I do for you, Mr Co lin?’
I’ve been giving my next line a fair amount of thought. Actually practising it in front of my bedroom mirror. Much like I used to mime to Smiths songs when I was fourteen. (And now I think about it, Doctor, it would appear that I have a growth on one of my testicles sounds like a Morrissey lyric, one he rejected as being too gloomy—that and the fact that finding a plausible rhyme for testicles would have been beyond even his considerable lyrical gifts.) But now I’m here—on the stage, in a manner of speaking—I can’t say it. So instead I mumble, ‘I’ve got the flu.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to do about it?’
I don’t answer.
‘I suggest you go home, take some paracetamol and sleep it off,’ he says.
I don’t move, though.
‘Is that it?’ he asks. ‘You’ve got the flu and you just came to tell me?’ He picks up his pen and writes something on my file—time waster probably.
‘No,’ I say quietly.
‘What then?’
I still can’t say it.
‘Speak up.’ He’s irritated now. ‘I’ve got a waiting room full out there.’
Yes, three old ladies and the Grim Reaper.
‘It’s my…I’ve got a…’
He nods by way of encouragement.
‘I’ve got cancer.’ There. Said it. It’s out now.
‘Really?’ he asks, genuinely curious because, well, there’s no note of it in my file. ‘Where? When was it diagnosed?’
‘It hasn’t been…Not exactly. But I’ve got a lump.’
‘Where precisely?’
I can’t say it.
‘Give me a clue.’
‘It’s…It’s on…My…’ No, still can’t say it.
‘Somewhere rather personal perhaps?’ Stump hazards.
I nod.
‘Why don’t you point?’
Good idea. I point.
‘You’d better drop your trousers.’
‘Do I have to?’ I ask.
‘Well, you could just describe it for me, I suppose,’ Stump says.
Excellent. Relaxed now, I say, ‘It’s on my left…er…you know, my left one, and it’s about—’
‘I was being facetious, Mr Collins—’
‘It’s Co lin.’
‘Whatever, if we’re going to make any progress at all today you really will have to take your trousers off.’
Damn.
9.24 a.m.
Still traumatised, I buckle my belt and zip up my flies. Stump noisily peels off his surgical gloves and sits down. He picks up my file. ‘Smoke, Mr Collins?’
‘No,’ I say fairly honestly. I’ll share in the very occasional joint, my one weedy concession to my inner Jimi Hendrix—I’m sure he’s in there somewhere—but I’ve never touched a cigarette.
‘Drink?’
‘Only socially…’
…And not much of that these days.
‘How’s your general health been?’
‘Fine, I suppose. Apart from the flu.’
‘Are you stressed?’
‘Well, I’ve got a lump,’ I say, not adding, You cradled it in your bloody hand. How do you think it makes me feel?
‘I meant generally,’ he explains.
I should be, shouldn’t I? Advertising is one of the more stressful businesses. At least, that’s what everyone in advertising would have you believe. Maybe it is if you have to make knife-edge decisions about the fate of multi-million-pound marketing budgets, but I don’t do that…I lurk around freezer displays with a digital camera.
It wasn’t always so. There was a time when I lived on an adrenal diet of tension. It lasted for about six months. I was an account supervisor in the fast lane, whizzing past blue and white signs pointing me in the direction of Rapid Promotion and Big Corner Office. It couldn’t last. After its initial rubberburning burst of speed, my career stalled. I’m languishing on the hard shoulder now, watching younger models scoot by in a blur of alloy wheels. I’m only thirty-one and they’re not that much younger, but life spans in adland are measured in months, not years. Strangely, while this state of affairs depresses me, it doesn’t stress me out.
‘No,’ I tell Stump, ‘I’m not stressed. Generally.’
‘Testicular cancer is the commonest form of the disease in young men, you know,’ he says, leaning back in his chair and ignoring me sinking in mine. ‘Having said that, it’s almost certainly not cancer. One big testicular clinic saw over two thousand lumps in a year. Less than a hundred of them were cancers. Incredible, eh? There are testicular clinics. Fancy that. Outposts of the NHS that examine nothing but balls.’ He’s rambling and I’m not feeling comforted.
‘If it isn’t cancer, what is it?’ I ask.
‘Could be any number of things,’ he replies vaguely.
I need some help here. ‘Like?’
Seems he needs help too because he leans over to a pile of books on the floor and examines the titles. After a moment he pulls one from the middle, a big, dusty softback that looks as if it hasn’t had its spine bent in years. ‘Wonderful book, this. Excellent pictures,’ he says, flicking through the pages. He stops, peers at the print for a moment, then reads, ‘“Testicular swellings commonly misdiagnosed as tumours”…Blah, blah…“Seminal granuloma, chronic epididymo-orchitis, haematocele” and so on and so forth…See? Any number of things.’
All of which are not only unpronounceable but also pull off the difficult feat of sounding more terrifying than cancer.
‘I’m going to refer you to Saint Matthew’s,’ he says.
‘The cancer bit of Saint Matthew’s?’ I whisper.
‘Heavens, no. They’d try to have me struck off for wasting their time. You’ll see a general surgeon. Maybe a urologist.’
What’s a urologist? He’s not going to tell me and I’m not about to ask.
