Cisplatin Dreams

Three people share the ward with me. In the opposite bed is Mr A. He is dying, nurses hover round him and his breath rattles in his throat. He hardly ever wakes up and when he does the only sounds he makes are agonised groans and deep, gasping sighs. No-one, other than the teams of abrupt doctors who chatter around him and sometimes draw his curtains to hide their poking and prodding, has come to see him.

Mr B is trying to work out what’s going on. I think he is trying to be strong, but he hardly knows where he is, let alone what he is capable of. He wants to be able to take a shit for himself, but the difference between the floor and the toilet is hard for him. In the night he calls out constantly; ‘nurse… Nurse! NURSE!’. They come sometimes, but as soon as they leave he starts again and they ignore him, they have to really. Sometimes he tries to get out of bed, they do come then, to haul him back in. He’ll try a few more times before he goes back to calling for them.

Mr C is middle England personified, a copy of the Daily Mail by his bed he is oddly reassuring. His wife turned up today. I feel like I should laugh at the brown skirt, grey cardigan and severe, librarian glasses, but they are kind, they talk to me about their children in Australia, their marriage. They ask me to fix their computer, I say yes of course, but I know I won’t.

It’s evening already, I held off coming in for as long as possible, so the nurses put the cannula in my arm and start the first drips. It’s odd how your body manages to cope with a needle stuck in your arm overnight, some kind of innate response that tells you rolling over would be a really, really bad idea at the moment. Eventually, despite Mr B’s efforts, I sleep.

We are on a narrow boat that drifts slowly along past fields of grass. The light is a greasy yellow and something is wrong. I wait to find out what, but we just drift onwards, everyone else seems purposeful and resolute and I cannot question them. Eventually we reach a city, belching thick clouds of sulphur into the noisome air. Twisted, gigantic factories sigh with human voices and something draws us down into thick brown water. I cry out and everything stops. They point at me and we are back in the fields, and I forget why I am here.

My friends are sitting in front of me, a million miles away. They chatter about somewhere else, voices occasionally hushed as they remember where they are. One of them is looking at me and comforting, she smiles and turns back to the other. I say something odd, sluggish mind always a few steps behind. A smile tainted by confusion responds, a pat on the knee, pity. Once they have left I haul the tubes of toxins through this hollow, pastel coloured world to a toilet that stinks of disinfectant.

I stand in front of it and glare at my dick, which, against all rational expectations, is hard. Its cause is dripping steadily into my arm, a saline solution flowing cold in my blood. I try to take my mind off it, if I don’t think about it, it might slink away so that I can seize my moment. My mind wonders through the stock images of compromised politicians and Barney Gumble. The erection remains, impassive. There is nothing for it but to angle my body towards the toilet bowl, a half tilt that gives the correct angle for a perfect strike. I am good at this, an art every man who drinks too much must train in, but which I have honed over the past few days. The lovely warm glow of release is marred slightly by the less pleasant warmth of piss on my hands, but mostly I have been on target. I retreat to my bed, knowing that I will be back here in a couple of hours.

On the way back I pass the private room I had when they started my treatment, they’ve put up a whiteboard across the doorway which reminds visitors that the patient is vulnerable to infection, an epitaph in marker pen. In bed I read for a while, I’m not feeling too bad yet, my mind is fuzzy but one or another of the drips and pills is holding off the nausea and there hasn’t been time for the full effects to kick in. My head to the wall, gradually I drift off to sleep.

I am trapped. My hair has grown long over ages of waiting and they have tied each strand to some strange, black device. Slowly, carefully I begin to untie them. The work is exhausting, my muscles have almost wasted away and I can hardly see any more. After I have worked for a few hours, the machine screams at me. The knots are restored and I start again, the same pattern stretching over millennia.

I wake up more tired than when I went to sleep. My body is covered in sweat and my mouth hurts, hard with a thin film of mucus at the back. Breakfast and blood tests come around, and they hook up some new drips. Antibiotics today, they feel hot, tingling under my skin. I try to read, but I can’t focus properly, it’s an odd feeling; detached, out of sync with the world around me.

Mr C tells me he is going to die soon. He was asking about my treatment, I told him short but intense, I’ll be fine. Almost as if it was an aside he told me they think he has six months left. I know I should feel something, but it’s hard to think. I just want to sleep now, although I know I’ll feel like shit all night.

A cold empty plain and a mountain. I walk through tar trying to get to something at the top. It takes days to get there and I stare out at a cold, empty plain and a mountain. I walk through tar trying to get to something at the top. It takes days to get there and I stare out at a cold, empty plain and a mountain. I walk through tar trying to get to something at the top. It takes days to get there and I stare out at a cold, empty plain and a mountain...

I move up though a fog of sleep, sluggish and sick. I try to work out where I am, I feel awful. The taste of yesterday’s Thai red curry lingers in my mouth and I know I won’t be able to eat it again. Fresh, gorgeous, unappetising fruit lies by my bed, brought by mother and uncle yesterday. I wasn’t looking forward to that, thought it would be awkward, full of pity. They are both used to dealing with people who have cancer though and just chatted quietly about architecture and design. Reassuring.

I climb out of my bed, open the curtains and realise Mr A died last night. No-one says anything of course, but the bed is empty and the sheets crisp and new. Later Mr B tells me they took him to one of the private rooms, I ask if anyone came. They did; a small queue by a whiteboard tombstone. I hope the morphine stopped his dreams.