Tom.
Three years ago while I sat in the hospital
waiting room for a bone that eventually revealed the extent of the cancer, I
had with me this needlework of a huntsman. A gentleman arrived on crutches,
resembling a cartoon image of the Michelin Man, totally bald and blown up as if
by sort of seriously powerful pump. As he entered the waiting room the other
occupant could not ignore his presence, and as if to acknowledge this he said
hello to everyone. His eyes fell on me in particular for who could ignore a man
engrossed in stitching a very colourful stumpwork embroidery. We chatted about
my work as well as the cancer and why he had returned for his third bone scan.
He was remarkably cheerful and although at that moment I had no idea what my
own scan would reveal he radiated calm and a very matter of fact and yet
positive outlook. I realised even then that this must also be my goal.
The intervening years an medication have
produced profound changes in my body and have always been honest about the
difficulties I have had in coming to terms with those changes.
There comes a time in one’s life when cleaning
the shower is actually more pleasurable than taking a shower. I have reached
that time. The mopping down of the tiles and glass as well as shower tray holds
far more satisfaction than what now must pass as my body. By the time I’ve
finished hopefully my bloated body will be almost dry, and I have only to give
it a cursory towelling before covering it up. I try to keep my eyes shut when
showering, but I still have to wash, running my sponge over a body that feels
totally alien to me. A strange halfway house of a body, neither man or woman,
and certainly not me. I think now I can begin to understand some of the torment
transvestite people go through. I haven’t changed sex, but I am increasingly
the remnants of the man I remember, trapped in what now seems increasingly
feminine. Call it what you will, fat, cellulite, or the soft layer, there is no
getting round the thick covering of wobbly dimpled stuff that has invaded my
chest, stomach and thighs. I put off taking a shower for as long as possible
since it depresses me so. A girlfriend many decades ago once asked me why I
didn’t smell. My glib response was “Class dear”. For that I got a clout as she
was from a strong working class background. I can now reveal that given time to
mature we all have our own distinctive odour. I used to enjoy during my time
wandering in Western Australia, the natural smell of my body mixed with the
sticky salt laden Southern Ocean. I was travelling alone, often in very remote
areas without another human for thirty miles in any direction, so nobody to
complain. However there comes a time when you can no longer ignore that
unwashed odour. I try to switch my mind off completely, but more often than not
the showering process reduces me to tears. We all have to face the loss of the
youthful body we once had, and I realise I was privileged to have hung onto
mine for so long, but with the accumulation of flesh comes the physical loss.
No longer able to roam and ramble for days on end, now restricted to plodding
short distances with the aid of a stick. I think of those younger generations
who are either too scared to set off on their own, maybe have never had the
opportunity, or have been brainwashed into the sedentary existence of computer
gaming. Perhaps they will never have to face that physical loss, for what you
never had you must surely never miss.
So, what gets me through the day now, or perhaps that should be gets me up of a morning. Well I still have to take the medication, but beyond that it’s the thought of being creative in any way I can. If my hands are occupied then I automatically feel calmer, almost like a self-embracing hug. Added to this is the visual satisfaction of seeing the object develop and progress towards a finished piece. As so often these days this creative work has been needlework, and while I have completed another large image of Scalpaigh harbour that is destined to join the Piers, Ports and Jetties series, I’ve also been doing some smaller naïve images with a nautical theme.
Tottie.
I’ve said nothing to Tom, but I think I’ve
got what they call writers block. Well it not exactly a block, its more how do
I stop, reach a conclusion, find an ending. I certainly don’t want to end up
with a massive Tolkien tome. I’d heard through the grapevine that my old boss,
Wobble Bottom Bill had taken early retirement from The Western Isles Wanderer
to write his evidently fascinating memoirs, and yesterday I got a call to see
if I’d like my old job back. I took the opportunity to negotiate a little rise
in salary. The new editor looks impossibly young or is that just me getting to
the point where local policemen look like they should still be in short
trousers. One of my first reports will be dealing with the ever increasing size
of modern houses on the island, and the wind farm debate is a constant issue.
At least I’ll be out of Tom’s hair, well that is if he had any. What he’s let
grow recently is like baby fluff, sticking out at all angles. He’ll need that
trimming, looks ridiculous. I think he’s neglecting himself, throwing himself
into his work, but never looking in the mirror. There are mornings when that is
all too evident as he slumps down at the kitchen table, shirt collar still
stuck under his pullover and half tucked into those ridiculous chequered pyjama
bottoms. OK, yes I should be a little more compassionate, and he does know that
I’m one of his all-time fans when it comes to his creative output. I adore his
little seascapes, but dare not even ask how much since they do seem very labour
intensive. Maybe it’s time for another in-depth interview to try and find out
just what makes him tick. I should perhaps convince him to take out an advert,
but then he seem quite happy to retain his title as The least visited
attraction on the Western Isles.
