Half Life - 14 - white houses
January 29th 2021
A blanket of tranquillity finally descended. The drama, the media storms, the ranting, and the chaos all slipped quietly away over night. A collective breath of fresh air came with the end of the inane, mind-warping, Twitter-jabbering we had endured for four, long, years. The tenant of the White House, after all the tricks in the book, left to sulk in Florida and continue to cheat at golf on his own course. Convinced, forever, he is still President, in the same way he’s sure of his own medical expertise, intellectual genius, and that he’s the only one in the world wearing a tie at the right length. His reluctant departure from the White House came with threats or, worse, promises of a return.
Here, we had snow to bring us relief. Making every house white and prescribing for the whole country a massive injection of much needed childish happiness. Like a large dose of morphine washed down with a medicinal whisky, or two, we chilled and relaxed in the way only snow allows. Balls were thrown, angels flapped out on the ground, and snowmen sprung up in every garden and park. Or, in the case of our teenaged Older Boy, a snow penis - which he found hilarious. As the thaw set in, and the browns of winter returned, the view from our kitchen window was of a gradually shrinking phallus, reducing day by day as a reminder of his creative genius.
The peace and calm is only temporary. As the snow melted, our momentary release from thinking about Covid and cancer came to an end, forcing us to deal with the reality of the year stretching ahead. With the results back from a rushed scan of the two bad bits of my back, we waited until after dinner to tell the Boys what was happening. It’s always easier to talk to them after feeding time. Nobby has also chosen to move south, taking up a new residence in my spine in a vertebra called S1, no doubt to hold ‘make cancer great again’ rallies and complain about fake news. That was the cause of the life-shattering pain in my lower back. Not content with a palace in the south, Nobby, forever greedy and self-centred, also moved north to T4, a vertebra level with my chest bone, and got himself new condo there. It doesn’t hurt much, but since it’s a new-build it’s a bit of a worry, as he certainly didn’t have planning permission. Maybe he’s building a wall along the entire length of my back and getting me to pay for it?
Nobby’s comeback, well ahead of the one being plotted by the small-handed, orange-faced, gargoyle across the Atlantic, has been slowed by pulling me off one set of pills and putting me on to that wonder drug that is steroids. Within days the pain had eased, like turning off a Twitter account, and sleep became possible. It’s not gone, but it has been reduced enough to move about without a leg-wobbling scream coming from my back. It will provide relief until the radiotherapy can hit him over the head, followed by a big chemo attack starting a few weeks after that. If all that gives Nobby a good knee in the groin and keeps him on the floor for a long time, the misery and near isolation which goes with half a year of chemo will be worth it. At least being in touch by Zoom and WhatsApp is not seen as unusual anymore.
As we told them about the coming therapies, in particular the chemo, The Boys went silent; they know what more chemo means even if they don’t want to talk about it. Both said they didn’t mind when we explained the length of this one destroys any hope of a family holiday in the summer, but I do. Lockdown the third has been hard enough for them, although greatly improved by my no longer trying to help them with the schooling, and the hope of release for the summer has been something we have all fantasised about. By the time I’m free from the three-weekly poisoning I have signed up for they will be back in school and negotiations about where to have Christmas will have begun. October half-term is the first holiday opening, but it’s a hard sell as something to look forward to as it’s such a long way off.
Cancer and cancerous ideas are hard to get rid of and feed in the dark, re-emerging just when you think they might have gone. Inside the White House, nodules of Trump’s personality cancer will have embedded themselves deep inside the walls in a way that a no amount of bleach, swallowed or not, will get rid of them. Nobby’s residency in my bones and marrow is equally deep and hard to remove, threatening to kick off again when the opportunity presents itself. Let’s hope there is plenty of snow at whatever time either Nobby or Trump re-emerge, so the shouts of fun can drown out the pain they cause, and giggling laughter can fight the darkness and misery they bring.
Another wonderful post Charlie. An imaginative juxtaposition of Nobby and Trump. It works well. I only wish we could all vote Nobby out. In that sense, the little bastard is more Putin-like. (But even modern day dictators don't last forever - there is always hope!) Will keep everything crossed for your upcoming treatment. Thinking of you all...
Your endurance and humour in the face of difficulty is beyond impressive and you really are a gifted writer - hope that book deal does come through. Routing for you and the family in the months ahead.