The Tumours Made Me Interesting

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I had to walk to school each morning with my older brother. He was only two years older than me, but that was enough for my presence to cause embarrassment. He was always a good thirty seconds ahead of me and would grow visibly agitated if I tried to catch up. As far as my recollection is concerned, it was always winter back then. In each childhood memory, swimming up there in my brain stew, I’m always so cold.

This morning was the same as most other mornings I can recall. I awoke in a jelly-like sweat by the abhorrent sound of my mother warbling folk songs in her bedroom. These songs had never been heard before — songs invented in the moment. Her spontaneous outbursts of musicality, as poorly sung as they were, made me so happy. My mother was sick. As the year progressed, she spent more and more of her time in bed. I had no idea what was wrong. I was under the naïve belief that it was merely a really bad flu. My experience with illness didn’t extend beyond that. I tried to help her the same way she would help me when I was sick. I made her hot water bottles, almost always scorching my hands and injuring the kitchen sink cassowaries in the process. I’d hold tissues up to her nose and force her to blow, whether there was anything to evacuate or not. I’d make her the healthiest breakfasts I knew how to make. Our cupboards didn’t really contain much of what one would term ‘healthy’ food. Once a week, dad would go shopping and buy whatever his meager income would allow from the sort of supermarkets most people had never heard of. This resulted in some unusual culinary adventures. On this particular morning, I made my mother a breakfast consisting of fried chinchilla fat and yeast. I’ll never forget the woeful smell.

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