Early-Morning Conversations 3 The Early Signs
Early-Morning Conversations 3: The Early Signs
“Everyone who has cancer writes an article,” observes Eve one day, flicking through the Daily Mail . “They get cancer and then they write an article saying, ‘These were the early signs of my cancer’ and they warn people. Look, here’s one called ‘The Five Deadly Signs of a Brain Tumor.’ Should I write a piece like that?”
“Maybe,” says Nick. “You could do.”
“Except I don’t know what they are,” says Eve, scanning the article. “Apart from headaches. What were my early signs anyway? How did you guess I had something really wrong with me?”
For Eve, the story begins when she was already in hospital. That’s her first memory of this whole roller coaster: waking up in a hospital bed and not knowing what was going on and being told she was going to have a scan of her brain.
“You started lurching around,” says Nick. “You couldn’t walk. You were staggering everywhere, and leaning to one side, even when you were sitting in a chair.”
“Did I change personality?” queries Eve. “It says here, ‘Sign Four: changes in personality, e.g., becoming moody and bitter.’ Am I moody and bitter?”
Nick laughs. “Not moody or bitter. Yet.”
“But this means that if I act moody or bitter, it’s not my fault,” says Eve, in sudden realization. “I have a free pass to change personality however I like. Excellent. I think I’ll be obnoxious and demanding.”
“You did go a bit haywire,” volunteers Nick. “Before you had the scan. You wanted to cut all your hair off.”
“Cut my hair off?” says Eve in disbelief.
“You got the scissors and told me to do it in the kitchen. You kept saying, ‘Chop it all off.’ I didn’t know what to do.”
“Oh my God,” breathes Eve. “That’s unreal.” Then she gives a sudden giggle. “Wait, Nick. You do realize you’re basically describing me after a girls’ night out? Staggering around, falling off my chair, and saying I need to change my haircut.”
“Fair enough!” Nick starts laughing too. “Now you mention it…”
“In fact, are we sure this whole thing was a brain tumor?” Eve gives another giggle. “Maybe it was just a really bad hangover. In fact, that could be the article I write for the Mail . I could call it ‘Brain Tumor or Hangover? Your Handy Checklist.’?”
“?‘Tumor or Tequila?’?” Nick joins in, and Eve laughs again, almost hysterically. She hasn’t laughed properly for ages; she almost thought she’d forgotten howto.
“No wonder they won’t let me drive anymore,” she says, between giggles. “But anyway, tell me more, because I don’t remember what happened. I staggered around and fell off my chair, so they gave me an MRI scan.”
“Exactly.”
“And then you knew I had a growth, but you didn’t know it was cancerous.”
“I didn’t officially know it was cancerous, but…” He hesitates. “I knew. When they asked me into a little side room, I guessed something was up. Then, when the doctor told me they’d found something, I knew it was bad news.”
“How?” she asks, intrigued.
“Because…” Nick pauses as though wondering whether to continue, then draws breath. “Because he was in tears.”
“In tears ?” Something heavy seems to thud inside Eve and her giggles melt away.
“He was in tears.” Nick nods, and a blanket of silence seems to descend upon them.
“What happened next?” whispers Eve.
“Then they had to decide whether to operate or not. Which they did. And then we just needed to get you fit for surgery.”
“?‘Strong for surgery,’?” quotes Eve, having a sudden vague memory. “What do they call it? Prehab.”
“That’s right. You did sessions with the physio and you did get strong. You are strong. So that’s good.”
Nick sounds positive, because he always does, but his face is taut, as though he’s remembering difficult things, and Eve’s whole heart wrenches with grief.
“This is harder for you than it is for me,” she says suddenly, her eyes spilling over with tears again. “It’s harder for you.”
“Don’t be silly,” says Nick at once. “It’s harder for you. You’re the one with the illness.”
“But you’re the one who…if I die…looking after the children…” She wipes her eyes. “I mean, it’ll be easy for me, won’t it? I’ll be dead. You have the hardest side of this.”
“OK,” says Nick after a long pause. “Well, let’s say it’s hard for both of us.”
Fresh tears run down Eve’s face as she imagines Nick, all alone, sitting in a little hospital side room, having to deal with the news that his wife had a deadly brain tumor, and she feels sudden rage. Rage at her own stupid brain; rage at the doctor for upsetting Nick; rage at the whole thing. She wants to rail and shout and hit things. And she feels—yet again—consumed by guilt that she has been the cause of so much distress. She knows this cancer is not her fault—it’s just bad luck. But what she has learned is that you can feel guilty for having had bad luck.
And so the guilt and rage storm around her brain. But at the same time, she feels quite calm, because what’s she going to do? It is what it is. And it could be worse. She could be dead already.
“Maybe I’ll call my piece, ‘Want a New Haircut? You Might Have Cancer,’?” she says, trying to sound normal. “I’m sure some newspaper will buy that.”
“Definitely.” He smiles and she gives a watery smile back, and they squeeze hands, tight. And they manage not to talk about it again for almost another hour.