When I was in primary school, my mum got cervical cancer. It was treated with the then-experimental laser treatment and was cured.
Once or twice a week my teacher, Mrs Rapley, would call me to one side privately and ask how everything was going.
40 years later, I’ve only just now realised that she wasn’t asking how my mum was, she was indirectly trying to see how I was doing (I wouldn’t’ve said anything about me if asked directly).
She’d be in her late 90s now, too late for this revelation.
Two years or so later, they discovered mum had haemolytic anaemia and needed a splenectomy.
My dad heroically mishandled this news, turning up at my new school (we’d been posted) and telling my headmaster that I’d be going to live with my gran in Ebbw Vale for a few months.
He didn’t tell me that, and he didn’t tell Mr Cook that he hadn’t told me.
The headmaster got me in front of the whole class to hand me my homework for while I was away because “your mother is seriously ill in hospital”.
I have had a very good poker/Spock face since then that I didn’t before and it has done me well in life.
But it wasn’t right, was it? Mrs Rapley had it nailed. My dad and Mr Cook… threw me to the fucking wolves.
40 years have passed. I wish the scar tissue didn’t hurt when I prod it. I wish my brain didn’t feel the need to prod it when I’m stressed.
I have been so very good at breaking bad news to my partners about the illnesses and deaths of their friends (made easier by growing up gay during the first modern pandemic, HIV/AIDS, of course) and about discussing bad news about my mum with my mum. I could credit my ineffectual dad and the useless Mr Cook, but I think the credit lies with Mrs Rapley.
I hope you had a long, peaceful and happy life, Mrs Rapley. You deserve it.
Another damn blog 