Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years

  Somehow the news of my illness has spread around the village. I doubt Dr Wolfowicz is in the habit of talking about his patients and their afflictions so I suspect that the culprit is Mrs Leech. It can only be her. I have a good mind to complain to the British Medical Association. Several villagers came up to me and engaged me in conversation, all the while looking at me as if to measure me for my coffin. A small part of me enjoyed the attention.

  Bumped into the Timbuktu woman when I was pushing my father and Gracie back from the pub. She asked me if Gracie was an adopted child. I joked that, as far as I knew, Gracie was carrying my DNA.

  My father said, in a feeble attempt at being humorous, ‘Though you never know in our family.’

  The Timbuktu woman, whose name I have forgotten, said, ‘She looks nothing like you, she looks dark, very dark, like a gypsy girl.’

  My father took offence and said, ‘Are we going home, or what?’

  Gypsies once tarmacked his drive in their old house in Wisteria Walk while he was out and tried to charge him £1,000. He was about to write a cheque when my mother came home and reminded him he had no money in the bank. The gypsies took their revenge by dumping a pile of tarmac at the end of the drive so he couldn’t get his car out.

  Monday 15th October

  It was an effort to cycle to the bookshop today. In between customers I tried to write a few scenes of Plague!. However, my muse has deserted me and I realized that I could not stage the play single-handedly. I wrote to the vicar in his role as chairman of the Mangold Parva players.

  Dear Simon

  It is with great regret that I have to inform you that, due to ill health, I am no longer able to write, direct and produce our community play, Plague! I realise that this must come as a blow to you, but I have been told that there is a movement afoot to stage Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which is perhaps more suitable to a church-based group.

  I remain, sir, your most humble and obedient servant,

  A. A. Mole

  PS: Are there any vacant family plots available in your graveyard, in an area not overlooked by the school?

  Tuesday 16th October

  Received an appointment in the post today. I am seeing the oncologist tomorrow at ten fifteen at the Royal Hospital.

  Wednesday 17th October

  My oncologist is Dr Sophia Rubik.

  I said, ‘Rubik? As in the cube?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘as in the dammed cube.’ She invited me to sit down and asked me how I wanted to be addressed.

  There was initial confusion – I thought she said ‘get undressed’ so I stood up and started to unbuckle my belt – but once we’d sorted it out, I said, ‘Call me Adrian.’

  *

  To be honest, Diary, I could not fully concentrate while she talked about suitable treatments. I was thinking about the day my father threw my Rubik’s cube into the canal when I went fishing with him once. He said the constant clicking was scaring the fish away. But I must have heard a few options: watch and wait, radiotherapy, radioactive pellets, surgery, radioactive ultrasound and photodynamic therapy.

  I got into a mild panic, just as I used to at the pick ’n’ mix counter in Woolworths. I asked her which treatment she recommended.

  She said, in her pleasant North Country accent, ‘We decide together, Adrian.’

  I said, ‘But I’m not qualified. I only got a C grade in GCSE Biology.’

  She said, ‘But it’s far better if our patients engage with us, Adrian. We find that patients who own their disease have a more satisfactory prognosis.’

  I said, ‘Well, which is the least painful treatment option?’

  She said, ‘None of them are painful, Adrian, though I suppose it depends on your tolerance, but some are uncomfortable and have unpleasant side effects.’

  I said, ‘Which treatment has the least uncomfortable side effects?’

  She said, ‘Watchful waiting, I suppose, but in your case we cannot watch and wait. You need treatment, starting in the next few weeks. Your PSA levels are higher than I would like.’

  ‘What exactly is PSA?’

  She rattled off, ‘Prostate Specific Antigen. It’s the liquid that carries and nurtures your sperm and it’s essential for healthy sexual function.’

  She gave me a booklet and said, ‘Read this and discuss it with your family, and then we’ll carry on from there.’

  I sat down in the waiting room to sort myself out and heard an elderly man say to his wife, ‘I wouldn’t have a prostrate operation again for all the tea in China.’

  As I walked to the hospital car park, I mentally crossed ‘surgery’ off my list of options.

  I wish now that I had not discussed my treatment options with my family when I got home. Everyone had a different opinion on what was best for me.

  Daisy said, leafing through Prostate Treatment Explained, ‘Isn’t it the bloody doctor’s job to decide on a treatment? I mean, we’re talking bloody cancer here.’

  My mother said, ‘I wish you wouldn’t use that word, Daisy.’

  Daisy asked which word.

  ‘You know,’ said my mother, ‘the “C” word.’

  ‘Cancer?’ said Daisy.

  ‘Please,’ said my mother, ‘don’t say it.’

  ‘But that’s what it is,’ said Daisy. ‘There’s no point in pussyfooting around, is there?’

  ‘We used to call it “canker”, when I was a kid,’ said my father, smiling at the memory.

  Thursday 18th October

  Daisy offered to come to the hospital with me today. I told her I’d rather face it on my own. I had expected her to insist and was hurt when she did not.

  I do not approve of tattoos so I was annoyed when Dr Rubik told me that, as I had opted to have external-beam radiotherapy, I would have to have permanent tattoos over the site of my tumour. Who will do the tattooing? Will I have to go to a parlour?

  Dr Rubik said, ‘A radiotherapist will collate your data and calculate where to direct the beam. Before you are tattooed you might like to tidy yourself up down there.’

  When I got home, I asked Daisy what she thought Dr Rubik had meant when she said ‘tidy yourself up down there’.

  Daisy shuddered and said, ‘My guess is it’s something to do with pubic hair – as in, get rid of it.’ I started to ask her for advice but she said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t take part in this conversation. I don’t do pubic hair.’

  This is true, Diary. She once finished a three-year relationship because she found a single pubic hair of his embedded in a bar of her Chanel soap.

  I did the best I could with a razor and a hand-held magnifying mirror. I must say, I quite like the look. Daisy said it’s called ‘a Brazilian’.

  Friday 19th October

  Mr Carlton-Hayes has kindly ordered The Complete Guide to Overcoming Prostate Cancer, Prostatitis and BPH by Dr Peter Scardino. He said, ‘I believe this is highly regarded,’ when he handed it to me, ‘as is Professor Jane Plant’s Prostate Cancer, which is considerably easier to carry.’

  Saturday 20th October

  My mother has fixed a date to go on The Jeremy Kyle Show! As if I don’t have enough on my plate already. Also, Glenn is home on leave next month. I read on his Facebook page that he was in a patrol vehicle yesterday that narrowly missed being blown up by a roadside bomb. However, he saw a kid who was standing near by lose all the fingers on one hand. Glenn’s patrol took the kid to a medical centre.

  Glenn wrote: ‘It ain’t no joke having no fingers on your hand in Afghanistan. There ain’t no National Health Service, and you need two hands to harvest the poppies what they make their heroin from.’

  Sunday 21st October

  Rosie and Mad Dog Jackson arrived at my parents’ house today having hitched a ride from their squat in east Leeds. A lorry delivering chickens from Scotland to Plymouth (why?) dropped them off at junction 22, at Leicester Forest East services. They then persuaded an old lady in a red Corsa to bring them to Mangold Parva. The
poor woman actually drove up our potholed drive and deposited them outside my parents’ pigsty. My mother ran out and welcomed them all and felt obliged to ask the old lady in for a cup of tea. She soon regretted her invitation when Mrs Pearl took off her hat and bored everybody rigid by talking about the son and daughter-in-law she had been visiting in Derby.

  Eventually my father cracked and said, ‘You’d best be off now, Mrs Pearl. They close all the exit roads from the village at dusk. Mrs Pearl arranged her hat on her head, took up her car keys and left in a hurry.

  Rosie burst out laughing and said, ‘Dad, you’re such a banger!’

  Rosie and Mad Dog Jackson have switched their allegiance from hippy to goth. My mother said Rosie looked well, which Rosie did not take as a compliment as she was attempting to resemble somebody recently risen from the grave.

  My father was wearing the idiotic smile he always has when Rosie is around. He said, ‘You’re like your dad, Rosie, we neither of us like to stick to the rules.’

  Mad Dog sprawled himself on the sofa and rolled a cigarette, taking tobacco from a tin decorated with skulls. When my mother addressed him as Mad Dog he corrected her, saying, ‘That was in a past life, Pauline. I’m called Banshee now.’

  *

  I Googled the name when I got home, and was disconcerted to find that a banshee is an unworldly being who screams when somebody is about to die.

  Monday 22nd October

  Rosie – who is still called Rosie, thank God – came round late last night to borrow some cigarettes from Daisy. In the warmth of the kitchen she gave off a pungent odour and constantly scratched her head.

  I said, ‘I hope you haven’t got nits, Rosie. We’ve only just got rid of Gracie’s.’

  She said, ‘No, my scalp’s itching. I haven’t washed my hair for over a year.’ As she was leaving, she stopped in the doorway and said, ‘I have prayed to our goth God to make you well again, Aidy.’

  I asked her if her God was a compassionate sort.

  She said, ‘Not always. When a goth dies, God laughs. But you’re a human, Aidy, he’ll look after you.’

  I said, ‘We need to talk about The Jeremy Kyle Show.’

  She said, ‘I’ve got to sort it out, Bro. I’ve never felt as if I belonged in this family.’

  I said, ‘Neither have I. I’ve always felt as if my true family were aristocrats of some kind.’

  She said, ‘But you’ve got Mum’s feet and George’s nose.’

  How sad, that she is now calling our dad George.

  Tuesday 23rd October

  Sometimes I forget I’ve got prostate cancer for minutes at a time. So, progress of a kind. It seems that every time my mother looks at me she has tears in her eyes. She should either toughen up a bit or stop wearing mascara, one of the two.

  Wednesday 24th October

  Mr Carlton-Hayes has started using a walking stick. I am suddenly aware that everybody I come into contact with has some form of physical or mental disability. Where are all the able-bodied people? It’s a wonder the country is not bankrupt.

  Thursday 25th October

  Started my treatment today. Before I went into the X-ray department Dr Rubik said, ‘Perhaps I should remind you about the possible side effects of radiotherapy.’

  I said, ‘There’s no need. I’ve read the booklet twice, thoroughly, and there are very few side effects.’

  Dr Rubik said, ‘I have been a practising oncologist for seventeen years. I have been responsible for treating thousands of patients. I have done more than read a booklet, twice, so perhaps you’ll allow me to inform you about the side effects of your chosen treatment. First, you must be very careful in the shower and do not use soap or gels. Your treatment area will be fragile and you must not expose yourself to strong sunlight.’

  I gave a hollow laugh at this and said, ‘If only.’

  ‘Second, urinary incontinence. You could find yourself dribbling during or after the completion of the treatment. Thirdly, you could suffer from diarrhoea and rectal discomfort.’

  ‘So I could find myself doubly incontinent?’ I checked.

  ‘Possibly,’ she said, ‘but no two patients are alike, and the size and the siting of a tumour vary incredibly. I have known patients have no side effects whatsoever, but I have also known a few unfortunate folk who are confined to the house with double incontinence.’

  As she spoke, I had a vision of myself trapped in the pigsty, wandering from room to room wearing huge incontinence pants underneath voluminous tracksuit trousers. My wife and child had fled. My only visitor was the incontinence nurse bringing me fresh supplies.

  A nurse took me to the radiotherapy department to familiarise me with the equipment, and then handed me over to the radiotherapist, a nice girl who looked more like a farmer’s wife than a hospital technician. She held her hand out and said her name was Sally. She looked remarkably cheerful for someone who works with half-dead people all day. She told me that I would have to have a permanent tattoo in order to determine the position of the radiotherapy delivery.

  I asked her if I could have something discreet – a small bird perhaps or a flower, or even ‘Daisy’, my wife’s name.

  Sally said, ‘This is not a tattoo parlour, Mr Mole. Your tattoos will be a series of tiny dots, barely discernable to the human eye. She asked me in the nicest possible way to remove my trousers and pants and put on a hospital gown. She then asked me to climb on to a high hard bed and to lie on my back.

  I had dreaded the moment that my gown would be lifted to reveal my nakedness, but as she positioned the machine over my genitalia she chatted brightly about her weekend. She had spent it sailing in a dinghy on Rutland Water with her boyfriend, Anthony. She asked me if I was interested in water sports. I told her that I was morbidly afraid of water and that for me it took a large amount of courage even to swim in the shallow end of a swimming pool. I hardly felt the prick of the tattooing needle. Then Sally left the room and spoke to me through a loud speaker, urging me to ‘keep absolutely still, Adrian’.

  I did as I was told, terrified that the beam would miss my prostate and hit my penis. After a few minutes, Sally told me to relax and came back into the treatment room.

  As she helped me down from the bed, she said, ‘So, I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.’

  While I was dressing I was relieved to think that Sally and I would get along, as I would be forced to see her nearly every day for the next eight weeks.

  Friday 26th October

  Treatment.

  Saturday 27th October

  Treatment.

  Sunday 28th October

  Treatment.

  Monday 29th October

  Treatment.

  Tuesday 30th October

  Treatment.

  Wednesday 31st October

  Halloween

  Mr Carlton-Hayes in hospital with severe back pain. Hitesh is running the shop.

  After treatment, and before I went to work, I reluctantly called in at Woolworths to pick up a witch’s costume for Gracie to wear tonight when she is out trick or treating. The weather is so cold it will be completely hidden by her big Puffa.

  I do not approve of this American practice. It is wholly un-English. However, given the state of my health, I need a quiet life. I filled a large bag with £5 of sweets from the pick ’n’ mix, for the trick or treaters who call on us, though in the past two years few have dared to walk down our dark and inhospitable drive.

  For some reason I always feel comforted when I am in Woolworths. When I was a child, I spent my first pocket money there. I was five years old and forked out twenty pence on flying saucers. It is good to know that whatever travails we may suffer in life, Woolworths will always be there.

  Thursday 1st November

  Hitesh rang me last night to say that he can’t cope alone. He doesn’t understand how Mr Carlton-Hayes’s system works. Also, he is not qualified to give valuations on the second-hand and antiquarian books.

  I went to see
Mr Carlton-Hayes after my treatment, in Ward Seventeen. Leslie had just left. I did not want to worry Mr C-H but I suggested that I get in touch with Bernard Hopkins, who occasionally helps us out in emergencies, and ask if he can run the bookshop until Mr C-H and I are able to go back to work full time. It was strange seeing him in his nightwear. I didn’t realize that they still manufactured blue and white striped pyjamas with a draw cord. He is in a lot of pain. A television hanging from the ceiling was showing The Jeremy Kyle Show.

  Mr Carlton-Hayes said, sotto voce, ‘I now understand your distress at the thought of your mother going on Mr Kyle’s show. The poor guests are frightfully indiscreet about their troubled lives and relationships. I find it quite distressing, I cannot concentrate on my Socrates, though I admit that there are certain parallels with ancient Greece.’

  I asked him if he wanted me to turn the television off.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I’m mildly addicted to it now, I think.’

  Friday 2nd November

  Bernard Hopkins is currently living in a boarding house in Northampton. I rang him at ten o’clock in the morning but to my dismay his speech was slurred and at first he couldn’t remember who I was. I should have put the phone down there and then but instead I went ahead and asked if he could help us out at the bookshop for a couple of weeks.

  He said, ‘I’d be delighted to leave this accursed place. I came here to top myself. I parked up on a farm track, connected a hose to the exhaust pipe, downed a bottle of Stolly, smoked a few fags, thought I’d die listening to the afternoon play on Radio Four, did the sudoku in the Independent, then the soddin’ car ran out of petrol so I was fucked. Couldn’t drive back to the boarding house, too pissed. Bloody cold it was. Had a row with a yokel who couldn’t get his tractor by me. Shunted my motor into a ditch. It was dark by the time the AA pulled me out. Complete bollocks of a day.’