The Tumours Made Me Interesting by Matthew Revert Read Free Book Online Page B

ordeal, which given the nature of her unusual condition, was understandable. After dad left, she started to deteriorate rapidly and still, 20 years later, no course of treatment had been successful. All this time later, I’m still confused by it. At first it was just a vague sense that her body was changing. Nobody could have predicted the ways and extent in which her body was destined to transform. Her pain was constant during the period I now call the ‘metamorphose’. After the first five years, it grew increasingly apparent that mum’s body was slowly turning into one big arm. After ten years, the transformation into an arm was complete. Since that point, she’d remained bedridden – my mother’s warm, loving head now sat atop a grotesque, hairy, body-sized arm.
    We have dedicated a substantial amount of time talking to doctors of all varieties in the hope that we’ll find a solution to my mother’s dilemma. Even knowing how such a malady is possible would provide me with some solace. No documented evidence exists that suggest my mother’s symptoms have been seen before. Doctors love the ambiguity of it all. My mother is a cipher that, if cracked, could lead to a prestigious journal article. I don’t know what passes for fame in the world of medicine, but it’s clear that my mother is viewed as a key in which attaining it might be possible. My mother is subjected to all manner of bizarre tests and medicines. It won’t be long until every medicine currently available will have coursed through her system. One week she’ll be taking heart medication and the next she’ll undergo a treatment for lupus. And with each new change in her chemical landscape, a new set of side effects emerge. These are usually mild, but every now and then, my mother is at the mercy of side effects no living person should have to endure. I encourage this course of action. Intellectually I know that it’s fruitless, but still, I’m always at hand, making sure she’s taking whatever pill is on the menu this week. Each new pill I place on her tongue runs the risk of damage and yet I still place the pill.
    There’s only one pharmacy I’ve ever been to. They understand my mother’s situation and know better than to ask invasive questions when I pick up medication. They live in a basement underneath a pornographic bookstore a few minutes from work. Even without a prescription, I get the sense they’d give me anything I asked for. They don’t enjoy substantial patronage, other than the occasional porn connoisseur, so the money I give them is always received gratefully.
    You have to walk through the bookstore in order to reach the stairs that lead to the pharmacy. I’ve succumb to pornographic desires on more than one occasion as a result. When you can’t shake the thought of death, sometimes a distraction is in order, so today was a day in which I indulged my carnal desires. I’m not much of a fetishist, but I couldn’t pass up a magazine devoted to ‘wool mouth’ or, ‘the sexual desire to stuff your mouth with wool’. The woman on the cover found a way to blend the ridiculous and the alluring. Lustful eyes, mouth overflowing with red wool. I paid for the magazine, tucked it under my arm and made for the pharmacy.
    Lacking natural light and victim to decades of neglect, the pharmacy wasn’t a pleasing environment. It was a perfect accompaniment to the illnesses they specialised in treating. Health posters from the 70s still adorned the walls and spreading damp coloured the low ceiling. Against the far wall sat the counter. As ever, standing proud and round behind the counter was Arthur Pecks, the world’s most socially inept pharmacist.
    “Huzzah, Bruce!” said Arthur upon spotting me. He reached out his arm to give my hand a shake. Our hands met, he shook and forgot to let go. Five minutes went by, ten minutes went by – at the 15 minute mark I had to request an end to the shake. With a bumbling apology, he broke the