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16. DISINTEGRATION
Much of the time you hear about people becoming closer in the face of adversity. In our case the opposite was true. My condition and its effects quickly drove a wedge firmly between us.
I decided to work to a life expectancy of thirty-five days as that was the earlier end of the date range for my demise that the consultant had suggested. Anything over that, I thought, would be a bonus. I knew immediately that I didn't want to spend every one of my last minutes wallowing in self-pity, neither did I want to spend all of my remaining time tied up with bureaucracy and having to make detailed arrangements for what should happen after I had gone. As far as I was concerned – and it was a selfish but honest viewpoint – I would do what I could but I would also leave as much possible. Jo and the other people left behind would have more time to sort things out than I had.
My first 'post-news' night was, unsurprisingly, a long and sleepless affair. I spent hours in the darkness thinking about everything and nothing and managing to make no real progress or any decisions of any substance. When the morning came I was no wiser and no better prepared to deal with the remainder of my life than I had been when I'd first been given the news. In the hours which followed, however, between the two of us, Jo and I started to work on the practicalities.
Work. We talked for a while about what I should say. Did I tell them I was (possibly) dying? Did I just get a sick note from the doctor for the next six weeks and let nature take its course? The first option would perhaps have been fairer, but the second was easier. The doctor had no qualms in letting me have a note with a fairly nondescript and indistinct reason for my absence.
Relatives. Seeing both sets of parents was, I had to admit, necessary, inevitable and difficult. Jo's parents (Margaret Palmer anyway) seemed more concerned that the plans for their daughter's perfect wedding had suddenly been thrown into jeopardy and confusion than she was that I was (probably) about to die. Perhaps that wasn't really the case, and maybe I was being unfair on the old battleaxe, but that was how it felt to me at the time.
After the Palmers we moved on to the Thanes. My mum, dad and sister Abigail took the news as badly as expected. Telling them what was coming and seeing their reaction hurt immeasurably more than anything else. How do you tell the people closest to you that you're about to die, but that you might not? How do you prepare them for the worst but then tell them there's a slight chance it's not going to happen? It seemed cruel to give them such awful, final news and then throw them the frailest of lifelines. In some ways it would have been easier for them to deal with if my appointment with death had been more certain. Dad in particular had trouble understanding it all. More trouble, it seemed, than I had. We spent a few long, tearful hours together. Now's not the time to dwell on what was said, but I remember that afternoon and the looks of disbelief and dismay on the faces of my family vividly. I see them every time I close my eyes. I half-expected Mum to try and smother me and see as much of me as she possibly could. Fortunately she proved me wrong. As hard as it was for her to accept she knew I needed space.
By the end of the first full day just about everything urgent had been done. My news had been spread about as far as I wanted it to be and I braced myself for the coming reactions and after-shocks. It was inevitable that people's attitudes towards me would change. I guess I would react the same way if one of my friends or relatives had been given the bizarre death sentence instead of me. Would I stay away from them or try to see more of them? What would they want? The longer I thought about it I realised that I wanted my life to have some semblance of normality, even though it had suddenly become anything but normal.
What I hadn't bargained on was the change the news had on my relationship with Jo. There was immediately an unease and a tension between us. Things came to a head the following afternoon.
'So do I stay here or do I go out?' she asked. A friend had telephoned and had asked if she wanted to go out for a drink. This well-meaning (but pretty insensitive) girl from Jo's office had thought that the emotional pressure might be getting too much for her and that she might need a release. Christ, I was the one who was dying! And it was already beginning to look like the end of my life would be the only release I was going to get.
'Do what you like,' I sighed, sounding more uncaring than I actually was. The conversation had already been dragging on and going round in circles for almost half an hour. Another precious half hour that I had wasted…
'What's that supposed to mean?' she snapped.
'What do you think it means?' I snapped back. 'If you want to go, go, and if you want to stay here, stay here.'
'Do you need me to stay?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'Not really. I can look after myself.'
'That wasn't what I meant.'
'I know.'
'So?'
'So what?'
'Do you want me to stop in?'
I noticed the way that the conversation had suddenly been turned around so that I now had to make the decision. Handy that, it meant that I would get the blame whatever happened.
'Listen,' I sighed, 'it's been a hard couple of days. There's no reason why you should put a hold on your life just because I'm… you know what I'm getting at, don't you?'
She nodded her head.
'Yes but I don't want to leave you here on your own if you're going to…'
'Why not? I'm a big boy now. I can look after myself. The fact that I'm walking round with a fucking timebomb in my head doesn't make any difference to the fact that…'
'Please don't swear,' she interrupted.
'Why not? I might only have six weeks left to live. I'll swear if I want to.'
Christ, that was a stupid thing to say. I was letting my frustrations show. But why shouldn't I, and more to the point, why was I so frustrated? I felt confused and disorientated and scared. I wasn't sure what was happening to me.
Jo was sat on the sofa. I was pacing up and down the living room feeling like a caged animal. That analogy finally allowed me to begin to understand why I suddenly felt so angry and ready to explode. It wasn't Jo's fault, it was mine. I didn't have a problem with her going out, instead I was frustrated that I was trapped indoors. The fact of the matter was that, over the last few months, I had systematically disconnected myself from just about all of my previous friends and acquaintances. I had sacrificed the life I used to lead as a single man to take on this new role in my life with Jo. And it was bloody obvious (although it had taken me a ridiculous length of time to realise) that I was far from happy. The thought of my impending death was almost impossible to deal with, but the thought of spending every evening trapped in that fucking shoe-box of a house having countless inane, trivial conversations about nothing was too much to stand.
I needed to get out, but I had nowhere left to go. The next best thing was to try and get myself a little space.
'Look,' I said, trying to force a decision to be made, 'just go out. Enjoy yourself as much as you can. Go out and get drunk and forget about all of this for a while. Give yourself a break.'
'What about you?'
'I'll be okay.'
'Sure?'
'I'm positive.'
'So what will you do?'
'Not sure. I might watch a film. I could just sit in front of the computer for hours looking at pornography!'
Jo smiled. She had visibly relaxed.
'How can you still make jokes at a time like this?' she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. I wondered whether Jo knew me as well as she thought she did. More to the point, did I know myself?
I felt a little relieved, but no less uncomfortable, having finally admitted to myself that I wanted to get out. Now I just had to find somewhere to go and find a way of going.
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