a queer, sex-positive illness memoir in real time

It snowed that day. As I was walking towards the hospital, I felt tiny drops of rain falling very gently around me. Then the rain turned into icy flakes before softening to snow. Madrid had suddenly become a winter wonderland. I pulled my tongue out and tried to grab a snowflake, the way I had seen happy children do in movies. I, of course, got my glasses pelted by sleet and I almost toppled someone over. Movies lie.

I wished I could have taken a minute longer to appreciate the snowfall. I looked around at people’s faces and everyone seemed pissed off. The masses were hurrying to work and had no time for such nonsense as snow and if things had been different, I would have been among them. On that day, I relished being slowly covered by it; the white held and stuck to my grey overcoat. I was giddy. I stopped in the middle of the pavement, took a deep breath in and then twirled. Just the once. I couldn’t shake the sensation that this was the last time I would ever see snow. It was a gut punch: this was it, one last snowfall. I looked up at the sky and whispered a ‘Thank you’ to no one in particular and entered the hospital.

It had been a week since I had last seen my neurosurgeon. This appointment was to confirm whether or not the biopsy would go ahead. I couldn’t face her alone so I had asked Chaos, AKA Lucy, to meet me at the hospital. Obviously, she was late. Obviously, she wasn’t responding to her texts and, obviously, there would be a very good reason as to why — my guess was that she’d met a guy, ‘a darling’ she would say and had spent the night with him. When she finally showed up, she was wearing a leopard print mini-skirt over some orange stockings and a bomber jacket. Though I didn’t ask, I was certain that there was nothing but a bra under that flimsy jacket. She jumped into my arms and hugged me tight. I could feel her shaking “Tighter, tighter,” she said. I obliged. She was hanging on my neck, wrapped around me as we were long-lost lovers.

Though we were late, we were actually early (the joy of poorly funded Seguridad Social) and so Chaos had all the time in the world to tell me about the rich Russian oligarch she had met the previous evening and how she had spent the night in his ridiculous penthouse overlooking the Retiro park. She told me about the Koon sculptures, “Koons, plural!” she emphasised. “I touched one, I even kinda half-juggled with one but I almost dropped it and I didn’t want to dent it!”

Of course, as usual, the guy was a walking red flag but he had Koons and her eyes were sparkling. I didn’t burst her bubble. She mentioned other famous contemporary artists he exhibited willy-nilly in his flat. I didn’t recognise any of the names, she rolled her eyes, “How do you not know who blabla is?” She didn’t say ‘blabla’ but that was what I was hearing.

I was so engrossed in her story, I didn’t see my number being called up on the screen. The neurosurgeon opened her door and called out my name —she was not happy.

I was still removing my coat when she said, “The biopsy is going ahead. However, we are probably not going to be able to go through your nose as I had previously planned. We’ll be going through your pharynx, a little incision…” I must have looked confused because she looked exasperated. “We’ll cut a little hole in your throat,” she pointed at the inside of her mouth. I could sense her dumbing it down “So that we can access the tumour, yes? You’ll be staying at the hospital for about a week as we’ll be feeding you through a tube until you’ve healed.”

I heard Chaos ask questions about possible risks, about the length of the surgery, about how long we were going to have to wait for the results and what would happen afterwards.

“It is either a chordoma, which I’m very confident it is and things will become quite serious. Or it’s nothing, I send you to another doctor who’ll give you pills and you’ll move on with your life.”

“What’s a chordoma?” I heard Chaos ask.

“It’s a rare type of cancer. They say it’s 1 in a million. You have more chances of winning the lottery than getting one of those. But it’s also a very aggressive tumour that usually comes back. Your best option will be surgery. We will need to remove it entirely. And then there will be some radiotherapy or some proton therapy. So far, it’s relatively small and doesn’t seem to be growing. But you need it out. As soon as possible. I’m assuming that when we have the biopsy results, you’ll go back into surgery shortly after.”

And just like that, her face became stone-cold. She was clearly indicating that there would be no more questions. Our time was up. She thanked us and shook my hand. The next time I would see her, I’d probably be drugged out on a slab.

Before I knew it, we had joined another queue and were waiting for the new number we’d been given to be called. I had to make an appointment with an anaesthetist, they needed me as good as dead for the surgery. I made very little of the gibberish she’d spewed, but that much I understood.

“We’ll be feeding you through a tube.” She had said. I could already feel the plastic tube running up my nose and down my throat, all the way into my stomach. I felt itchy all over. I wanted to rip it out of me. I would pull it out myself if I had to.

“We’ll cut a little hole in your throat.”

What do you fucking mean you’ll cut a little hole in my throat?

I shoved my hand in my pocket and retrieved my wallet. I always kept a Lorazepam in case of an emergency. This was definitely a break-the-glass moment. I sucked on the little pill until it dissolved completely under my tongue. Twenty minutes or so and it would take effect. All I had to do was wait twenty little minutes.

To fill the void, I rambled.

“So they are going to cut through my throat, open a hole up, get inside my head and push through whatever the fuck is behind the pharynx! They’re going to slalom their way to the base of my skull and start scratching to retrieve a little bit of Bruno? Is that what I’m in for?”

“Who the fuck is Bruno?” she asked understandably.

“Bruno is what I named my tumour.” I sighed. “I named my tumour!” I finally sat down on one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area. “I know, I know. I thought it would help. It really isn’t. Now, I feel that there is an entity with a mind of its own living inside my head. And in a way I do. What the fuck am I going to do Lucy?”

“We’re in trouble if you start to call me Lucy.” She joked but her heart wasn’t in it.

“I’m serious. What did she say the risks were again?”

“I mean, she said they were unlikely. That everything usually goes well.” She smiled awkwardly.

“Lucy!”

“She said that the tumour was at the base of the skull and that it was surrounded by loads of tricky bits. She mentioned sight and hearing and that they may get affected. And.” She paused.

“And?”

“And that if she were to cut the wrong bit, you could have a brain stroke there and then.”

“Do you know what I’m not even sure I know what a stroke is? I didn’t know a tumour meant cancer. I’ll check.” I pulled out my phone and did a quick Google search. AI was the first to respond—I hate that cunt.

“The NHS says it’s when blood stops flowing to the brain and that it can affect speech and movement. It says it needs medical attention urgently or it’s life-threatening. At least, they’d already be present to fix it; we can rule out death! Yippee! All that is left is tetraplegia or the loss of speech, or sight, or hearing!”

“Come on, man!”

“Not a man.”

“Sorry. Shit, of course! I meant don’t be like that, the…” She interrupted herself. “Your number’s up.”

“What happened to stay positive? Huh? What happened to ‘we don’t know yet?’ We know now.”

“You silly buffoon. Look up, it’s your turn. Go talk to the lady.”

“What if I can’t suck dick anymore?”

“What did you say?”

“What if I can’t suck dick anymore? What if they fuck up my throat, huh? What if it becomes too sore? Or too oversensitive? What then?”

“Then you’ll suck less dick!”

“But it’s my favourite thing to do!”

“I know, I know.” She patted me on the back genuinely concerned.

“What’s good is that at least you’re not worried about the cancer, just the dick sucking!” I laughed.

“I’m trying to keep my priorities straight.” I winked. “The receptionist said that I should get an appointment with the anaesthetist sometime next week and that once this was done, they’d call to schedule the surgery. So we’re probably two to three weeks out.”

Two to three weeks out. The timeline had sped up. Suddenly. Irremediably.

About two to three weeks to round up a life. How do you do that? How do you tie everything nicely in a little bow before you die? How do you make any sort of difference to your life in two to three weeks? Do you have time to fall in love? Do you have time to create a piece of art that will outlive you? Do you have time for one last big adventure?

This is the end of Part 1.

Queer old me will return on June 17th with episode 9, entitled: The anaesthesist.

Queer old me will be exclusively available on Substack

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