EPISODE 2 - THE SIDE STEP
When the neurosurgeon said it was a tumour, I left my body.
I’m used to dissociation. I had spent over 20 years of a somewhat disappointing sex life dissociating every time someone started to feel me up. It was as if the minute things got intimate, I was swept in a whirlwind of intrusive thoughts that took me as far away from my flesh as possible. There were the classics: If I angle my body this way and hold my stomach in, he might not notice how disgustingly fat I am while constantly pulling down on the oversized t-shirt I was still wearing. Coupled with a thousand questions: Does he like me? Will he stay for breakfast? Will he give me his phone number? Is he enjoying this? Am I doing it right? Maybe he doesn’t like this that way? I wish I looked different, I wish I moved differently … And that was when it all went well. I remember actually looking at ceilings and counting the cracks, fake moaning, fake cumming and often grinding my teeth through it all until it was over. Once he came - they always cum - I took the win: Well done me!
But then came the flood of insecurities: Are we gonna cuddle now or is he gonna jump in the shower to wash me off him? Is he gonna leave? When is he gonna leave? Should I say something funny? Should I ask what’s gonna happen now? Should I tell him I like him? Why am I so pathetic? Why can’t I just get my shit together? Why can’t he love me already? When will someone kiss me again? Hold me again?
Twenty years of not being present and not letting my body feel any of it.
Twenty fucking years.
So when she said tumour, I instantly recognised where I had gone. It’s a realm not really within you, not quite outside of you but a side step, where the rest of the world turns into a soft, grainy blur. The veil is a breathing membrane that keeps you separated, where one has no impact on reality, where one’s body moves and functions independently from thoughts. I was floating slightly to the side of my corporeal self; lost and defenceless.
There, fear took hold. Three distinct thoughts came rushing in:
I’m going to die
I have wasted my life.
Death has never scared me, per se. I witnessed her at a young age and she’s been visiting regularly ever since. As a child, I attended funerals so often that I could have recited the Mass myself. I knew how to say goodbye and the importance of throwing a bit of dirt on the coffin as a final farewell; I hated it when people scattered petals—philistines. I knew to tell people you love you love them while they’re still around to say it back. I also knew that I didn’t want to be filled with regrets when my time had come so I travelled the world and continuously challenged myself.
Yet, there I was - my time had come - and my first thoughts were regrets.
I’ve never been to Thailand.
I saw a beach in Thailand - a beach I had never been to - at night, beside a blazing campfire, with people dancing and drinking in the moonlight. I was sitting on a log witnessing the party from afar, grateful to be there, simply enjoying it secondhand. I was an observer, someone who could see joy in the world but couldn't partake in it.
It brought me back to London in the late ‘90s when we would go cruising in the park, George Michael style. Then, I’d sit and hold everyone else’s bags. I witnessed the hookups from the safety of a bench under a lamppost, watching life happen, hearing the groans, far too scared to venture into the bushes.
The neurosurgeon kept talking, “Unfortunately, the scans aren’t telling us everything we need to know, the tumour is difficult to access. Not impossible, mind you. Just tricky. The problem is these kinds of tumours have a tendency to spread and nibble their surroundings. We should do a biopsy. I’ll check with the whole team first though. So I’’ll see you next week.”
I heard the whole spiel later when I listened to the recording on my phone. “They nibble their surroundings,” like rats…
