Me Life Story

by Scarlett Moffatt

  ‘Betty, can you come to Darlington Hospital now? I’m about to set off from work. The doctor has called and told me I need to go to the hospital immediately.’

  Mam cried the whole journey on the bus.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mam?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Dad, he has to go to hospital, we are going to meet him there. It’s just a few bus stops away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mam, Dad is Dad. He is super strong, he will be fine.’ To me my dad was my superhero; he could lift me on his shoulders like I weighed nothing.

  When we arrived he was already shut away in a little room with the doctor. ‘I’m afraid you have a malignant melanoma, Mr Moffatt.’

  ‘Does that mean I have cancer?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘But half an hour ago I was welding at work, how is this happening?’ It didn’t sink in and I remember him coming out of the room with an expression I can only describe as defeated. He just looked blank.

  They said they’d be in touch when they had an appointment for him as he would have to have X-rays and a CT scan.

  My dad sat in the front seat of the taxi on the way home, crying quietly. Mam said later she’d only ever seen him cry once before, and that was when I was born. He wasn’t even crying for himself, it was for me and Mam. At the time, my mam was my age now, twenty-seven, and my dad was just thirty-two. But my dad was lucky and the day after his diagnosis he got a bed at James Cook Hospital and had all the necessary scans and X-rays over the next week.

  The surgeon was called Dr Viva. He told my mam there was a strong possibility the tumour was wrapped around his spine and if it was they wouldn’t be able to operate. I don’t know how my dad coped or slept over the next few days waiting for his operation.

  He had a room on his own and I remember every day when we went to visit him we drove past a factory just beyond Stockton that displayed the time and temperature and we knew then we were just ten minutes away. I would get excited when I saw it, knowing I’d soon be able to give my dad a cuddle. I remember my mam telling me in the car, ‘We have to be brave, we can’t cry even if Dad looks poorly. If we cry it will worry Dad and it’s like saying God, this is serious, this is cancer.’ As soon as we left the room we would cry together, we sobbed our hearts out, but as long as we were in that room with my dad we were strong, stronger than Wonder Woman.

  I slept in my mam and dad’s bed while my dad was in hospital and we cuddled and cried and every night we would say lots of prayers. It’s strange because my mam wasn’t a big believer but she said that even a non-believer can change their minds when you think maybe someone is listening and maybe can help you. When I think of what my mam must have been going through, she was dealing with all of this and she was just my age. I get stressed if the hairdresser cuts too much of my hair, and there she was dealing with a kid and the worry of losing her one true love.

  I remember the man in the room next to Dad’s, he used to proper cheer my dad up by telling him funny stories. I sometimes have a little think about him and wonder if he is OK. When my dad was feeling down, this man – who had been in an accident at work and lost both his legs – used to tell my dad off and tell him to stop being so bloody soft as he’s got a family to think about.

  When Dad had his op he was so lucky. Yes, the tumour was huge, leaving a scar the size of a dinner plate and an indentation a couple of inches long, and he had to have skin grafts on the backs of both his thighs, but they managed to remove the whole tumour. He was allowed to come home on Christmas Eve and that was the greatest Christmas any of my family ever had. I only got a few presents to open as obviously my mam had other priorities than present-buying that year, but I didn’t care at all. I had my dad; I had him there on Christmas Day to cuddle, to pull a cracker with, to eat the middle parts of his puddings with (I wouldn’t let him have the crusty edges).

  My dad made a speedy recovery. A nurse came out every day for a couple of weeks to clean and cover his skin grafts and he was advised to take six months off work, but Dad being Dad he was back at work grafting away just eight weeks later.

  Me dad has had a few little lumps removed since then but nothing serious. He was told by the doctor at the time it was a rare form of skin cancer. I think once you have been through something like that it makes you appreciate people and life more. We all moan about shit sometimes, really unimportant things, but life is the most precious gift we have. He was so lucky to beat cancer’s arse. I know so many friends and family that haven’t been that lucky and it’s just devastating. But we cannot let that bloody C-word win – one day we will find a cure, and in the meantime we just have to keep donating and doing our bit. We can help beat it by going to the doctor’s as soon as we see a potential problem, we need to check for lumps, any changes in moles, go for that prostate exam and us women have to go for our smear as soon as we get that letter. Doctors these days are on the ball but you have to help yourself. It is still a terrifying illness.

  So I know for Dad the thought of his little girl having to have tests for that bloody C-word was heartbreaking. But only three hours or so after my dad was crying into my sock the doctor came back in to tell us some amazing news.

  ‘The tests have come back and your daughter is fit and healthy – other than the unfortunate case of Bell’s palsy, of course. I’m going to give her a strong case of steroids and she will have regular check-ups, but it should have cleared within three months.’

  I’m so grateful the doctor was right. The worst of it lasted around three months and then to my great delight I was starting to look like the old Scarlett again.

  And yes, that’s the Scarlett that I once stared at in the mirror and ripped to shreds. The Scarlett whose face I would rearrange in my head to have longer hair, flawless skin and perfect teeth. The Scarlett who once wished she looked like the girls in Smash Hits magazine. It’s crazy: before the Bell’s palsy I was so self-critical but once the steroids worked I was so happy. It made me appreciate what I had.

  I wasn’t completely the old me; the condition does still affect me to this day. I normally sleep with an eye mask at home as I still can’t close my left eye properly, and it’s also caused a droop with my left eyebrow. So in photos it constantly looks like I’m doing the Elvis Presley eyebrow. I do get some trolls on my social media commenting on my face and how unsymmetrical it is, or saying that my teeth are ridiculous. But do you know what? I really don’t care. Because having that palsy made me wish so hard to be the old me. Looks are only skin-deep. I’m here, I’m alive. The outcome could have been so much worse when I came smashing down off my bike or when I went to the hospital that day and had those tests done. Who gives a shit if my face is a bit wonky and my teeth are a bit goofy?

  Remember to always love yourself for what you are, not hate yourself for what you’re not. As the American author Regina Brett once said:

  ‘If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw

  everyone else’s, we’d grab ours back.’

  Chapter Six

  DO YOU WANT TO GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?

  The Nokia 3310 has a 55- to 245-hour battery life, even on standby. Talk about long lasting. It was chosen as one of the three national emojis to represent Finland and is known as ‘the brick’.

  One in ten British parents admit to paying £500 for their daughters to attend their school prom (tan, make-up, hair, outfit, shoes, travel and of course the corsage).

  A new grading scale of 9–1 will be used for GCSEs in the UK, instead of the old A–U grading.

  I remember sitting on the top deck of the 5A bus pretending to read my Sabrina the Teenage Witch magazine so I didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone else. The anxious little Scarlett in my head kept repeating the same two lines: ‘You are not ready for this, pretend to fail everything so they put you back into primary.’ The thought of secondary school terrified me. The horror stories you’d hear – one kid at primary said, ‘One of the first years got their head flushed down the toilet just for
looking at a Year 11 in the eye.’ I later found out this wasn’t true, but that still didn’t make me feel any more excited for the day ahead.

  I sat there in my aubergine purple jumper, crisp white Fruit of the Loom polo shirt, and trousers that I promise were fashionable at the time – they were half trousers, half skirt. They were that tight they were marking every part of my body they touched, all set off nicely with my orange tan from a dance competition I’d attended two days prior.

  A high-pitched electronic noise entered my consciousness. My polyphonic Mozart 40 ringtone was going off in the front-zip compartment of my McKenzie backpack. The backpack that was bigger than my entire torso so I could fit in all the essentials – which I would later learn I did not need. The words ‘MAMMA BEAR’ pixelated across the illuminated Nokia 3310 screen.

  ‘Hello. You OK, Mam? I only just left five minutes ago.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. God, can I not just ring ya to say I’m so excited for you? Ya will remember this day for the rest of your life. Nanny and Auntie Kirsty say good luck. I just wanted to check that you’ve definitely got everything you need for your first day at big school.’

  ‘It’s called secondary school, Mam, and yes.’

  To be honest I didn’t even know what half the stuff was that was in my bag.

  ‘Have you got your scientific calculator?’ (This is misleading as you never ever use it in science.)

  ‘Yes, Mam. Can I go now? I’m really busy, you interrupted my game of Snake on my phone there. Bye, love you.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll go through the list the school sent. I’ve got it in front of me. You check you have everything in your bag, OK? Compass … highlighters … multiple packs of ballpoint pens both black and blue … HB pencils …’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got all of them, Mam, along with the glittery gel pens you bought me, a bendy shatterproof ruler and a novelty eraser that’s shaped like a hot dog.’ (I really thought the hot dog rubber would score me some cool kid points.)

  ‘Brill, have a great day. I’ll make you your fave for tea: fish finger sandwich, beans and chips with loads of vinegar on for you. Bye sweetheart, love you.’

  After the phone call and the promise of a smashing tea, I arrived at my new secondary school in Bishop Auckland. I was meeting my cousin Demi at the old metal gates. We heard the bell go off so we rushed inside, following the big posters with arrows on them. There we found all the first years huddled together in the assembly room, rounded up like cattle. We were given shiny new planners and a whole load of information that no one was listening to about fire safety.

  ‘I wonder whose form we will be put in? It’s so exciting,’ Demi whispered. With that, the headteacher started reeling off names and what room we would need to shuffle to. Luckily me and Demi were put in the same form class. I walked into 7TR, Miss Tyron’s room, and to my surprise everyone was smiling. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and kept reminding myself that everyone else was feeling as apprehensive about this new environment as me. I was pleased me and Demi were put into the same form class; to be fair we were both thick as thieves. I remember the first term in Year 7 we both didn’t get great grades and got in trouble for chatting at the back of the classroom a lot so we both decided to pretend parents’ evening wasn’t happening on the date that was in the newsletter. We came up with a plan. We both Tipp-Exed information about the evening on the newsletter. Technically, I wouldn’t class this as a lie, it’s just not giving away all of the facts.

  Obviously my mam was slightly suspicious. ‘Why is this part blanked out, Scarlett?’

  ‘Because it was meant to be parents’ evening but it’s been cancelled for some reason.’

  Now me and Demi both knew our parents would call each other. ‘Janine, it’s Betty. Do you know when parents’ evening is?’

  ‘It’s been cancelled, our Demi said it’s probably going to be rearranged again in a couple of weeks.’

  I mean some would say that was deceitful but I would say it was genius. How we both didn’t end up working for MI5 I do not know.

  I quite enjoyed the first term of school. I even had my first crush. Seamus he was called, I knew he was way out of my league as a lot of girls fancied him and he was in the sporty cool crew during PE but I could still fantasise about him and read his horoscope in my Mizz magazine (not creepy at all).

  However, something changed after the first term. I came back after the week’s holiday (what we call up north ‘potato-picking week’) and the gaggle – what I called the group of popular girls – decided I was now the chosen one. The one who was going to be bullied. Now as I’ve mentioned, due to the bike accident I had only half of my two front teeth when I started school and the right one was black. This was enough to make me the brunt of all their jokes.

  It lasted three years, just constant shit from these idiots.

  ‘Scarlett, who’s your favourite Disney character? Is it Goofy? Because that’s who you look like.’

  ‘Why are you so orange, Scarlett? Did your mam shag a carrot?’

  ‘Do you ever brush your teeth, Black Teeth?’

  ‘Errr, Scruffy Mouth, buy some mouthwash will you?’

  ‘Monobrow Moffatt sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G with rotten teeth.’

  It got so bad with them shouting stuff out during class that the teachers decided it would be best to put me in isolation. Yes, that’s right, I was just trying to do my work but I was the one being punished by being isolated even more. So I had to sit in a room with five other kids and do worksheets, so now my education was suffering because I wasn’t getting the same lessons as that gaggle of bitches.

  They even created a website all about me (which now when I look back, I’m pretty flattered about). It was pretty shit graphics, like I don’t think Mark Zuckerberg will be calling them up asking about their layout plans any time soon. But it was a site saying I loved Digimon and that I had no friends and it included a little poem about my teeth. Sounds silly now but at the time I was devastated. I cried so much. Because I was separated from the gaggle during lessons they came at me during breaks and threatened to kick my head in after school. Again the solution was to reduce my education: they let me out of school ten minutes early, so I would wander round Asda car park for an extra ten minutes and contemplate what the fuck was my life.

  I loved getting into my house, it was a safety blanket. I found TV very helpful then. It’s an escape really. I remember watching a lot of Victoria Wood, and she always seemed to take the mick out of herself. I thought, ‘Well, she seems happy enough’ so then I started doing the same really. It was nice as well because at the time on the telly all of the girls were just beautiful. They were either sidekicks or news presenters and they were all very well groomed. Even in cartoons, there was never someone that was average-looking. You were either a geek or you were in the cool group.

  Whereas Victoria Wood broke that mould because she took the mick out of herself. She would do these sketch shows where she looked stupid and she’d wear a swimming cap or a beret, but people were laughing with her, not at her. That was a breakthrough moment for me. I realised, ‘Oh right, so you don’t have to be either beautiful or geeky. You can just be average-looking and funny.’

  I think I really learnt from that. It’s weird because you don’t even think at the time that you really are learning from it, but Victoria Wood definitely taught me a lesson. She showed me that making myself the butt of jokes could help me at school. I think that is why my mam and dad joked a lot with me as well, just to show it doesn’t mean that people hate you if they’re joking. You’ve just got to take it on the chin. But I also remember my dad saying, ‘Just ignore those girls because it’s jealousy.’ I was like, ‘Dad, what are they jealous of? I don’t understand. I think they’re just being evil. Are they jealous that I turn up looking like a mahogany door every Monday because I’ve been to a dance competition? I don’t get it.’

  Inspired by Victoria Wood, I decided in Year 9 to start taking the piss out of mys
elf. I mean, can words really hurt if you’re giggling at them yourself? I made friends with a few of the girls who were also always on their period every week when we went to the swimming baths for P.E. Every week: ‘Sorry Sir, we are on our periods so we can’t go in the water.’ No male teacher is going to argue with a bunch of thirteen-year-olds about menstrual cycles.

  I started to enjoy school more; the bullying never stopped but it had almost become bearable. One day all of the Year 9 classes were called to a surprise assembly. We were all speculating at what we thought it was going to be about. ‘Oh my God, has someone died?’ ‘Maybe one of the teachers has won the lottery and is leaving one of their favourite pupils loads of dosh?’ ‘Maybe Mr Green has been outed as a pervert, he is a bit odd.’

  It was none of these things.

  ‘Stacey Dixon has won a competition in Mizz magazine for writing a short story,’ the head announced. ‘She has come first, and her prize is that our school is going to hold the 2004 Mizz prom!’

  It was amazing. There were going to be celebrities like Paul Danan from Hollyoaks, who went on to appear in the first ever Celebrity Love Island, and some blonde woman from Big Brother called Shell would be making an appearance. There would be chocolate fountains, mocktail makers and of course someone was going to be crowned prom king and queen.

  The whole assembly started to buzz like an old fridge. It was so exciting, nothing like this ever happened in Bishop Auckland. Everyone started chatting about dresses and dates. Shit, I thought, I need to get a date.

  Now I literally had nothing to lose at school, it’s not like I could ruin my street cred by getting rejected. So I thought sod it, I’ve got to ask Seamus if he’ll go to the prom with me. What’s the worst that can happen? He can say no and I’m in the same position I’m in now. I was thirteen, and despite fancying the lad for two years I’d probably said about ten words to him in my whole life. So I just went up to him at breaktime, bold as brass.