The Cancer Queen
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: While the staff of the beleaguered and underfunded NHS deserve all the praise that’s going, there’s always the odd exception.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: While the staff of the beleaguered and underfunded NHS deserve all the praise that’s going, there’s always the odd exception.
That’s right, dear, avert your eyes when I come towards you. Oh, I love that. All these young nurses scared to look me in the face when I pass them. Always gives me a wee kick. As does the noise my heels make on the tiled floor. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, echoing along the corridor. Lets them know I’m coming. Keeps them on their toes. Yes, minions, I wear heels in the hospital. I’m a consultant. Unlike you, I can wear what the fuck I want.
Feeling rather good for a Monday morning. It was an enjoyable weekend. Hair cut and re-blonded on Saturday. That always buoys me. Then yesterday out riding with my daughter on our horses. Who’d have thought that one day I’d actually own horses? The poor girl from a tenement in the arse-end of the city rising to become one of its top oncologists. Well, the top oncologist if the latest promotion goes through, which it will. Then I won’t have to make these boring fucking ward rounds any longer. Someone else will be doing it for me. But I’ll still be the one who decides on the treatments; that’s the most important thing.
Anyway, horse riding. Love it. All the gear. And the clothes, especially the clothes. The only downside is that those jodhpurs make my arse look enormous in them, so I have to wear an extra-long riding jacket to cover it up. Not that any of the plebs from here would ever see it; they’re all too busy getting on with their grey little lives.
And speaking of grey little lives, here we are. Ward 44. The Ward of the Big C. The Ward of Winners and Losers. I smile briefly at the favoured ones, the Winners, as I walk past their beds. And I ignore the Losers, of course. My destination this morning is the Loser in the last bed on the left. She’s a feisty wee thing, for sure. Probably comes from the same kind of background as me. Judging from the bling – sorry, diamonds – she wears, it looks like her and her husband have a bit of money about them as well.
I remember when the pair of them came in for their first appointment with me. When I told them that she had metastatic breast cancer and explained that although it couldn’t be cured it could be treated, the husband looked shell-shocked, as they all do. But her? Didn’t blink a fucking eye. No tears, nothing. Instead, she sticks out her pretty little chin and pipes up, “I want to know how long I have to live? Is it six months? A year? Longer than that? You can tell me. I can take it. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”
Well, I nearly peed myself. The drama of it all. Had to choke back the laughter. Eventually, when I had composed myself, I said something to the effect of, “Ha, don’t worry, you’ll be around for a good while yet. We’ve a whole armoury of treatments we can try. But we’ll keep the big guns, like chemotherapy, in reserve for the moment. We’ll start off with a course of radiotherapy. See if that will blitz the tumour.”
So here I am with the results of said course of radiotherapy. “Great news,” I declare. “The latest tumour markers are way down, almost negligible. We’ll put you on a couple of drugs to keep the tumour at bay and monitor you as an outpatient. Meantime, there’s no reason why you can’t go home. You can phone that husband of yours to tell him to come and collect you.”
She smiles sweetly. “Thank you so much,” she says.
I smile back as sincerely as I can muster.
Your thanks will be short-lived, lady, I’m thinking as I leave the ward, a different kind of smile on my face. The tumour is in retreat, but it’ll re-group and attack you again. You’ll be back here for chemo in no time at all. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. It’s like a cat-and-mouse game, you see. Until the cat grows tired. And this particular cat will most certainly grow tired. There’s only so much time and resources I’ll allow to be spent on you. Telling your GP that you smoked regularly may have been an honest admission, but it was also your fatal error. You’re killing yourself already. I’ll simply let the tumour hasten the process. It’s not a case of smoking can kill on my watch, dear, it’s a case of smoking will kill.
Feeling rather good for a Monday morning. It was an enjoyable weekend. Hair cut and re-blonded on Saturday. That always buoys me. Then yesterday out riding with my daughter on our horses. Who’d have thought that one day I’d actually own horses? The poor girl from a tenement in the arse-end of the city rising to become one of its top oncologists. Well, the top oncologist if the latest promotion goes through, which it will. Then I won’t have to make these boring fucking ward rounds any longer. Someone else will be doing it for me. But I’ll still be the one who decides on the treatments; that’s the most important thing.
Anyway, horse riding. Love it. All the gear. And the clothes, especially the clothes. The only downside is that those jodhpurs make my arse look enormous in them, so I have to wear an extra-long riding jacket to cover it up. Not that any of the plebs from here would ever see it; they’re all too busy getting on with their grey little lives.
And speaking of grey little lives, here we are. Ward 44. The Ward of the Big C. The Ward of Winners and Losers. I smile briefly at the favoured ones, the Winners, as I walk past their beds. And I ignore the Losers, of course. My destination this morning is the Loser in the last bed on the left. She’s a feisty wee thing, for sure. Probably comes from the same kind of background as me. Judging from the bling – sorry, diamonds – she wears, it looks like her and her husband have a bit of money about them as well.
I remember when the pair of them came in for their first appointment with me. When I told them that she had metastatic breast cancer and explained that although it couldn’t be cured it could be treated, the husband looked shell-shocked, as they all do. But her? Didn’t blink a fucking eye. No tears, nothing. Instead, she sticks out her pretty little chin and pipes up, “I want to know how long I have to live? Is it six months? A year? Longer than that? You can tell me. I can take it. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”
Well, I nearly peed myself. The drama of it all. Had to choke back the laughter. Eventually, when I had composed myself, I said something to the effect of, “Ha, don’t worry, you’ll be around for a good while yet. We’ve a whole armoury of treatments we can try. But we’ll keep the big guns, like chemotherapy, in reserve for the moment. We’ll start off with a course of radiotherapy. See if that will blitz the tumour.”
So here I am with the results of said course of radiotherapy. “Great news,” I declare. “The latest tumour markers are way down, almost negligible. We’ll put you on a couple of drugs to keep the tumour at bay and monitor you as an outpatient. Meantime, there’s no reason why you can’t go home. You can phone that husband of yours to tell him to come and collect you.”
She smiles sweetly. “Thank you so much,” she says.
I smile back as sincerely as I can muster.
Your thanks will be short-lived, lady, I’m thinking as I leave the ward, a different kind of smile on my face. The tumour is in retreat, but it’ll re-group and attack you again. You’ll be back here for chemo in no time at all. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. It’s like a cat-and-mouse game, you see. Until the cat grows tired. And this particular cat will most certainly grow tired. There’s only so much time and resources I’ll allow to be spent on you. Telling your GP that you smoked regularly may have been an honest admission, but it was also your fatal error. You’re killing yourself already. I’ll simply let the tumour hasten the process. It’s not a case of smoking can kill on my watch, dear, it’s a case of smoking will kill.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of four novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.