The Tumours Made Me Interesting Read Free Page A

humanity removal. The grime and filth were there in abundance. The walls and carpet were painted with it. But the filth had been fossilised beneath layers of disinfectant, rendering it ugly but harmless. No matter where people sat, they all looked like shadows. Quiet, yet distorted music sprayed from roof-mounted speakers. It sounded like a musical interpretation of a stagnant aquarium with all the emaciated fishes bobbing on the surface, blackened seaweed tendrils floating below. Surely there are better waiting rooms than this , I thought. I had a knack for choosing poorly and I blame it on my unwillingness to do research. I could have hopped online and found the best medical clinics in the area. Instead I picked up a four year-old phone book and rang the first place that looked even remotely doctor-related. I thought I’d chosen well. The receptionist was very careful to tell me that all appointments at this clinic would be rewarded with a free spoon, collectible upon exit. I kept losing my spoons so I figured it was a good sign. I was quite wrong.
    When my name, Bruce Miles, was called (and somehow mispronounced), I felt a surge of victory. I glanced around the waiting room, bathing in those looks of envy the shadows cast my way. It was upon rising that I really began to understand the necessity for waiting times at medical clinics. It gives you a fleeting sense of having won something ambiguous when your name is finally called – everybody gets a prize. I felt conspicuous like an erection on public transport as I made my way up the faded corridor. Everyone’s eyes were still upon me, wishing, if only for one regrettable moment, that they were me.
    The doctor was hunched over a foldout table and introduced himself in an indecipherable voice that sounded like an old refrigerator. He motioned toward a filthy looking beanbag and told me to sit, his back turned to me the whole time. After a few minutes of thick, awkward silence, the doctor shuffled his body around until he was straddling the chair.
    “So… tell me why you’re here,” he asked.
    I had been dreading this moment. I’d rehearsed what I was going to say in the mirror again and again, trying to find the least embarrassing way to explain my problem. I tried shrouding my problem in the most abstract metaphors, just to avoid saying anything cringe-worthy, but it reached a point where a World War II code breaker would have struggled to decipher my problem. I reasoned with myself that, as a professional, a doctor is well-versed at handling awkward illnesses and, as such, I had nothing to be worried about. So I decided I’d simply cut to the chase, the benefit being that it would get it over and done with in the quickest manner.
    “Umm… it’s my bowel movements,” the doctor scrunched up his face rudely. “Lately they’ve contained a lot of blood.”
    The doctor’s mouth fell open and he started fanning his hand about his nose. “That is fucking gross! What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”
    The question took me completely by surprise. It was as if this doctor had made it his mission to turn this into the most awkward moment of my life.
     “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” I said cautiously.
    “What do you think I am, a fucking doctor?”
     I nodded pathetically.
    “That is some nasty business. Why did you have to go telling me that for? I’m eating lunch after this appointment. Now all I’ll be able to think about is your disgusting problem.”
    I was far too shocked to feel offended. In fact, had I been in the doctor’s position, I wouldn’t have responded well either.
    “Well… I was hoping you might be able to tell me what’s wrong,” I continued.
    “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You’re disgusting! It’s not normal to,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “shit blood.”
    “I know it’s not normal,” I replied in a whisper to match his. “I’m not exactly pleased I have to come and see a doctor about this. I’m