Pick one big event in your life, and you’ll probably be able to recall every little detail. The time, the place, the sounds, the smells – they all become time-stamps on your brain, which safely files them away for nostalgic future reference.
I remember it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in May, the day after my last university final, as I sat with my family in the shade under one of my favourite trees on campus. In true British style, everyone and their dog seemed to be outside enjoying the heat, and the gentle buzz of voices and music formed a backing track to our conversation. From a nearby building wafted the half sweet-half burnt scent of food that was cooked in bulk for students who had, thankfully, already killed off most of their taste buds the night before (with a little help from some celebratory spirits).
In fact, the only thing I don’t remember about that moment in time is the look on my Dad’s face as he talked. Probably because I was too busy ripping grass out of the ground, one blade at a time. It’s amazing how you can become utterly engrossed in absolutely nothing when someone’s telling you they have cancer.
It’s a shame I didn’t look up really; his face must’ve been quite a picture. I mean, after a perfectly nice meal and a leisurely stroll around the campus, here was a man who suddenly had to tell his two ‘little girls’ that he was ill. Not even ill – after all, how can someone be unwell when they’ve had no symptoms, not a single one? He might as well have been telling us that he was possessed. By Victor Borge. Wearing a dress.
Having just finished my exams, I must admit I expected a very different topic of conversation that day. Possibly involving a present of some description. A holiday? A speech about how proud they were that I’d stuck with it and worked to my full potential? Well, they didn’t know that I hadn’t bothered reading ‘Middlemarch’. Or ‘A Winter’s Tale’. Or ‘The Private Memoirs & Confessions of a Justified Sinner’ (in fairness, I don’t think many other people bothered with that one).
Instead, I was brought out of my supremely self-involved world with a bump. A guilty bump, at that. Suddenly, the spate of slightly weird phone calls I’d dismissed in the passing weeks made sense. Like the time I’d called my Mum after an exam to catch up, only to discover she’d left work early and was in the car with Dad. And when I tried to call him, but inevitably ended up speaking to his voicemail as he was ‘in a meeting’. Or the fact that, every time I rang one of my parents to complain about how hard it was being a student, they’d greet me with a forced tone of optimism and cut me off as quickly as they possibly could.
I thought they were just sick of me.
Ordinarily, I would’ve been quite relieved to find out they just had something else on their minds. But now, suddenly, it was on my mind too, and I was already creaking under the weight. Dad kept talking, explaining the ins and outs of his imminent operation, that he may have to progress to chemotherapy and/or radiation after that… But I didn’t hear any of it. All I could think about was pulling up the grass. Because I knew that, if I did look up from the ground and let all the words streaming out of his mouth in an insanely calm manner filter through to my brain, I’d fall apart.
After I’d gardened the immediate vicinity to the best of my ability (and things had stopped spinning), I muttered all the Eden-acceptable phrases: “You’ll be alright… They’ve caught it early, so we’ll beat it… Everything’s going to be fine”. When he was sure that both of his daughters were acting suitably nonchalant about the whole thing, Dad wrapped up the talk and off we went, back to my flat.
Never the types to be serious for too long, the silence on our walk was soon filled by someone (I forget which of us) pointing out that, should the worst happen, they’d really like to have his one-of-a-kind Disney cell that was used in the making of the Jungle Book.
The desperate hilarity continued in the flat, when Dad noticed a bright red, sequin-adorned cowboy hat I’d been given for my birthday the year before. Within seconds, we were dressing him up in said hat, as well as another trilby and a selection of sunglasses, to create a lovely ‘Madness’ look. Ordinarily, Old Man Eden would probably have been a little embarrassed by all the fussing (and photographic evidence*), but that day he simply laughed: “Oh, that’s right, pick on the sick kid…”
Many would call this a sick, twisted, dark sense of humour at a completely inappropriate moment. I call it our only way of holding ourselves together.
Finally, we said our goodbyes as the family set off back to Nottingham. When I hugged my Dad and told him I loved him, I didn’t get the usual response of “Mmm”. Instead, he put both arms around me (not just one, as was his usual ploy) and, after a few seconds, said “I love you too”. The actual words.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s dead inside and avoids emotion at all costs. It’s just that… we don’t use those words. Or at least, we didn’t. As a family, we tease, joke and provoke to show our love, occasionally bonding over films, sport or the silly songs of Flanders and Swann. When my Dad said those four little words to me, even as quietly and subtly as he did, I knew that this was big. There was no denying it – everything had changed after that one conversation under the tree. We had absolutely no idea of what we were about to go up against and, worst of all, we didn’t know if we even stood a chance of beating it.
In retrospect, the double-armed hug really should’ve tipped me off…
*available to view for a small fee
