¿-? Prologue ¿-?
No one is safe from it. Everything causes it. Nothing prevents it. Of course I speak of the dreaded disease we refer to as 'cancer'. Though, in all honesty, I believe 'cancer' is just a word doctors use to say you're screwed. They don't know what it is; they don't know what causes it. They never will. Cigarettes, television, cellular telephones, microwave ovens, coffee, alcohol, chocolate. It's all just speculation: multiple guesses to a medical riddle that has no definitive answer.
Some people think that the first thought that goes through one's mind when one is diagnosed is 'Why me?' I can tell you firsthand that's a lie.
"You're shitting me, right? Cancer? Are you sure you know how to read an MRI?" Four out of the five of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross' stages of grief had appeared to hit me at once. All bar 'acceptance.'
"Mr. Wynne, please," Doctor Thomas Eliott raised his hands in a gentle calming gesture. "Your reaction is by all means acceptable given the news, however, if I may ask you to keep your voice down and the profanity to a minimum. There are other patients-"
"OTHER PATIENTS?" I must admit, those two little words may have nudged me over the edge a little. "You just gave me a fucking death sentence and you're asking me to consider your OTHER bloody PATIENTS?"
"Mr. Wynne," Dr Eliott repeated. "If you would let me finish…"
Reluctantly, I returned to my seat. The poor bugger was sweating like a pig on a spit. Apparently my little outburst had frightened him a little.
"Mr. Wynne – Arthur," he said again. And if I may remark, I have never heard any of my assumed names used in such quick succession before, even when I'd had my surname legally changed to Nigma. "This tumor is very small, with a simple dietary regime and some chemotherapy, it may fade and we may be able to add several years to your, erm life… expect…an…cy."
"No."
"No?"
"No chemo. No diet. No change. Let me see that scan."
He passed the film over without much hassle. I had never seen any sort of tumor on any sort of scan before, but the ominous void that nestled in the nook between my cerebellum and my brain stem was unmistakable. Eliott was right – the thing was tiny, not much larger than a ping-pong ball. It looked almost… innocent. The sort of innocence that a young kitten conveys the moment before it begins clawing its way up your leg.
"You still wish to refuse the treatment, Arthur?" Dr. Eliott said quietly after giving me a few minutes to let everything sink in. "It's heavy news, I know that, but cancer is not something to be taken lightly. You can't just push it aside – Out of sight out of mind doesn't work when the problem is physically inside your mind."
"How?" I answered quietly, and when he merely gave me a puzzled look I elaborated: "How do you know how it feels to have cancer? You look pretty healthy to me."
"My… my mother has a cancerous tumor on her liver. She's in the late stages, I… I barely even recognize her anymore."
"Oh, yeah? So how's that chemo working out for her then, Doc?" I couldn't help but smile inside as his face took on that little haunted look I love so much. It may be shooting the messenger but what the hell – beggars can't be choosers, right? "In answer to your question: yes, I still want to refuse the treatment."