Page 32 of The Man I Never Met
“What’s Stage Four?” I ask and wish I hadn’t.
“In my upper organs. It’s not there yet. That’s why I need to start chemo quickly before the stage moves on.”
“What’s Stage Five?” I ask.
He pauses and then says, ‘There is no Stage Five.”
“Oh my God, Davey,” I cry again.
“So I’ve had a couple of days to try and wrap my head around this now. I’m not quite out of shock yet, but they say it’s going to be a long time in and out of the hospital. On a very aggressive chemo regime. Apparently.”
“OK,” I repeat, but it’s not OK and I can’t stop saying it. I wait for him to say more, but no more comes.
—
I give up on all plans for the weekend. I text Joan and tell her I’m going home to my parents, so I can’t pop out for coffee. I can’t contemplate socializing. I can’t contemplate anything. While I’m on the train home to Kent, Miranda calls me—something she never does—and asks me flat out what’s wrong. I have to tell her and I cry almost the whole way through it, so she has to ask me to repeat details. Passengers on the train stop reading their magazines. I watch one pull an earbud out of his ear, as those surrounding me listen intently to words I never thought I’d hear myself say, with feelings I never thought I’d have, about someone I’ve never met.
She’s silent. Frightened for me. Frightened for him. Frightened that this could happen to Paul. And then she asks how someone so young could get cancer. “How does it happen? Did he get a sports injury? Is that what started it off?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think that’s how it works.” But I have no idea. Despite my internet searches, which last all night until the sun rises in the winter skies, I still have no idea. She tells me to keep her posted and that she loves me, and I tell her the same as I walk through town carrying my overnight bag.
My parents are shocked to see me and I realize that, in myhaste to get away from the confines of my flat, I never even told them I was coming home for the weekend. They stare at me as if I were a ghost and then smile as if nothing could ever be wrong, and that’s when I crumble and words flood out of me. I’d never even told them about Davey, and now I try to explain to them everything that’s happened between us. They look scared for me, because I’ve hurtled through the front door on the brink of tears and they can see that throughout the tale of growing affection between me and a man so far away, this story that I’m telling them isn’t going to end well.
An hour later my dad has made me more than one stiff drink and we’re seated at the dining table. He’s pulled out his laptop and we’re looking through websites, so that he can reassure me, from official sources, that if Davey is as fit and healthy as I say he is, if they caught it early, if they remove the tumor, and if the treatment regime works, Davey will be fine. “In the end.”
If. If. If,I think. But I repeat his words, “In the end?” and I can see him trying not to go into GP mode, but to act as a father. I scrutinize his eyes as he ponders how to phrase it. I watch him for any telltale sign that he’s lying, glossing over how awful this is.
“He needs to be positive,” my dad says.
“Why?”
“He just does, sweetheart. The chemo will do its bit. Davey has to do the rest.”
“That doesn’t sound like a GP talking,” I sniffle. “That’s a bit woo-woo for you, actually, Dad.”
He smiles and reaches for my hand.
—
Throughout the week I return to work, message Davey, message Joan, whom I haven’t told about Davey’s news yet, and who makes me smile every now and again with salacious updates about her and Geoff. If I thought Davey and I were moving fast, she encourages me into feeling more relaxed about it. Geoff’s taking Joan ona month-long cruise. Part of me wants to be retired, so that I can go on month-long cruises. The other part of me doesn’t even know how I’m going to get through the week. The gravity of Davey’s situation has shocked me into a numb, dazed silence.
The day of his surgery comes and Davey calls me moments before, joking, “Just in case it’s the last time I get to talk to you, y’know.”
“Don’t say that. It’s going to be fine.”
“I know. My surgeon does, like, fifty of these a week.”
“Good. He’s a pro.”
Three hours later I get a text from a US number I don’t recognize:Hi, Hannah, this is Grant, Davey’s friend. I wanted to let you know Davey’s out of surgery, he’s come around and is a bit groggy. The surgeon told us they got everything out they wanted to, and they’re happy with how it went. Davey wanted me to message you. Feel free to message me back if you want. I think he’ll try to talk to you later. Grant x.
I message him back, immediately noticing the stumpy nails of my fingers as I type. Somehow throughout all this I’ve developed a new habit of biting my nails. I thank Grant so much for telling me and say that I’m so relieved. I don’t tell him anything else. I’m in danger of over-sharing, so I cut myself off at the pass.
Davey doesn’t ring me, so I wait until it’s a suitable time the following day and I call him. He doesn’t pick up and I assume he’s still resting, sleeping. I call him much later on and, when he picks up, I can hear that he’s down. Who wouldn’t be, given what he’s going through? I knew the perpetual upbeat nature was going to make way for the inevitable depression. I can feel it. I want to take the cancer that remains in his lymph nodes from him, make it mine, so he doesn’t have to go through this anymore.
He’s sharp. “Don’t ever say that again. You don’t want this. Trust me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
