Fet Milner

The Cancer Man

As I was growing up, my parents frequently had guests of the religious persuasion to dinner. Being the son of a preacher man, I suppose, comes with such benefits. Naturally, most dinnertime conversation was dominated by such exciting topics as "How To Convert The Wayward Flock" and "Why Jesus Loves Us Best". Occasionally, though, if we were very good, we would be treated to tales of the pastoral care that these men of the cloth (for there were, at that time, few women of the cloth) aspire to be able to tell -- without having to leave the comfort of their suburbs, of course.

One such minister (of the Catholic flavour, if my memory serves me correctly) told of a parishioner dying of cancer. This man had no family, little money, and no interests to speak of. The generous priest naturally, then, offered this man a place in his home to last out his death. His cancer was of the face. Growing for untold years beneath the skin of his cheek, a tumour flourished until it could no longer be denied, and bloomed across his face. It was an open lesion that wept the juices of corruption down onto his collar. For three months he sat -- possibly motionless -- in the lounge, watching television, seeping and oozing. Suppurating (a fabulous word for the occasion). He had initially been accustomed to holding a cloth to his chin to catch the flow; but, his energy leeched off by the cancer, it now usually sat beside him on the floor. He spoke little, as the wound had opened a hole through his cheek -- each word brought spit and pus, and you could see his teeth and blackened gums.

He sat in front of the television for those three months, taking only fluids, and watched whatever happened to be on. He slept sitting up, leaning back against a chair. In those days television only had two channels, and from midnight till seven in the morning was only a test pattern. At 8.30pm each night TV Kiwi and Cat would quietly tell all little children that they should be in bed. There were no infomercials, there was no Paul Holmes. But the cancer-man sat and watched whatever the television gave him, even the test pattern. He oozed.

He died watching the news, but the priest, unable to bring himself to draw the man into conversation, didn't notice until ten that night. The cancer-man had always made an effort to say good night, or nod, to the priest.

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