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SUNDAY, 16 DECEMBER 2012

Guilt

I’ve been feeling this for a while, I might as well confess. I want to tell you what I’ve not been allowed to say but what I’ve wanted to scream for a long time. The truth is, I know where it went wrong. I know I’ve been one hell of a dickhead for a while now. I know that I’ve been unable to be happy, I’ve been unwilling to be happy. I can’t even remember “happy”. It’s no one else’s fault, it’s just my own, it’s just me but I’ve been acting like it isn’t, been acting like it’s every fucker else just pissing me off. Truth is, I know where it went wrong. I know where it started, I know where it ends…

It started with a girl. She was a year or two older than me. It was two years ago, so she was my age now. I’d skipped out of the haematology ward and was just wandering about. I stopped for a while on the elderly ward because they liked the company – of course, I like being liked. One old lady was wonderful, she said I was like a “fairy” (I’m sure she meant angel) but that’s beside the point. They liked me, so I liked to be there. On my way back up I went through an oncology ward and as I skipped by I saw the most beautiful girl I have ever seen staring right out the door back at me. I stayed. I went down there every day and held her sick bucket. Sometimes I helped her pick out a wig. Sometimes I helped her style it. She gave me this little mobile charm for my phone, made out of wood with little Chinese symbols on it. She told me it meant “love, hope and health”. Her dad brought it back after he’d been working in Hong Kong for a year. He was dead by then; he was in a car accident on the M62 the winter he returned home. I transferred hospitals for better treatment. I called every day at first, then once a week. I promised I’d come back to see her whenever I could. And then I forgot about her. I don’t know how long it was, 3 weeks, maybe 4… and then I dropped my phone and the charm snapped in two. And so I called the ward and they told me she died a few days ago. Her parents came to thank me. To THANK ME. And for what? For what? For breaking promises to their daughter? They said I kept her happy. They said she talked about me all the time… but she kept my broken promise secret when she could’ve told them. She could’ve told them that I’m a dick.

So it went on for 2 years. Her family sending me birthday cards, a Christmas present… get well soon cards every time I was back in. I let them believe I was some nice guy when really, the truth is that I was too much of a selfish coward to think of her still back there, so sick. Her little sister even asked to date me – because she thought I was the nicest guy on the planet… and can you believe it, I’m such an arsewipe that I did date her and then broke it off, and she still thought I was nice – because I’m such a coward that I couldn’t even bring myself to tell her that I was actually a dick to her sister.

I tried to redeem myself. I’ve been doing what I should’ve been doing ever since. All I do is visit the teenage and kids cancer wards. The truth is, I’m not even that selfless. I like it down there, it makes me feel better. They don’t realise what mortality is. They don’t know they could die, they understand the words, but they don’t actually realise what it means. They’re not sad about it, they’re hopeful. It’s easy to make them laugh. They think I’m cool because I’m older and I want to hang out with them. They like to tell me everything, and they like to hear my input. It’s like being a big brother to over 20 kids. I love it – but I wish I didn’t, so I could actually feel like I was doing something for someone else…

What I hated was the day, outside the primary school – I was just walking on by. A woman came over to me, my friend’s mom. She told me that there was a family that could really do with my advice. Their son had been diagnosed with cancer and they didn’t know what to do. I said sure, I’ll talk to them, I’ll do whatever. She passed on my number and they called me. I made up all kinds of excuses: I’m just out at the moment, oh, I have plans tomorrow, ah, see, well I go to bed quite early so…

It was a few weeks later, I was walking through the woods that their back garden led out onto. I saw the mother out in the garden with the dog. She was sobbing. And I could’ve gone in right then, I could’ve said “hey, that’s alright, that’s alright, it’ll be alright, you can talk to me” but instead I slunk behind the bushes and hurried off home. And why? Because I’m an absolute dickhead.

Eventually though, I did go round. And it wasn’t bad at all. He was amazing. All he ever did was talk. He got tired quick. He was sick a hell of a lot. He always had headaches. I liked his family and I think they liked me too. We drank SO MUCH TEA. His mom told me everything. She told me how scared she was and she cried on my shoulder. His dad never told me much, he just sobbed to himself sometimes. It was tough for them, so sometimes I stayed with him while he had chemo and they went home to their other children. I make it sound so awful, all that time – but it wasn’t. Those were my best days. He always picked up, he had a fighter’s attitude. Things were going well, the tumour had shrunk so I went back to uni and told him I’d be back soon. I knew he’d be alright, right deep down, I knew a kid so bright would be ok. So I called back round the day I got home. When I knocked on the door no one answered, so I called them later. Her voice was so shakey. She told me he died just less than a week ago. His funeral was in 2 days. They waited for me to come home to tell me. We all wore his favourite colours at the funeral. The sun was relentless. All the kids from the primary school came and let off balloons and lanterns and planted flowers in his memory. They read out poems he’d written: one about his favourite toy, one about his family, and one about his best friend… that best friend was me. Only his family were allowed to go up when they lowered the coffin but they asked if I wanted to come too. But I didn’t. It was 4ft and a creamy colour with pretty gold patterns on it and there was a flower reef that spelt out his name. It burned like nothing I’ve ever felt before to look at. So I didn’t go, and I didn’t say goodbye. And it never even rained. It was a beautiful day, but I was so sad as well, and it didn’t even rain. Fuck, it should’ve poured. The world should’ve come crashing down for how disgustingly cruel that whole day was, but it didn’t. It didn’t even spit.

After the funeral, I went back to their house. Sat down on their sofa. She told me that’s where he died. He just went to sleep, she said. I sobbed on that spot. They should’ve thrown the damn thing away. Her husband took the other kids next door to spare them her tears, I think he wanted to get away from it too because he didn’t come back for a while. So I sobbed. And she sobbed. And we cried together like a pair of babies, and we leaned on each other and my lips found hers (yes, that’s how much of a dick I am) and we were there – right where her son had died – violating her marriage. When he came back, we’d sorted ourselves out. He probably mistook our looks of shame for grief. I left. I’ve barely seen her since – just a few times in the woods or in the town centre. She can barely look at me. I can barely look at myself…

I can tell you where it ends. It ends with me struggling to breathe under a pretty mobile. A candle flickering shadows across the room. The window pane is still covered in love’s scrawlings but I can’t make out the words. The room smells like death – sweet flowers, tears and stale sweat. My heart just gets heavier and heavier until it stops. Then they bury me in a cream box with little swirly patterns on it, and they bury me with my secrets.

Posted by Toby at 00:48