I’m jealous of the woman
in the photo, with her full body of auburn hair that curls
naturally, cascading down in designed confusion to frame an
attractive face. I have to wear a wig so as not to upset the
children. Her day is rich and full, whilst mine consists of
waiting for the nausea to build. Now sleeping is not about
rest, but about dissolving slithers of time. I am cutting
down the day until my family return to me from school or work.
I exist only for the evenings.
‘But I don’t smoke,’ I had replied in response
to the doctor condemning me to death.
‘Yes, well your kind of lung cancer is very rare Mrs…’
the doctor had glanced at his notes, an embarrassed look on
his face. ‘Mrs Sayer.’
Just a forgotten name, another patient who would soon cease
to exist in his busy world.
My husband, John, had cried at the news, his head in his hands,
his shoulders rocking. I had comforted him, stroking his hair.
Shock, mixed liberally with a refusal to accept, and poured
into a mind so full of questions there was little room for
reason, had a strange effect on me. I left the grieving to
my husband, whilst I continued with my life as if the X-rays
had never taken place. I talked about secondary school for
my son, how we had to make our minds up whether he was to
go to the Catholic school, or to the normal comprehensive
with most of his friends. I continued to save for the booked
holiday as if I would still be alive by next summer. At the
time I had believed that this was strength, refusing to be
beaten, and not the actions of a woman running away from the
truth.
And then the chemotherapy began.
I’m jealous of the woman in the photo because she is
confident and proud. She believes that when her time comes
she will accept it with fortitude. I don’t do death
well. No dignity, no stiff upper lip, Just anger, just rage
that I will never see my grandchildren, never slip gently
into old age and retirement. All because of some evil presence
within that has chosen to kill me slowly. I don’t deserve
this.
When I hurt, my husband strokes my brow and says: ‘It’s
OK darling, I’m here.’
I want to scream, ‘Well unless you’re Jesus and
you can perform miracles, that’s not much good to me,
is it?’
See what I mean? Bitter. Bad at dying.
I had followed the standard procedure that the illness and
its treatment demanded. Watching my hair slowly fall out was
worse than the pain. My humiliation was added to when my close
family had gathered for what was to be our last Christmas
together. At the table I had broken down and wept uncontrollably.
John had shepherded me out of the silenced room. I spent the
rest of the day listening to the subdued gathering whilst
sprawled out on my bed. I had proved myself so weak, when
I had desperately wanted to be courageous.
The recovery stage after chemotherapy proved to be equally
cruel, for it gave everyone false hope. The treatment was
scaled down, then finished. I felt as though I was emerging
from a deep sleep. The doctor and Macmillan nurses banded
about words like ‘currently in remission’ and
‘responding well to treatment’. As my hair began
to grow back, people commented on how well I looked.
The atmosphere changed so dramatically that even I began to
believe the hype. It took my son to drag me back to reality.
He was pleased with my recovery, but once, when we were alone
walking on the common, he had asked me, ‘Mummy, aren’t
you still going to die?’
Like rust, cancer never gives up. Although I tried to convince
myself otherwise, deep within I knew chemotherapy was merely
a stalling process, prolonging the inevitable. The pain emerged
once more, this time in my legs.
I hate the wig being back, perched on my head as I sit alone
in my bedroom. The stench of disinfectant drowns the scent
of mountain spruce air freshener.
I’m jealous of the woman in the photo because she has
her faith. I lost mine when each prayer begging to be well
again was met with a bout of vomiting. I realised God was
either not listening or he did not exist. I prefer the former
because I need to be angry with him, but I fear he is just
fiction.
I haven’t told my husband I no longer believe. He has
strategically placed the Bible on my bedside cabinet for Father
Mathew’s benefit. The priest was supposed to have called
in today. Like the deity he worked for, he had failed to show.
The woman in the photo looks down at me, grinning at my misfortune,
her arms wrapped around her husband, my husband. I’m
jealous of this pre-cancer woman because she makes love once,
sometimes twice a week. John now hugs me in a sad forlorn
embrace, and kisses are to the cheeks. This hurts, but not
as much as the realisation I will never have sex again. John
will, with a one-night stand, or with his second wife, but
not with me. I am denied access to his body.
Why? Does he fear he might break me, or speed me towards my
grave? Cancer isn’t catching. Maybe he just finds me
too ugly.
I close my eyes, hoping to drift off. I can’t because
I know she’s looking out at me from the picture frame.
I give up.
It’s a lie that when you face death you experience a
certain liberation, being able to do and say things you wouldn’t
normally because you realise it doesn’t matter. I want
to demand that my husband makes love to me, and I want to
insist that that bitch in the photo be taken out of my bedroom.
‘But that’s you.’ John would say, creasing
up his brow. ‘Why do you want a picture of the two of
us embracing removed?’
‘Because she isn’t me. I can’t connect with
her. I feel like she’s somebody else, and I’ve
merely stolen her memories. I can’t believe I was ever
her, ever that happy, ever free of this horrible thing inside
of me.’
Of course John wouldn’t understand, and then he might
fear the cancer had found its way to my brain. I mean it is
ridiculous, isn’t it? How can I be envious of myself?
But I am jealous of the woman in the photo because she is
a different person, not me at all. A stranger. Her smile is
now more of a sneer, and she wraps her arms around my husband
just to mock me, just to say, ‘Look what I’ve
got that you haven’t.’
I pick up the thick black wedge of nothing called the Bible.
With all my feeble might I hurl it at the photo of the loving
couple. It hits the picture, sends it flying. It takes some
perfume bottles with it before tumbling on to the carpet
It’s then that I notice my son standing at the door.
I look at the clock. I didn’t realise it was so late.
He’s home from school.
I hear a car outside and below as it moves off towards the
road. The driver seldom comes in anymore. She picks up and
drops my son off as a favour for a friend who used to go to
aerobics and slimming classes with her. Strained conversations
and embarrassing silences are not part of the deal.
‘Hello mummy.’
I take several seconds to rally my thoughts.
‘Hello darling.’ My voice is weak, and my throat
hurts just to speak. ‘How was school?’
‘Fine.’
My son walks into the bedroom. He picks up the horizontal
bottles of scent scattered on the carpet, organises them on
the dressing table, making sure the labels are all facing
to the front as if this is important. Then he picks up the
fallen picture, places it back where it belongs.
And the woman I am so jealous of smiles back at me.
I want to explain my actions to him, but there is no explanation.
‘You’re very pretty in that photo mummy.’
My son declares innocently, oblivious of the impact his words
have on me.
‘Thank you.’
Just like on the common my son forces me to face reality.
Now I realise how selfish I am being. That image in the picture
frame is the one he will want to remember me by, and I should
want to be remembered by. That is the real me: pretty, and
assured, and the perfect healthy mother. This feeble creature,
full of cancer and self-pity and rage is the impostor. She
is Alison Sayer, not me.
My son climbs into my embrace. I hug him tight, rock with
him, never wanting to let him go.
‘I love you darling.’
‘I love you too mummy.’
|
| Shortlisted
Entries shortlisted to final judging stage in the Jealousy
short story competition were from: Sheila Forbes, Okato, New
Zealand; Richard Fox, Slough; Christine Genovese, St Leger,
La Haye-Pensel, France; Phil Gilvin, Swindon; Yvonne Jackson,
South Kilvington, Thirsk, North Yorkshire; Laurie McTaggart,
Newcastle-upon-Tyne; Liz Richards, Prestbury, Cheshire; Margaret
Skipworth, Hull; Allan Wells, Eynesbury St Neots, Cambridgeshire;
Leila Wilson, Knaresborough, North Yorkshire; Rosemary Wilson,
Kennington, Oxford
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