This is a favourite line in our family, and has been since we saw Almodovar’s film Volver. If you haven’t seen the movie, it’s when the character Agustina appears on a daytime talk show (think Jerry Springer/Jeremy Kyle). She has agreed to sell various family scandals in return for money medical treatment. During this live appearance, she has a pang of conscience and decides to back out of the agreement, much to the upset of the host, who bellows at her… “Agustina, tu tiene cancer!? (Agustina, you have cancer!)” – utterly perplexed by this show of integrity, which is more like mentalism in her view.
Unfortunately, I’m having to use this catchphrase rather a lot. My dad’s been diagnosed, and is facing surgery, radiotherapy, biological drug treatments and NHS politics.
Here’s what I’ve noticed – some people have a distinct lack of humorosity, and write you off as a gonner the minute you mention the C word (no that’s not ‘cunt’). I’ve had to encounter more doey eyed empathetic looks in the last two weeks than I’ve experienced in the past ten years. I expect my dad’s had to endure rather more. No wonder he doesn’t want to tell anybody. Would you, if it meant listening to everyone’s greeting card philosophy and trite phrases? Yes, there is the obvious point that people are only trying to do the right thing because they love you and care. But honestly, if they’d just shut up and bring the dinner round I’d be happy.
My mother and I have decided that being labelled as an unfortunate has one advantage. You have carte blanche to do whatever you like. This week, I have bought two dresses, two necklaces and I’ve booked a haircut. For the first time in my life I’m going to have a hairstyle, as opposed to the all one length long thing that actresses have. This was supposed to be a move towards taking control of my life, but I was scuppered at the last minute by booking with the hairdresser my agent told me to go to. One step at a time. I’ve also bunked off two birthday parties, been late for work a lot, had a bad attitude at auditions and reached saturation point with my chocolate intake. I’ve also decided not to give myself a hard time about anything. I’m not a movie star, I don’t appear to be on the brink of an amazing career, I’ve missed pilates classes and dance classes, I have no muscle tone, I’m not pregnant. I did have a few nights of non-sleep and desperate trance like days, but this seems to be over, and now I’m rockin’ on the cancer tip (or canther, when pronounced correctly).
My mother, for her part, didn’t go swimming yesterday (crazy), and she didn’t attend the screening of Mr B’s mother’s worthy film about violence last night. I think there may have been some spending, but mostly she’s just encouraging me to drip money from my fingertips.
Last week I had the honour of accompanying my father to his first appointment with the consultant. I had to do quite a lot of bracing myself, since I knew they were not going tell him they could make him better. I was chosen as the most together person with the best ‘acting’ skills, in preference to my mother, who was a wet rag at the time. I think that was probably the hardest performance I’ve ever given, though certainly not the best. Have you experienced the intense pain of holding in tears? It makes your throat contract in such a way that, the harder you try to keep it in, the more it hurts. It was quite a long day – we had gourmet sandwiches in the sun by the canal, but I failed him by not packing an apple. I wasn’t aware that this was part of his diabetic routine. Satsumas are wrong, apparently, even if they’re organic.
Our approach to the hospital wasn’t exactly auspicious – there seemed to be a big crowd outside one of the buildings. It must have been a fire drill. You may not have seen one quite like this. I began to notice a large prevalence of drips and wheelchairs. The best sight was of a middle aged woman in full makeup, in an armchair, knitting on her lap, sudoku in hand. Just to her left behind her stood her drip. Quite comic. My dad didn’t notice.
Afterwards – can the details of the consultation and windowless waiting area be of any interest? – Quickly then: The hospital, mid audit, had the appearance of the service entrance of a hotel – all corridors of the wrong shape, narrow stairways, non-functioning lifts, and the distinct feeling that, having dragged myself and the sick man up several flights, we would have to turn round and go back, having followed the wrong signs. Waiting room with no windows and a lady with an unfortunate red growth, like a cherry tomato protruding from her left nostril. Toilets strictly for hospital staff and patients only (does this include us? – better do a poo there anyway, just in case), featuring in depth instructions on the wall on how to wash your hands – changed my method considerably. Maybe this will stop me getting cancer. Strict consultant with fraying trouser leg. Being told to sit on the examining bed with my father. Cheery nurses taking blood. Digital Dictaphone recording rather faintly.
Afterwards, I pointed out that had this excursion been with my mother, we would have gone for tea and cake now. Given the diabetes, alcoholism and lack of interest, this wasn’t about to happen. However, as an apology for having cancer, he insisted on buying me a cake from the most rip off bakery in NW6. It was very nice, thank you.
