can't carry on like this. The two of you, sneaking off for walks without telling us, acting all distant and strange and the like. I mean, I get it. You need time on your own, and I don't expect you to share everything, but you need to let us in, mate."

Looking towards the ground, I focus on my tatty trainers encrusted in Rome's ancient dust. I sensed this conversation may come, but I hoped it wouldn't. Everyone wants answers, but I have few to offer. "What would you like to know?"

"What's going on in that head of yours," Ethan asks.

"I wish I knew," I said, looking up and at Ethan. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

He nods, waiting me out and probing for more.

"I'm not doing this on purpose. I promise. I just can't make sense of it all, and that's why Danii and I disappear each day. You might think I'm sharing the world with her, but I'm not. Most of the time we re-hash the same old worries and fears." Her thumb rubs harder, deeper into my palm. "But you're right, I have to stop being distant like this. It's not fair, and the last thing I want is to make everything awkward between us."

Continuing to nod, he rubs his hands together and rests his chin on them. "If there's anything we can do..."

"I know. I know." I straighten my back and arch my neck up towards the sky. The fiery orange is darker now, night on the brink. Each day nature transitions so easily, so why can't I? "It's getting easier... I think. I guess I spent too long pretending this wasn't real. But then you guys turned up at the airport, and Danii in Paris... and, well, it's real now. And I'm angry, and scared, and confused—mostly I'm confused—but it's getting easier. I think. All of this," I say, motioning around the bustling piazza. "Makes it easier. But at the same time, I guess it makes it harder, too. I keep falling in love with these tiny moments, and for a second I'm happy, like you should be when you embrace something wonderful, but then I realise why I'm here, and how real everything is...

"I wish I could explain it. I wish I understood it. I am trying though, I promise. I don't want to keep you guys in the dark, and I don't want this journey to become any weirder than it already is. Ethan," I say, pushing my hand closer to him. "I know you want more. I know you want to help and fix this, but at the moment, you can't. Nobody can... I don't think."