Cancer Can Go Fuck Itself

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  Dolores, Spain
Tuesday, November 7, 2006

NOTE: I hummed and hawwed (hawwed?) about doing an entry for these last couple of months and in the end I decided to write one because I thought it would be therapeutic.

"What does it mean when you belong to someone, when you're born with a name and you carry it on?
It means that I won't give in."

I am sitting in Pierre and Marie's apartment in Paris. Pierre is watching E.R. in French; Marie and I are making plans to visit Jim Morrison's grave the next day. My sister texts me and tells me she needs to talk to me and that she'll be around all night. The tone of the message tells me there is something wrong, and the fact that it is from my sister tells me that it is something to do with my parents.
I get her to ring Marie's phone and my sister tells me that my Dad has collapsed at the villa in Spain and is currently in intensive care. The doctors say it could go either way. I laugh at this because it seems absurd - I had seen him a couple of weeks earlier and he was in great form.

My brother has already flown over. I find an all-night internet cafe and check flights to Spain for tomorrow. Very expensive. I check my credit card and find that I have forgotten to move money in to my credit card account and my available balance would not be enough to even cover the Louvre entry fee. Getting to my Dad suddenly seems like an impossibilty and I start to cry in the internet cafe. I pull myself together and try to book the cheapest flight available anyway. My credit card doesn't get rejected...That's good. Just get me to Spain.

When I get to the airport the next morning they tell me there is a problem: my credit card has been rejected. But why have I got a ticket? Despite the fact that it says 'Ticket' they tell me it is just a reservation. I need to get another credit card or get the cash to pay for this ticket. My flight is leaving soon so hurry up. Yes, thank you, I realise that.

I need to phone someone with a credit card. I don't phone my Mum because if the phone rings now this morning she will think it is the hospital phoning to tell her something about Dad. I phone my sister who will see that it is me phoning and not immediately think that it is something about Dad. She gives me her credit card and I go back and pay for my ticket and check-in and go and board my plane to Alicante via Dusseldorf. Whatever, just get me to Spain.

I arrive in Alicante and sit on my rucksack and wait for my Mum and brother who are at the hospital - people in intensive care can only be visited for 2 half hours a day and I have landed at the same time as the morning visiting. I listen to The Mountain Goats and I realise that I will always associate this music with my Dad being in intensive care. My Mum and brother pick me up and they both look like shit. They tell me what's been going on and what the doctors have said. Chicken pox. Shit. Pneumonia. Shit. A lung infection. Fuck. Something wrong with the blood. Hmm. Legionnaire's Disease. Ermmm...what?

I have heard of Legionnaires Disease but I don't know what it is. I find out later it is an infection of the lungs caused by bacteria in water particles in the air which can travel over 6 kilometres from their source. It is called Legionnaires Disease because the first recorded outbreak of it occured at a conference of Legionnaires. I also find out that the biggest ever outbreak occured in Murcia, Spain - close to where my parents live.

My sister flies over, so now we're all here. Team Scriver. When we're sat around the villa we huddle like a pack of animals trying to protect ourselves. When we go to the hospital we walk in in solidarity like The Manson Family on their way to Charlie's trial.

Only two people are allowed to visit my Dad, twice a day. Because he's so vulnerable we must each wear a hat, 2 masks, gloves, a gown and shoe covers. We go in to the isolated room that my Dad is in. He is wearing an oxygen mask but he looks better than I expect. He has trouble breathing and talking and can not move, but he is happy to see me. He tells me that on my third visit I will get a free Starbucks and I laugh. He apologises to me for ruining my travels and it breaks my heart because I couldn't give a fuck about my travels while I'm standing here looking at my father having trouble breathing and talking and unable to move.

One morning I visit with Mum. Dad is wearing a bigger oxygen mask today and has a machine that is helping him to breath and it doesn't look good. His room is hot and, because of all the protective gear we are wearing, my Mum and I are roasting. After a few minutes my Mum feels faint and she says she is just popping outside. I stay in and talk to my Dad and it is hard to understand what he is saying because he is weak and his voice is muffled by the oxygen mask and the sound of the machine which is helping him to breath.

While I am talking to my Dad I can see out of his isolated room, through the glass doors and I can see my Mum having trouble standing. I see her faint and she falls on the floor and the nurses rush over to her. My Dad can't see this because he is looking at me. It is important that my Dad doesn't see it because he is in bits and I don't want him to know his wife is unconscious on the floor a few metres away from him. I keep talking to Dad while he lies in bed having trouble breathing and talking and unable to move and in the corner of my eye I see my Mum unconscious on the floor. This is without a doubt the worst moment of my life.

My Mum is fine and she later tells me it felt great to finally lie down.

I am an emotional wreck. I hear a Shania Twain song on the radio and it nearly brings me to tears. I listen to the a collection of Andrew Lloyd Webber songs on repeat and I get depressed. I am an emotional wreck.

The doctors are worried about Dad's breathing and they tell us that in a couple of days they will have to put a tube down his throat to help him breathe. I pull myself together and concentrate on being positive and sending positive vibes to Dad. I realise that I genuinely believe in this new wave shit (when has anything not worked out?), and sure enough Dad's condition improves. He begins to eat yoghurt and I can not imagine anything better than knowing that my Dad is eating. Dad is moved out of intensive care and now everything seems possible and good.

We are told that he has leukemia. Acute Mylogenous Motherfucking Leukemia. We all cry. My Mum tells my Dad it is going to be alright and my Dad asks is it? He asks because he doesn't know and for the first time in his life he realises he's not immortal. But we slowly get to grips with it and decide to beat it. Give us a percentage and we'll fucking nail it. Fuck cancer.

I fucking hate cancer. It has attacked too many people in my life: My Mum. My Grandmother. My friends' parents. My parents' friends. Aunts. Great aunts. Friends' sisters. Sister's friends. George Harrison. Kylie. That chick in Love Story. I fucking hate cancer. It is a coward of a disease that sneaks up on people. Leukemia in particular because it picks on children and the elderly. It is gutless and pathetic and I hate it. I hate it a million times more than I hate supermarkets and people who wear camouflage.

My Dad's insurance company ask if he wants to be flown home to be treated in Dublin. Team Scriver have a meeting and we all decide that we want him to be treated here because the Spanish hospitals seem amazing and we have every faith in them. None of us have any faith in Irish hospitals. My brother says Irish hospitals are a joke. And so are the roads, and the public transport, and the government. In fact, he says, the whole country is falling apart and the only good thing about it is the dairy products. He says he loves the milk.

One day a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses come to the villa and talk to my sister. This is awful timing since they believe blood transfusions are an abomination and currently our Dad is relying on them to live. Their chances of converting me were minimal anyway since I want to continue celebrating my birthday and Christmas and I will never believe that Jesus returned to Earth 130 years ago but was invisible and if I ever get married I don't want my wife to have to sleep in another room from me for 5 to 7 days each month. My sister sends them away and off they go to polish their name badges and search the texts of their Bibles for other unreasonable instructions that they can take out of context.

My sister has to go home to Dublin because she has a mortgage, a job and her own family. I stay because I have nothing. My sister has amazed me in the time she was here. She is stronger than I have ever know her and she's fucking brilliant.

My Dad gets better and better. In his new room we can all visit him at once, but we still need to wear a mask and gloves. We still can not kiss him or hug him and when I say hello and goodbye I squeeze his hand while I wear a plastic rubber glove. His lungs improve and eventually he doesn't need an oxygen mask and he is sad to say goodbye to it because he has grown attached to it and we laugh. Eventually he is able to get out of bed and walk. I can not imagine being happier than the moment that I see my Dad walk. I can not imagine being prouder and it feels strange that I am in a position in my life where I am proud to see my Dad walk.

Once all the other problems are taken care of we concentrate on the leukemia. Dad starts chemotherapy. I shave his head for him and my hands shake while I do it because he has had long hair all of his life. I think he looks good but he calls himself Mr. Potato Head. It is good to start the chemo - I had always though of it as a form of defence, but now I see it as attacking and destroying something evil and that is good because I fucking hate cancer.

There are touches of humour: One day in intensive care they serve my Dad a fish, still on the bone and complete with head; My brother tries to ask in Spanish for a glass for water but accidentally asks for a saucepan; My Mum asks my Dad how come there is a blood stain on his chest and he sheepishly admits it is chocolate; Dad watches Spanish TV and watches more and more of Grande Hermano, the equivalent of Big Brother which he hates with a passion.

We get in to the routine (how quickly you can get used to anything) of trying to visit Dad twice a day for two or three hours each day. It is a 45 minute drive. When we get stuck in traffic my Mum says, "Come on! My man is waiting!" That makes me smile. The visits are our whole day. In between visits we eat and pass the time reading or on the internet. I daydream about being back travelling again and that makes me feel like a selfish, self-absorbed dick.

Dad finishes chemotherapy and his body begins to regenerate. We wait and wait until eventually they tell us he can go home. He has been confined to a room for 2 months. Two months. Like the boy in the plastic bubble, without the horse riding at the end. We take off our masks and gloves and he dresses to leave. Before we go home Dad says goodbye to all his nurses, and he goes up to the chapel to say a prayer.

We drive home and when we get there Dad hugs us all and we all cry. He video Skypes my sister in Dublin and we all cry. Things settle down and Dad eats whatever he wants whenever he wants and he does whatever he wants whenever he wants to. Things are good. He will make the most of his time out until he has to go back in for another month of isolation and chemo. Me and my brother will leave my parents to it, but I'll come back in a couple of weeks to keep my Mum company and to visit my Dad every day. And we will get through this - whatever it takes.

My parents take my brother and I to the airport. We say goodbye to my brother who is flying back to Dublin. We feel sad and uneasy about leaving my parents, but I know they are well able and I'll be back in a couple of weeks. I hug and kiss them both. My Dad thanks me for everything and I thank him for everything and I have infinite more things to say to him but they all boil down to the fact that him and my Mum are the most important people in my life, and he knows that. I say goodbye to my parents and I fly out of Spain.

I believe that there is a positive side to everything, but I struggle to see the point of all this leukemia shit. I already knew my family were the most important thing to me. I was already appreciating that my life was made up of doing what made me happy without harming anyone else. I already knew that I didn't want to die alone. I already made a habit of telling my friends and family how much they meant to me.

As I board my plane I still feel unsure and I feel like the life has been beaten out of me. But I am happy that things are going well and I know things always work out. Anything to declare? Yes. Cancer can go fuck itself.

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