OVER THE SILVER SKY TO THE WORLD OF NEVER : Part 1 - Formaldehyde And Other Mysteries.

I'm going to make some excuses first. My previous short story ended in a rush with a whole heap of plot holes and loose ends. This was almost entirely due to constraints I placed on myself. This is another tale that has been in my head for a long time. Instead of sticking to a format I will be writing it as I remember it. I hope it's funny, it will be slightly darker though not as dark as the original The Village was.

"The copyright for this image is the property of iCanvas)

Inoperable brain tumor are three words nobody wants to hear. They can really spoil your day and the rest of your life. As the slow process of your own body eating itself reduces you to a shadow of what you once were. Jake Halliday had heard those words from his neurologist over a year ago now. A thing was growing inside his skull. A thing his own body produced. The ultimate act of betrayal. He and his brain had always got on well before that. Or so he thought. Paradoxically they weren't the words that bothered him most of all. Shortly after being told he was a goner Jake had been referred to a specialist counselor. To help him cope with his own impending death. It was he who'd introduced Jake to seven new words that would become the bane of his life, from that point on. According to Kevin, his counselor, there were either 5 or 7 stages to the process of grieving. It very much depended who you spoke to. Kevin was a 7 stages guy and always had been. Those stages were, in order: Shock, Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Testing and Acceptance. Shock and Testing were the extra 2 that had been thought up by a psychiatrist with plenty of spare time and nothing better to do.

It turned out Jake had done precisely the wrong thing by skipping the first 6 stages and arriving at Acceptance straight away. He wasn't shocked. It seemed perfectly reasonable that something major was wrong, given the symptoms he was experiencing. No point denying a brain tumor. He had the headaches, hallucinations and nose bleeds along with some pretty startling blackouts. Those scans certainly looked genuine. Anger wasn't Jake's bag. He did get angry, but that was mostly with himself. He wasn't even angry that his body had let him down so badly. Shit happened. It happened everyday to someone. People went through life believing it only happened to someone else. Bargaining held little allure for him. He'd always been hopeless at it. Who should he bargain with? God seemed to be the first port of call for most. Jake was of the opinion that if there was a Biblical God he had other things on his mind than saving one insignificant life. Besides surely if it wasn't for God he wouldn't have a brain tumor. Wouldn't it be rude to ask him to take it back? Depression wasn't for him either. Fed up or bored were the best he could muster. Not that Jake was emotionless. He could do fear, disgust, happy and satisfied. In fact he was very good at fear in the right circumstances. He'd run away from a lot of things and people in his time. Testing was a possible candidate for him to try instead of jumping right to the end. The problem being he hadn't the faintest idea how to test for mortality. Kevin explained it generally meant finding out what you could actually do while you waited for the Grim Reaper to come a calling.

But no. Instead of taking the easier option of the seven stages, Jake had leaped to Acceptance immediately. That didn't fit the model though. Therefore, for their entire clinical relationship, Kevin assumed Jake was still in denial. Jake knew he wasn't. Weirdly he was denying denial. He still felt deep guilt for not adhering to the standard model. So guilty he'd even tried to feel and fake the first six stages. It didn't work. He was dying. He accepted he was living on borrowed time. Kevin was a great guy though, so Jake had always attended all his counselling sessions and went to the group meetings. Yes the anger inducing, depression producing meetings for the terminally ill. Where the subjects would gather around the coffee machine and talk about the people who'd died in the last seven days. Sometimes the same line up would appear for months together. They'd even grow as new members joined the club. Then slowly but surely the old faces would disappear. As they either died or became patients in a hospice. The only thing you could absolutely rely on was that the coffee from the coffee machine was always shit and that the tea was even worse.

Only two people had left by other means. Susan went into a full and complete remission of her Hodgkinsons and Martin, the bastard, had gone through the whole seven stages. Admittedly he'd kicked the bucket a couple of weeks later but at least he'd escaped the group while still alive. If he were being brutally honest Jake would have had to say that a lot of those who still attended had reached acceptance as well. They still came to group sessions for someone to talk to. People who aren't dying really don't know how to talk to those who are. It created awkward pauses and sympathetic words or looks when others knew your secret. A military historian by trade, Jake had lots to occupy him. There was the historical novel he'd never complete and a whole load of research he'd been meaning to file.

The initial symptoms of nose bleeds and throbbing headaches had been inconvenient. Being a man, he'd ignored them for far too long. It was only when he started loosing hours of his day that he became mildly concerned. Jake thought it was down to overwork and tiredness. The whirly, swirly optical effects that came shortly after, had made him see his doctor. The doctor had ordered some scans at the local hospital in Bristol. Those scans had revealed he'd developed a brain tumor, a pretty gnarly one to. Unique was what the specialist said. During the consultation it was explained that they'd never seen anything like it before. Tumors came in all shapes and sizes but hardly ever were they so tree like. As far as they could ascertain the growth had originated at the base of his brain, for this analogy it was the trunk. From there it branched out in every brain direction.

Thin threads of malevolence expanding upward towards an analogous sun, Jake presumed. They tried various treatments to bring this weed under control. All they'd succeeded in doing was briefly slowing its progress before it overcame whatever concoction he was given. The side effects of some of those medications being worse than his original symptoms. Nobody had any idea how long he had left. Nothing like this had ever happened before. That was another problem for Jake, because they really. really wanted to know more. And wherever there is the potential for a medic to have something fatal named after them, they grasp it with both hands. Then hold on for dear life. They also, in Jake's experience, became very possessive. Afraid some other specialist would swoop in and steal their glory. Today they were scanning his brain again then looking at his MRI's thoughtfully. Gone were the days when medics kept the cards close to their chests. Now they put them out there, for the patient to see what their entrails looked like. Perhaps hoping to engender an interest in the subject so you'd go and read something educational about whatever was wrong with you. Essentially there was nothing Jake could tell from the bright images of his insides. Except sometimes he thought it looked bigger.

His consultant was called Henderson. In the UK at least, this was cause for trepidation. Being British there were conventions it was polite to stick to. Other countries might have had similar conventions but not being British they'd not follow them correctly. Sure a Brit wouldn't follow them correctly either, but at least they'd feel embarrassed about it. It was a general rule that when a surgeon became a consultant they lost the Doctor designation and became a Mister. That much Jake believed he knew. However he wasn't certain if there were other schools where the Doctor was dropped. Seven years of medical training to become a doctor and another decade or so to return to being not a doctor anymore. This was career progression? Why not skip the minimum 17 years of hard work and study if all it did was return you to your original honorific? Not his decision to make. However he did have to see his consultant regularly every few months or days depending on their needs and not his. Always a long enough period for him to forget what Henderson was entitled though. The worst times were when the receptionist didn't use one. Instead they'd direct him to a consulting room at the hospital. Eventually, for any number of unknown reasons, Jake had the honor of attending Henderson's private consulting room. Instead of sitting in a modern air conditioned office while he waited he now got to trek out to the expensive part of town. Where he could sit in a stuffy period piece of a waiting room. That was something they hadn't told him at the beginning, that having a brain tumor involved a lot of waiting.

At the hospital it was different. You had to turn all mobile devices off, as you were near medical equipment. Googling a medical term could cause a cardiac arrest or worse, allegedly. No such problem at consultant Henderson's private rooms though. You could use your smartphone here. The signal was pretty poor admittedly. Plus Jake obtained far more enjoyment going through the old magazines. Once he'd found a 1952 copy of the Woman's Own there. It still had a knitting pattern given away free inside and mentioned the forthcoming coronation. As a historian this was pay dirt. If only there were a few Tank Monthly's it would have been nirvana. Nothing today. Only a 1984 copy of Gibbon's Stamp Monthly. The rest were all 21st century unfortunately. Where the hell did they get them? Somebody must have donated them he thought. But then who changed the selection every week or so. Rotating the stock of aged magazines and pictorials. Oh lord that 1967 National Geographic he'd only managed to read a third of before it disappeared. Jake didn't like to ask about it. It might be considered rude. The receptionist attracted his attention with a subtle clearing of the throat.

"Richard will see you now Mr Halliday. Please go through."
Balls! He still had no idea what to call him. Now he'd have to negotiate that minefield again. Avoiding the use of either Mr or Dr. Alternating them was not an option. That would sound like he was taking the piss. Jake walked along the corridor behind the receptionists desk to the door with consulting room written on it. So far, so good. He knocked and heard a muffled noise he assumed was permission to enter. Upon opening the door his lungs were assaulted by a chemical mist that made him gag. Fly spray? Henderson, a tall grey haired individual in his sixties, was fumigating the entire room with a large spray can. He nodded towards the only seat that wasn't his.
"Isn't that stuff toxic for people?" Jake asked between coughs.
His consultant shrugged and glanced at the label before continuing to douse the whole room.
"Yes probably. I'll crack a window open later. Right now I'm going to kill these bloody flies. Swarms of them keep erupting out of who knows where." The last dregs spat out before he threw the can into his waste bin. "How have you been then?"
"The same as usual.. thanks." Christ less than a minute in and he'd nearly dropped a doctor into the conversation.
Henderson took his own seat.
"I don't mind telling you Mr Halliday you've got us stumped here. Nobody has ever seen anything like that monster eating away at your brain. And I've been sharing your scans with the top experts across the globe. We'd like a biopsy at some point."
"What would that entail."
"Oh opening up your skull and digging about in your grey matter. With no idea what it is exactly, we'd need a lot."
"That sounds pretty serious."
"It is. Massive irreparable brain damage assured but we're all dying to have a look after you pop your clogs. Let's hope you don't end up rotting away on your kitchen floor for a few weeks before anyone finds you. Are you married or seeing anyone?"
"I'm divorced and I'm not in a relationship. I live on my own."
"I bet she was a real bitch."
"Sorry?"
"Your ex. I bet she was a ball breaker."
"No actually she's a lovely woman. We married far too young, while we were at university together, then grew apart. Sorry is any of this relevant to my consultation."
"Only in the sense that there's a real risk we won't be able to crack that nut open and rummage around shortly after you've kicked the bucket. That would be a shame. A damn shame. You know there's a new device available. It's one of those wearable tech things that are all the rage with millennial's. Should you buy the farm it'll immediately notify someone. You might like to invest in one."
"Couldn't you get me this device?"
"I've no idea where. Wouldn't know how to start looking. Haven't got the time or the inclination to find out. I have to do so much reading as it is. To keep abreast of the latest developments. Thing is we don't normally go around looking for corpses. We can always hope you become incapable of looking after yourself and end up in a medical facility. No chance you'll end up dead in a stairwell putrefying for months. Well, far less chance. Mistakes can and do happen in a hospital. Nearly always fatal to. Honestly in a lot of cases we're just rolling the dice and hoping that whatever treatment we prescribe works. Or at least doesn't cause too much harm. That's the way it is with the whole human body and of the little we do know the littlest is about the brain. That's why it's such good fortune that we've got you."
"Ah that's good to hear." Jake replied ironically. "Is that all I'm here for?"
"Well I've looked at your latest scans. Nothing has really changed. Hordes of tentacles are continuing to grow throughout every part of your cerebellum, cerebrum and cerebral cortex. But you say you've not noticed any significant changes or deterioration."
"No it's just as random and life destroying as it's always been. The headaches, nose bleeds and weird visual effects still keep happening. The blackouts don't seem to be getting longer or shorter. So that's it then?"
"Well there is one more thing. I'm thinking of doing a paper on you."
"Um.. okay?"
"Thing is I'll need your permission to do that, because you're still alive."
"I'm so sorry my continued existence is such a hassle for you."
"It's not your fault.. At least I assume it isn't. Anyway have a word with Janine on your way out. She'll go over all the formaldehyde with you."
"Formaldehyde?"
Henderson's brow furrowed.
"What do you mean?"
"You said formaldehyde. You said the receptionist would go over all the formaldehyde with me."
"No. I said formalities. You might want to have your hearing checked. The tumor is growing near your auditory nerves, but it should only make you deaf. Although there are some cases of auditory hallucinations I've read about. I'll have a look at that for my paper. You could become quite famous you know. That's something to look forward to. As I said Julie will go over what you have to sign and all we'll need from you."
"Julie? I thought you said Janine?"
Henderson shook his head.
"I most certainly didn't. I don't even know anyone called Janine."
Jake chuckled halfheartedly.
"It must be the fly spray."
"What fly spray?"
"You were spraying it when I came in. You threw the empty can into that waste bin."
The consultant picked the bin up and showed it to Jake. There was nothing in it apart from a couple of balled up tissues and a torn envelope. This was new. Or was it? He'd have to keep an eye on things. Jake decided he should leave immediately rather than risk anymore mistakes. He thanked Henderson, what for it was impossible to say. Possibly simply for being there. Jake exited the consulting room closing the door behind him. Then as he walked back along the narrow corridor to reception flies began to fall onto the carpet. The thing was there weren't any flies. Only the dead ones that dropped out of nowhere. Come to think of it there hadn't been any in the consulting room while he'd imagined the doctor spraying them either. That was odd. Or was it?