A Six-Thousand Mile Phone Call

‘Now, I don’t want you to worry, alright? Everything is OK. He’s going to be OK.’ The telephone signal, which had been playing up ever since we arrived at the hotel, demoted Jessy’s ordinarily composed tone, to a succession of stutters and crackles, as if she were tumbling down a steep, hummocky mount in the mists of a wild storm. In spite of the weather, however, I could hear a disconcerting measure of worry embedded in her voice, exacerbating her words.

With six thousand miles separating my sister, in the south of England, and I, on the western coast of Canada, conversation between us, and indeed with any of my family, had been an occurrence seldom practiced since my departure six months earlier. Receiving a phone call from home was like sinking into the seat of a cosy cinema as the opening credits of a much awaited movie began to roll – unquenchably exciting and blissfully comforting.

However, it was clear, from the moment I answered the phone, that this was not a call of leisure, or an opportunity to catch up, but a means to deliver something that I was becoming increasingly afraid to hear.

‘Jessy, what’s wrong? Is everything OK?’

‘It’s OK, it will be OK.’

I paused, unable to conjure another word as my mind riffled dangerously from one face to another. Had my grandmother relapsed back towards the jaws of cancer? Who was hurt? What was wrong?

‘It’s Jake,’ she said eventually, splitting the silence.

With numbing senses, I collapsed into a deep reverie – my vacant pupils resting on the vague outlines of the generic hotel furniture, as my corneas glazed with tears.

With just twelve minutes separating my birth from Jake’s, we had spent the best part of our lives together. We were in the same sports teams, the same school classes, we had the same friends and we shared the same passions. As a child, and indeed an adult too, I was never without a friend, because I knew, if ever I needed some words of encouragement, someone to make me laugh, or a moment of inspiration, I could go to Jake. He was my first port of call, and I his. To not hear his voice at the other end of the phone, when I knew that the news was bad, devastated me.

‘Dan, Jake has a brain tumor.’

It was an odd moment. Perhaps I should have broken down onto the well-worn carpet, raging with gloom. But in truth, I felt calm.

‘Dan?’ Jessy said tentatively through the distortion of the phone, ‘are you alright?’

‘I think so. I mean, yes.’ I struggled to find my words. ‘Is he OK?’ I asked after several seconds, immediately regretting the stupidity of the question.

‘He is now. The doctors found it on Friday after a scan.’

‘Friday? But, that was two days ago. Why didn’t—’

‘But, the important thing is,’ Jessy interrupted, before I could go any further, ‘the most important thing is, they just got the tests back and they are almost certain it’s benign.’

‘Wait,’ I stuttered, ‘benign?’ That means…what does that mean?’

‘It means it’s not cancerous, Dan.’ For the first time in our conversation, Jessy’s voice was rid of anxiety, and, as my senses returned, I could hear her smile through the phone. ‘He’s having lots of tests done; on his blood, his hormone levels, his eyes.’

‘His eyes?’

‘Yes, that’s why he went to the doctors to start with; he was losing his vision.’

‘But why didn’t—’

‘He wanted to tell you, Dan,’ Jessy intervened once again, predicting my question, ‘but how could he before he knew it wasn’t cancerous? How do you tell your twin brother that you have a brain tumor the size of a golf ball in your brain? He didn’t think he would see the end of the year. Even the nurses were crying.’

A sickness began to migrate slowly into the pit of my stomach, as I imagined Jake lying on the hospital bed – frightened and unsure his future – without me at his side.

‘It tore him apart, you not knowing, but you’d have done the same thing. You’re on the other side of the world, Dan, what good would it have done?’

Jessy was right of course, and, as she relayed through the events of the past two days, I began to feel an astounding sense of relief. I couldn’t imagine how my family must had felt, and for that I was, quite selfishly, grateful. My brother, through an extraordinary act of altruism, had denied me that pain.

Jake was operated on by the best surgeon in the country. The tumor, which had been growing for five years, was removed, and he is now in recovery. Aside from a few specifics, he will be able to live a life much the same as he had done before the operation.

This conversation with my sister reminded me of the importance of my family, an obvious lesson perhaps, but an essential one nonetheless.