MY LAST CHANCE

by
Graham Stack

As a child, I suffered from nightmares about being devoured by piranhas, whereupon I woke in a wet bed screaming. Gradually these dreams permeated into my waking hours as well, convincing me to avoid all potential haunts of fish - and ultimately to be wary of any body of water that was larger than a puddle.

Fish made my skin scrawl and I loathed them with every atom of my being. But a fish phobia is not a major problem if you live in the city 500 miles from the sea. But fear of waters – I liked to emphasise the plural – is harder to explain. So I played down this aspect of my aversion.

The nightmares ceased later. But this was not, as it seemed to my Dad, a sign of my phobia weakening, but instead of its setting down roots among my everyday existence, – in the form of the secondary, derivative fear of waters. Its most obvious manifestation was my refusal to learn to swim. There was, however, an unspoken agreement between Dad and myself never to acknowledge this link. Dad had come to terms with my involuntary fear of fish, evidenced by the nightmares and wet beds, but he waged a long, kindly, war of attrition against my refusal to swim.

As I moved into teenage years, he became increasingly insistent. Whatever his suspicions, his arguments were of a moral nature. “Supposing some time you end up in deep water, just suppose, what then? Some will have to risk their life to rescue you. And what if some time you see a child fall into water, and you have to stand and watch that child perish. How will you forgive yourself?”

These arguments failed, until he finally called my bluff: “You’re not afraid of water, are you, because of the fish thing? Don’t dare say you are.” I shook my head. “I’ll be in the water with you to hold you. Don’t you trust me to look after you?”

So it was that we ended up at the municipal swimming pool early in the morning when there was no one about. I stared up at the windows as I waited for Dad. The lapping of the pool made my skin crawl. Dad came and sniffed approvingly – “chlorine – that’s for safety you understand.” He meant that no fish could swim there.

He dived in with a clatter, and waited for me as I hesitated at the ladder. “Come on,” he called. “It won’t bite you know.”

I stepped down into the water, trying to ignore everything that was going on, as if this was not really happening. The water swam around me. I focused my thoughts on my feet’s firm contact with the bottom, and walked to Dad, without looking down. The water licked and shoved at me. When I got to him, he saw how I shivered, and he clasped my head to his chest. “God, James,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

My eyes were now directed downwards, and there I saw four pale flat shapes twisting in the water below us. I shrieked. I heaved my feet up to safety, and thus plunged myself in the water, and flailed and threshed. I fended off Dad’s hands, and fell below the surface, not daring to set my feet down. Water flooded my throat as I fought off all that touched me. Only when Dad hoisted me clear of the water and then somehow bundled me out of the pool did my frenzy subside. He threw a towel over me and went to change.

A few days after this, I felt a sharp itch in the small of my back, and, contorting myself to scratch at it, detected what seemed to be a rough patch of skin. I had always suffered from irritable skin. I put it down to a reaction against the chlorine in the swimming pool.

However, the irritation worsened, and the itch intensified. I found myself rubbing up against walls and backs of chairs. At night I woke with a sensation of insects hot-footing between my shoulder blades, and writhed against the sheets. I sensed the dry patch on my back growing in size, but could not see it, since we only had one small mirror in our house. I could not ask Dad to inspect me.

Finally, I bought a hand mirror, and used it in combination with the mirror in the hall to view the patch. Instead of the reddened skin I had visualised, I saw in the double reflection an alien silver crust that literally seemed to be growing out of my back. This crust stretched between my shoulder blades and some way down my spine. As I touched it with my fingertips, parts of the dry silvery surface flaked away like scales.

I was shocked by this discovery, and even more by the fact that the growth was spreading. For in the course of the next weeks and months, similar lesions appeared at my elbows, and then on my chest, at first small in size, and then they too started to expand. Then the silver crust appeared on my scalp. Everywhere it itched crazily, so that the itch became a permanent feature of my life. By the end of the year, perhaps a third of my upper body was coated with the scales.

For all the discomfort I suffered, my chief concern was not to let Dad learn of the disease. I dreaded the loathing it would inspire in him. So I did all I could to hide it, and this battle to conceal such a flagrant and plaguing disorder shaped my thoughts, and contaminated our relationship.

I would sit at table with my head and body on fire, all my willpower bent on not scratching, for Dad had gently enquired a few times whether I had lice. Once I found a well-meaning bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo left in the shower. I could no longer meet his eye. I only longed for him to leave the house, so that I could strip, place papers around, and get scratching, with the scales raining to the ground, concerned only to stop before the raw lower layers. Sobbing and exhausted, I would sweep up and deposit the shimmering debris, and sink onto my bed.

The disease grew worse, and I knew my efforts to conceal it would ultimately prove futile. Some time it would break out on my hands, face or genitals. I knew he had to take me to hospital. So I resolved to show him one arm, and claim the psoriasis had flared-up overnight.

To gather courage, I drank a glass of spirits in a bar. It intoxicated me, and I drank more. In a short space of time, I was staggering, reeling, shouting, and for the first time since their appearance, the lesions receded from my mind, replaced by a host of delusions. When I entered, crawling backwards through the door, Dad’s voice rang out. I dragged myself round to face him from the floor, and smiled.

“So now you’re finally swimming,” he said. “This is how I am rewarded.” And he turned and went to his room.

I shed soiled clothing, and hauled myself into bed. Later that night, for the first time since my childhood, the piranhas came to feed, and Dad woke me with cries of alarm. I saw my hands dripping with blood. My upper body burned and bled. Dad stared aghast at my flayed chest, arms, and back, as if my dream had become flesh. I let him wash me down, and then he saw how my skin was ruined. “James,” he whispered, cradling me. “This has been my fault. I have failed you. I have failed to protect you from yourself.”

The doctor was outraged when he saw the state I was in. “Why was he not brought in earlier?” he demanded to know, but when he saw Dad’s pain and pride he relented, and they were soon conferring together in hushed tones like old friends, for Dad inspired trust, affection and respect in all who met him.

The doctor said that my illness was now so advanced, it would be difficult to stop, let alone to reverse. It might attack my face. He prescribed me a course of creams to be applied in different quantities in different combinations at different times of the day. Dad took on himself the administration of this treatment, and several times a day applied the creams to my body exactly as prescribed, and carefully noted down their effects.

There was initial success. The severity of the encrustation and the excruciating itch were reduced. The flaky coating reformed more slowly after each successive combing. This being the first alleviation of the complaint since its appearing, we celebrated it, and indulged in cautious optimism. It also seemed that the lesions had ceased to expand, or to spread to healthy skin. This turned out to be false. The scaly crust’s spread continued to creep. Then we discovered a new patch developing in the tender skin under my left arm.

Disheartening was also the fact that the creams lost their effectiveness after a period of use. Each time a new cream was substituted, after inspection of my wounds and reading Dad’s detailed notes, the doctor made a tick further down his list. I knew he and Dad were already discussing what treatment would remain on the last cream losing its power.

As this date neared, I realised how Dad was suffering under the burden of care. He was dangerously quiet. Dishonour was sapping him. The very next meeting with the doctor, as it transpired that yet another cream had failed to achieve results, the doctor drew me to one side as we were leaving. “Come to me tomorrow at this time, by yourself. Not a word to your father,” he whispered.

“My friend,” he said, when I entered his practice the next day. “You know that we have almost exhausted our treatment options. I want to discuss one alternative therapy with you, which has proved to be effective precisely in severe cases like yours.”

He held up a warning hand.

“There is one problem. Clement has asked me not to tell you about this therapy. He is convinced it is unsuitable for your - individual circumstances. You see,” he continued, “it is a bathing cure.”

He looked at me . “Clement has told me that you have – psychological issues with bathing. That it would only exacerbate the problem. That is why he said not to mention it. But perhaps you could find the strength to overcome your fears? For your sake and his?”

He continued: “In the south of Turkey, there are pools, natural springs, the waters of which have been known since ancient times to have special healing properties for your sickness. The waters possess, let’s say, special ingredients, very special ingredients not found anywhere else in the world. A miracle of nature. They have been known to completely heal a man in a month.”

“Minerals?” I asked, and he nodded.

“You could wear a blindfold,” he suggested. “You would have to wear a blindfold. You would recline in the shallows, immersed in the water. Surely you could manage that? If you’re wearing a blindfold. And the healing effect is felt - quickly.”

“Clement fears it would be too much for you. He said he couldn’t demand something like that of you. Perhaps you should show him you’re stronger than he thinks.”

It was my last chance.

“I’m proud of you,” Dad exclaimed, to my joy and awe, when I told him I was in favour of the plan. He grasped me painfully. “Today you have become a man. Because we all of us have our problems. The thing is to confront them.”

“The main thing is, after all,” he added, “it’s not water you’re afraid of anyway, just fish. Isn’t it? But the blindfold will stop you seeing fish where there are none.” And he clapped his hands.

So we set off on the long journey by plane, train and taxi, during which the surface of my entire upper body seemed to consist of piercing sparks that burned to ash.

Arriving at our destination, a mere village with a spa and hotel, I was struck by the large number of people marked by the same illness as I was. My own shame lessened on seeing them. I was pleased to notice others who, free of lesions, exhibited white patches on hands, arms, face and neck, for such white patches I knew to be the final stages in the healing process.

We checked into our hotel. Dad had not responded to the good omens of the healed sufferers, or to the hot Turkish sun. His initial elation at my resolve had fled. Now it was he who was preoccupied by the trial that awaited us. I for my part was trying not to think of it, and instead to enjoy the local colour. But Dad supervised my movements intently and we passed that first day in seclusion. Towards evening, Dad took me to the barber to have my head shaved. It was a shock to see the cruel plaque covering my scalp exposed, for my thick hair, together with my still unaffected face, had preserved normality in my appearance.

The next day, we rose early for me to take the waters. Spa regulations prescribed four glasses of the water on an empty stomach. Then we made our way to the shallow pool, where I would be able to lie at ease with my head supported over the water. Before I could catch sight of the pool, Dad tied a blindfold tight around my head. “I feel I’m leading you to your execution,” he said, and even seemed to laugh.

He helped me down the steps into the water. It was clammy and warm, and I, ensconced in my blindfold, tried to be miles away. Dad’s hand was heavy on my shoulder. “Just remember,” he urged, “the last time we did this, what you took to be fish were in fact your own two feet.” Then he made me sit down in the water so that it came up to my shoulders.

Immediately panic attacked me, and robbed me of breath. Dad’s words conjured up the fish circling in the municipal pool. Where I touched the bottom, it seemed they already struck at me. I sensed them closing in on me, schools and shoals and hordes of them. I heard their coming in the plash of the waters. A cry grew in me. “Don’t fight it,” Dad hissed in my ear, his hand iron on my shoulder. “Think of your skin,” he urged, “think of being healed.” “Dad, just tell me there are no fish here,” I begged him. “Tell me it’s all in my head.” “James, there is nothing here, just warm healing water to make your skin better. Trust me.” My panic perhaps paused in its escalation, enough for me to catch my breath. Then for one second, I was sure I was lost, for I felt my ragged skin at a multitude of points brushed, touched, lifted and tugged.

In that very same second, however, this very same sensation of my sores being worked on from outside, saved me, for it strengthened, and strengthening became real, and as it became real, I felt a quiver of pleasure run all over me, and to my wonder I sensed my skin bid the waters welcome. Fear hesitated, and a magnificent sensation overcame me, as if a thousand tiny elven hands tweaked, teased and eased away the crusts covering my body, opening it to the regenerating warmth of water and sun after so much time. As if each millimetre of my lesions was receiving expert, tender, minute attention.

“Dad,” I cried, “I can feel something happening.” I felt his hand tremble on my shoulder. There was of course nothing for him to see, and I could not put the magical sensation into words. It became ever more sweet and thrilling. It was as if a whole crust, an exoskeleton, was being carefully prised loose by an army of willing carers, of warm, soft hands and skilful fingers, allowing the desiccated aching flesh to be washed and warmed by waters and sun. I lay there blindfolded, in a world of my own, swamped by this bliss, soaking it in, heedless of all else. When Dad advised that I should leave the pool, for the midday sun was harsh, I was amazed to learn I had lain there for several hours.

That night I slept better than I had done in years. My skin’s pangs were diminished. The next day, we returned to the baths and Dad again blindfolded me tightly. I was eager to re-experience the pleasure of the day before, so much so that the panic that engulfed me as I entered the water was a whole degree greater than the previous day’s, augmented by surprise. I cried out, and Dad steadied me. I shook, and he compelled me to sit down. I fought for breath, and my panic mocked all memory of pleasure. Dad held me. “James,” he hissed. “Don’t disgrace yourself.” I shut my eyes behind the blindfold, and dug my fingernails into his palms.

Perhaps some incipient healing helped me endure those humiliating minutes, when it seemed that an ocean of sea life was rushing to flay me. Then, just as this terror roared full-strength in my ears, I felt the water’s spell, the tingling cleansing, reach out to me again, and touch me all over. My panic paused, and slipped. Slowly the terror transmuted into expectant surrender, then into consuming delight, and only a little later did I resolve to eke out my life by these waters, for nothing in the world could surpass the alleviation they afforded me.

The next day, and each successive day after, my terror on entering the waters dwindled, overpowered by the thrill of the healing.

Those first days, we deliberately refrained from inspection of my lesions. I was content to enjoy the afterglow of the bath’s magic, to note the reduction in irritability, and sleep soundly. On the fourth day, Dad ran his eyes over my body. “Well,” he said, hesitantly, “it’s certainly having an effect. I won’t say more than that. But there is a positive effect. About as much as the better creams were able to do.” After a week, I then agreed to a detailed inspection of the lesions, with reference to the notes and measurements Dad so painstakingly compiled.

It was already clear that the production of detritus had slowed. Scales were no longer shed at the slightest touch. The lesions were now ringed by strange pale margins, which made them seem larger at first glance. We correctly recognised these unpigmented margins, however, as healthy skin reclaimed from the disease.

I was overjoyed, and hugged Dad, but he refused to share in my joy. “It’s too early to tell what it means,” he said. “Let’s not get our hopes up.” That night he slept poorly, disturbing me more than did my plaques, and I concluded that the progress we had made had increased his burden of care. He feared reversal.

Far from slowing or stopping, however, the healing process accelerated in the second week, so that the lesions receded to about half their previous extent, and lost their silvery hue. Even Dad could not hide his wonder. I traced my fingers over the smooth white skin they left behind.

Only my head was not yet influenced by the therapy. Dad had taken to pouring water over my scalp, but it seemed that full immersion was necessary for the healing. My scalp had never known the consuming sensation that had blessed my torso and arms.

As my body mended, and the incredible prospect of a complete cure dawned, our attention thus turned to treating my head. “Perhaps it’s time I get rid of the blindfold,” I suggested casually. I had no more qualms about water. Dad was appalled at my suggestion. “Never. Swear to me.” But I evaded the oath. “We’ll just immerse your scalp,” he said blithely, “blindfold and all. Now you seem less afraid of water. But we will take no risks, having got so far.”

But I had already decided to disobey him and to remove the blindfold. I was emboldened by our success. I wanted to show how strong I had become. And, at the same time, I had begun to suspect that it was all interconnected – my disease, and my fear of waters. I believed that it was fear of waters that had caused my skin to erupt in such obsessive dryness. I suspected the cure would only be complete if I vanquished my terror.

The opportunity came the following day. Before we were to begin treating my scalp, Dad withdrew for a few moments. I fumbled at the blindfold. I felt no fear. On the contrary, I was eager to see the pool that had healed me, to gaze on its magic surface, to see the other patients I had heard splashing and gossiping, to rid myself of this shameful mask. And my head itched for the liquid kiss.

The blindfold slipped off. I was dazzled by the brilliant sunshine pouring in and glaring off the surface. I felt quite calm at finding myself submerged in a pool. More disconcerting was the fact that from all sides people were staring at me in amazement. I realised my blindfold had been a topic of discussion. Conversations fell silent as people turned to watch, as if waiting for something, some violent reaction. Scattered applause rang out. I evaded their stares, and surveyed the surroundings. There were cypresses, hills in the background, a fountain, and trolleys of merchants selling souvenir bottles.

I finally looked down into the cloudy waters, to see how they healed me. I was astonished to see how their magic had caused each single one of the lesions still disfiguring my body to open up and to sprout a cluster of trailing red arms, like anemones. These red rosettes, swaying in the water, adorned all the injured points of my body. Astounded, I looked closer, and saw that each of these rosettes in actual fact comprised a cluster of thin red fish, busily applying delicate mouths to my encrusted skin, feeding avidly, and in doing so detracting from the detritus.

I watched the red fish feed on me, transfixed, unable to move a hand to them. The synchronisation of the strange scene I was witnessing with the sensations I experienced, far from diminishing the latter, strengthened the sensation to an almost unbearable pitch, and thrilled through my interior. I moaned. Then I perceived that the pool teemed with these fish, and each of the patients bathing there entertained a party of such rosettes.

Dad had reappeared by my side, frantic with explanation. “They’re called doctor fish,” he stammered, petered out, and resumed. “It is they who have cured you. It is they who have been administering to you. You owe them so much.” I said nothing. I stared and stared at the amazing spectacle of the fish, and I found myself willing on their frenzy.

“James,” said Dad, now calm and grave, “it’s time for you to give your head to them. There’s a lot for them still to take there.” He supported my head in his cupped hands, as I sank back into the water. Almost immediately I sensed a flurry of activity around my ears, and my scalp started tingling and fizzing, and then my entire skin sung with the consuming pleasure of that cleansing contact, as soft mouths gently parted crusts from my head.

A week later, it was all over. The lesions had cleared up entirely. The fish had lost all interest in me. They cruised by heedlessly, and spurned my spent skin. So we departed. Dad was cheerful, and full of jokes at my expense. I returned healthy, and hollow. I have found nothing since to compensate for the loss of those administrations. Recently, the old voracious childhood dream revisits me, unchanged in content, but now laced with joy.

© Graham Stack
Reproduced with permission

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