The International Writers Magazine

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Uncle Leukaemia • Laura Coope

'Uncle cancer, the sinister old relative that ruined special occasions with his poisonous letching'

I resented the seat belt silently. It clawed powerfully in to my ribs, stifling my urges to dance, sprint maybe fly around the car. The pride filled my chest, stretching the seat belt to its limitations, I hoped it might burst.
I peered in to the window; my back seat pleasure was resigned to misting glass with my hot, agitated breath .my stomach was racing, I was tangled in the seconds passing, trying to lock them in my pocket. i was 10 and my awareness told me This was the day, this was the moment. So much had led up to this, anonymous family members shaking my hand, kissing my cheeks, setting fire to my expectations with clear, final words. I circled their sentences in my mind ‘you’re a lucky girl, having your brother home at last’ ‘aren’t you excited Laura? The hospital is sending him home for Christmas - lucky, lucky girl.’

My chest inflated further, satisfaction oozed through every atom of my presence. I puzzled at the heavy word that sank through my thoughts. Cancer. I had personified it for years, since he was first diagnosed. It had a fragrance, texture, posture, almost a position in our family; uncle cancer, the sinister old relative that ruined special occasions with his poisonous letching. Cancer was my imaginary friend that hated me with a confusing passion.

The car juddered over a break in the paving, the seat belt tugged masterfully once more, reminding me of its superiority. My mother turned towards the back seat, her smile seeped from the depths of her heart and warmed the lines on her tired, patient face. She gently stroked my brother’s leg, partly through affection, partly through conformation that he was in fact here, not waiting calmly in ward 5 for his lumber puncture.
My father was steady. His hands held the steering wheel with definite responsibility, driving his wife, daughter and son, his family, home for Christmas. His eyes were torn, stained with 6 years of hopeless sobs, they now appeared fresh, the layers of ache fading with each mile we drove.

I turned to my brother. 6 out of his 8 years of existence had been abused by uncle cancer, his hair delicately loosened from his head, sighing like feathers on the car interior. I yearned to weave the useless mass to his patchy, sparsely populated scalp, Instead I held his sweaty, pale hand. Riddled with the blemishes of a thousand needles. My seat belt pressed deep in to my shoulder blade, reminding me not to get too comfortable. This was after all, only the first stage of remission. My fingers gripped his as the cancer ate through his veins; he was riddled with this pollution. And all I did was watch.

The car turned gently in to our driveway, Chris Rea tenderly soothed from the radio, reminding us all of this crucial moment. Driving home for Christmas.
© Laura Coope Jan 2004
Laura is a first year Creative Arts student at Portsmouth University

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