Kancer by Will Chadwick One day K. found a mole. It was quite a large mole, and he wondered why he hadn't spotted it before; but then, it was on his back. It was round, like most moles, and hairy, like some. It sat just at the base of his spine, in the middle, just above the cleft of his buttocks. It seemed somehow defiant, as if to say, 'I'm here now, and I'm here to stay.' Of all the places to find a mole, this was one of the more alarming, if only for the fact that it was a jolly good place for a mole to hide: for moles, by their nature, are exterior, and therefore generally visible sorts of beings. At least there was nearly always a part of them visible, wasn't there? They were rather like ice bergs: there was the bit above the surface that you could see, and there was the bit below the surface that was much larger. And you couldn't see how big or how far it extended underneath the surface: that was the frightening thing about an ice berg. Or a mole. It probably looked like one of those pictures of a synapse: an internal spider web with tendrils and interconnections, a subcutaneous warren. It wasn't by any means the only mole he had, let alone the only mole on his back. In fact, K. had quite a few moles; more, perhaps, than the average person. Although who was to say what an average person was, and how many moles they had? It just seemed somehow different. It wasn't just the location of the mole, though he did think the base of his spine as rather a sensitive location; neither was it the fact that it stuck out a bit more than the others, rather like a large wart; nor was it the varying different shades of brown, getting darker towards the centre. He decided to ignore it. He dressed as usual, noticing as he tucked his shirt into his suit trousers at the back he could feel his fingers brush against the mole through the shirt material. It made him feel a little uncomfortable, but he took no more notice of it. He brushed his teeth and went downstairs and out into the street. It was a short, brisk walk to the bank where he worked, and K. arrived ten minutes early for work. He went straight into his office and sat down at his desk. There was a pile of papers for him to sort and file. It had been left there by his secretary the night before. He picked up the top one and glanced at it. He didn't intend to start straight into the pile of papers, but something caught his eye in this one and he gave it a second, less cursory, look. It was an application for a mortgage. Nothing strange about that, except that the woman applying for it was not married, nor was she engaged, and the house she was hoping to buy with the mortgage had six bedrooms. He shifted in his seat. Surely six bedrooms was too many for a single woman. He shifted again, and realised this time that he had felt the mole rubbing against the backrest of his chair. He stood up, put the paper back on the desk and turned around to examine the chair. It had a small gap between the bottom of the backrest and the horizontal seat. He sat down again. The mole on his back was just the same height as the edge of the bottom of the backrest. He stood up again and looked at the chair: it was the same chair as always. It was a good chair, had never caused him any discomfort before. He wondered, then, why he had only noticed this discomfort today. The mole could not have just grown up overnight, could it? Moles didn't do things like that. They grew slowly, like other organic things. He went over to the window. It was still dark, since it was winter, and he could see his reflection in the mirror. He loosened his trousers and lifted the back of his shirt out of them, lowering them slightly. He turned around and tried to examine the mole. It was difficult to see at such a twisted angle, whilst at the same time lifting his shirt and holding his trousers up. He gave up and decided to take off his shirt to make it easier to see the mole. He turned around again and looked over his shoulder at the reflection of his back. He could see most of his back, but the windows were too high for him to see the mole, so he went to get his chair, dragged it over to the window and stood on it. Now he could see it better. At that precise moment, his secretary knocked and came in, as she always did when she arrived at work, to ask if he would like a coffee. She looked at him rather oddly, standing by the window on his chair with his shirt off, craning his neck over his shoulder. He looked at her, but she said nothing, as if it was he who should speak first, given the situation. "I have a mole," he said. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. She looked embarrassed and quickly retreated from the room. "No, no. It's not a bad one," he explained as she was closing the door. But she was already out of earshot. And anyway, how did he know it wasn't a bad one? There was no way he could tell, even if he could see his reflection in the window. What if it was a bad one? What if it wasn't just another mole? What if he went to the doctor and the doctor said it was malignant? K. decided that he was going to see Doctor Valz. There was no way out of it. He would visit doctor's and have the mole examined. Then, at least, he could be sure. Then his mind would be put to rest on the matter. He gave up trying to see the mole reflected in the window and stepped down carefully from his chair. Donning his shirt and doing up his trousers, he tried to get back to his work. It was past nine o'clock, and the hum of activity coming from outside his door told him that the bank was full of people, some of whom would be waiting to see him. Some of them had made their appointments weeks ago, for K. was a very busy man. However, K. was in no state of mind to deal with overdrafts and loans and pleading eyes. He was too distracted. Instead, he called his secretary into his office and told her to cancel all his appointments for the rest of the day; then he put on his jacket and swept out of his office, passing the imploring customers on his way out. Most of them sat silently, almost fading into the wallpaper, but they came to life when they saw him walk past. Some of them stretched out their hands in supplication to him, as if touching him would ease their financial worries, but he ignored them. They couldn't help him. K. walked briskly out of the bank and out into the street: it looked different from when he had entered the bank earlier. No doubt it had got lighter, as the sun had risen, but it had also somehow got darker, too. He walked in the direction of Dr. Valz's office. He knew the way, and there was no point in waiting for a cab, since it wasn't far. As he walked, his thoughts crept back to the mole. The mole had changed the course of his day: it had caused the people waiting in the bank, who had been waiting for weeks to see him, to have to wait even longer. There was work to be done, and now K. would be behind. This was unlike him, to be behind in his work. Normally, he was known for his steady reliable work-rate. It was what got him elevated to the position he now held. Now he would have to work late tomorrow, and maybe come in at the weekend. His secretary would have to rearrange all of his appointments for the day, and perhaps some for tomorrow. He would have to apologise to each of customers when he did finally see them, which would be awkward. He paused form his thoughts and looked up at the street sign. It was dirty, and the part of the name that he could make out didn't make any sense. There wasn't any street with a name like that near here. Then he realised that the other streets were not quite right. He had not, in fact, walked in the direction of Dr. Valz's office; instead, lost in his thoughts, he had ended up somewhere entirely different: somewhere he didn't recognise at all. He carried on walking, intending to ask someone for directions, but there was no-one else on the street. He turned a corner, and saw a policeman up ahead in the distance. The policeman was quite far away, and walking away from K. at a fair pace; K. had to run in order to catch up with him and was quite out of breath when he finally drew level. The policeman stopped when he saw the huffing K. arrive in front of him and block his way, and waited whilst the man caught his breath. "Excuse me," said K., "which way to A---- Street?" The policeman turned and indicated to where K. had just come from, "Back that way, and take the fourth left, and then the second right. You'll find it, sure enough." "But that's where I just came from. Surely you must be mistaken. I was just there and that street wasn't," replied the incredulous K. "It sounds like you are the one who has made the mistake. I've lived in this city all of my life, and I'd know my way around blindfolded." "So have I..." returned K., as he headed back the way he had come. Then he half-turned, still walking, and thanked the policeman over his shoulder, before continuing on his way. When he arrived back at the place to which he had been directed, across the street from where he had been not fifteen minutes earlier, he instantly noticed the correct street, and turned down it, towards the office of Dr. Valz. The sign was there, above the door, where it had always been, and he went inside, climbing the stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs there was a narrow corridor. Dr. Valz's offices were inside the first door on the right, and the door was very close to the top of the stairs, so that one had to open it whilst still on the penultimate step. Inside, the waiting room was quiet. Many people sat waiting, crowded around the small coffee table. He walked up to the receptionist, a young woman who smiled at him, and asked her if there was any chance the doctor could see him today. "You'll have to wait a while, I'm afraid: he's terribly busy today. Never seen so many patients turning up unannounced." He immediately considered leaving, and returning another day, with an appointment. But he was here now. He had already cancelled his meetings for the day; he would not be welcomed back at the bank today. He would have to stay away, and if anything he should stay here. At least there was a chance he might see the doctor. "How long..." She seemed to anticipate his question, "I couldn't say. They've all been here all day; some of them since yesterday," she gestured to the other waiting patients. "Since yesterday...," K began. She interrupted again. "Is it urgent? I only ask because most of these patients aren't urgent cases. They are old; not like you. They come here to complain and hope that the doctor will find something wrong with them and prescribe them medication. They like having medication to take. They will die anyway, whether they are sick or not, whether they have medication or not. "But you, I see you will not wait. You are young and strong and handsome and impatient. I could examine you, if you like. You would not have to wait so long to see the doctor." "Where would you do this? Surely not here, in front of all these people?" "There is a small examining ante-room behind that door." She pointed to a door in the wall behind her that he had never seen before, though he had been a patient of Dr. Valz for a long time. "Is it all right to just leave them here? What if someone else comes in?" "They are very well-behaved. No-one else will come: we are now closed for the day: there is not more room to admit patients." She spoke of the other patients as if they weren't there, though the room was small enough for most of their conversation to be heard. She smiled at him and took him by the hand, brushing her hair behind her ear with her other hand as she did so, and led him into the examining room, shutting the door behind them. When they came out of the examining room many hours must have passed, for the waiting room seemed much darker. He could still make out the shapes of the other patients: they all appeared to still be there, all sitting exactly where they had been. A few of them were asleep. The receptionist stroked his hand and disappeared into the gloom. The heard the two 'click's of a door opening and then closing. There were still no seats, so he stood, motionless, where he was. As soon as she was gone, a muttering arose, which quickly died down when another 'click' signalled her re-entrance. "Don't worry about them: they're just jealous." She took his hand tenderly and led him towards the door she had come from. "Dr. Valz will see you now." She gently pushed him through the doorway and he turned back to ask her if she was coming in with him but she shut the door behind him. "Why are you here?" barked a voice from the other end of the room. It was dark in the room. A small desk lamp provided the only light, and it was turned down low so as not to interfere with the dark too much. "Why don't you people ever leave me alone? You come to me day and night asking for cures to imaginary illnesses. If you only had the strength to look after yourselves I would not be such a busy man." K. hesitated, unsure of whether to go forward towards the voice, or wait until he was summoned. "Well, come here, sir. I cannot see you over there." K. inched forwards. "What is it you want to see me about? Oh, it's you. I was expecting someone else." "How are you, doctor?" said K., still unsure of himself. "That is not the question. We are not here to inquire about my health. Otherwise you would be behind this desk instead of me, and I find that idea distressing to say the least." "I have a mole," said K, weakly. "You are not the only one with a mole. Many people have moles. Some have more than one." "I also have more than one." "And what, pray, makes you count this mole as more of an individual than the rest of your moles?" "I want you to check it out. It's in an...odd place." K. began to take off his shirt, but the doctor waved him back into his seat. "That won't be necessary." "But what if it's...you know..." "I can tell you now that it's most definitely not." "I'd still like you to have a look." Dr. Valz sighed a long sigh, which suggested that this was all just an unnecessary waste of his time, that he had more important things he could be doing. "If you insist." K. took off his shirt and turned around. As the doctor examined the mole, he related how and when he had found it, and his surprise at the suddenness of its appearance. After the doctor had said "Hmmm" several times and measured the mole, he told K. to put his shirt back on. He explained that the mole was just another mole, albeit somewhat large, and that K. should not bother himself unduly. K. listened and nodded solemnly as he did up the buttons. The appointment was now over, but just as Dr. Valz opened his mouth to dismiss K., he interjected, causing the doctor's eyes to grow wider than K. had ever seen them. "I want a second opinion," said K. There was a long, pregnant pause. "You what?" said the doctor, incredulously. K repeated his request, this time a little more timidly. "Do you realise what this means? Do you know what you're letting yourself in for...I mean...do you really know?" K didn't. "There's not many who ask for a second opinion, and even fewer who actually get it. It's a lengthy process, and there's many who never even get considered." He stopped and thought for a moment. "Yes, I seem to recall that last one who asked for a second opinion didn't get very far...it wasn't through lack of trying, of course...but there are certain ways of...certain procedures. Am I to assume you know nothing of the procedures?" K nodded. The doctor leaned forward and put his hands flat on the desk in front of him, palms down. "If this is what you want, not what you think you want, mind you, but what you really want, then I might offer you some advice, if I may?" K was beginning to wonder what the man was talking about, yet he seemed quite serious, so he cocked his head slightly to one side and gave a small nod. Thus encouraged, the doctor continued. "In my youth," growled the doctor, "I used to think that when a patient asked for a second opinion, they were slighting my ability to do my job, belittling my meagre experience. I used to try to dissuade them from that course of action by insisting, beyond doubt, that I was right; that they need look no further for an answer, for the answer. "As I got older, and began to accept my own fallibility, the same fallibility that characterises every human endeavour, I loosened my stance. I would, more often than not, encourage my more inquisitive patients to seek second, and sometimes alternative, opinions. After all, who was I to stop them, to prevent them, in some cases, from being warmed by a small glimmer of hope? But let me make myself clear: this hope was by no means rooted, in every case, in fertile soil. "Now, as a most senior and revered member of my profession, I feel it is my moral, rather than medical, duty to again discourage my patients from seeking that second opinion they crave. I do this, now, not because I have any sort of renewed faith in my divining capabilities, but to save the time lost and consternation caused by such a prolonged, circuitous, and debilitating investigation." He sat back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. Will Chadwick has been writing poetry, stories, and more recently plays, since he was 11. Chadwick has written two full-length plays that have been performed in the UK, and will direct a short play of his in November's Marin Theatre Festival in San Rafael. Now 26, he has just emigrated from London to San Francisco. He is passionate about theatre, soccer, and English beer. | home |

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