EPISODE 2 - TWENTY FUCKING YEARS
When the neurosurgeon said “tumour”, I left my body.
I was used to dissociation. I had spent over twenty years of a somewhat disappointing sex life dissociating every time someone fucked me.
I angled my body one way and another, moving strategically so that he wouldn’t notice how disgustingly fat I was. I held my stomach in. I kept my t-shirt on and pulled down on it constantly. It was as if the minute pleasure was supposed to erupt, I was swept in a whirlwind of intrusive thoughts instead: 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 often looked at ceilings, waiting for it to pass. I could have said no. I could have told them to leave. I didn’t. I felt like it wasn’t the proper thing to do. You just had to go through with it. I counted cracks on the ceiling. I faked pleasure by moaning loudly. I faked coming. I grinded my teeth through it all until it was over. Once they came—they always cum—I took the win: Well done me! Bravo!
But then insecurities flooded in: 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 was a side step, behind the veil of a breathing membrane that held you captive in a soft, grainy blur. My body moved and functioned independently from my will. I… I was floating slightly to the side of my corporeal self; lost, defenceless, trapped.
There, fear took hold. Three distinct thoughts came rushing in:
I’m going to die
I have wasted my life.
Death had never scared me, per se. I witnessed her at a young age and she’d 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. It was nighttime, 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.” She paused abruptly. For what felt like the first time since I sat down, she looked at me, smiled and said “So I’ll see you next week.” I shook her hand and stepped outside. The bang of the door closing brought me back into my body.
What did she say?
I placed my earbuds in and rushed outside. I pressed play—I had recorded the entire conversation.
“They nibble their surroundings.” I paused the recording and rewinded. “They nibble their surroundings.” and again. “They nibble their surroundings.” and again.
