Confessions Of A Heretic: The Sacred And The Profane: Behemoth And Beyond

by Adam Nergal Darski

  Were there any tricks to keeping your hair?

  Oh, no. Every hair on my whole body was gone. I felt quite strange. All pale, no hair, like a huge toddler. I overheard two nurses talking once. They were going through my papers when one of them looked at the other and, pointing at my bed, she asked, ‘This boy right there is thirty-four years old?’

  No point in pretending that you didn’t look a bit odd.

  I was surprised at my appearance myself, but I was also curious. There was something fascinating about the metamorphosis that I went through. It was my body, but at the same time it wasn’t entirely mine. I tried to look at myself as a participant in some strange experiment—as a guinea pig. I didn’t feel any repulsion when I looked in the mirror though. I was, after all, watching myself.

  From a distance, though?

  You could say that. In fact, I always try to look at myself from a distance; it makes life easier. It made the fight with sickness a lot easier, too.

  Pictures from that time didn’t make it into glossy magazines. Did the paparazzi let you off the hook?

  Hyenas are attracted to a carcass. They took a few photos of me but they weren’t published anywhere. I have no idea why. It’s hard to imagine the tabloid bosses having any conscience.

  How did the paparazzi manage to photograph you?

  That’s a longer story. When I got to the hospital, there was total insanity. When the media found out about me being sick, there was a whole queue of shady types with cameras, camped out in front of the building. For a few days they limited themselves to hunting down Dorota. They took pictures of her when she was walking into the hospital and they did likewise when she was leaving. With time, that was not enough, and it was then that they started hunting me.

  Did they try to get on the ward you were on?

  They barged in there by force. They insulted the nurses, a few of whom stood in their way, so they started struggling with them. I was so fucking pissed that I really wanted to get out of my room and just fucking beat the shit out of them. I was on steroid therapy at the time so my emotions were definitely heightened. Something broke in me that day, so I talked to Dorota and we decided to hire bodyguards. Actually, she said that it was our only available option. She organised and financed everything. Besides, I wasn’t strong enough, and I didn’t have enough money.

  Were they by your side all the time?

  Yes, there were a few of them there. They took shifts: one of them worked days, the other one did nights. We still keep in touch to this day. They were very helpful and turned out to be really wholehearted people. Not only did they guard me from intruders from the outside but they also helped me in everyday situations.

  Did they scare the paparazzi away?

  If an asshole like that senses blood, there’s no stopping him. One day, two of these vultures dressed as doctors. They visited the rooms, as if they were doing a round. Fortunately, they were quickly exposed.

  On another occasion, one of the bodyguards ran into my room with a huge green sheet and started covering the windows. I had no idea what was going on. It turned out that the ward I was on was being renovated, and there was scaffolding in front of it. Some of those guys were so desperate, they climbed up the scaffolding to take a picture of me. As I later found out, one of them managed to shoot Nergal half-naked on a hospital bed, and I’m still waiting for these photos to be published in some tabloid magazine.

  Maybe these editors have some inhibitions after all?

  I doubt that.

  Didn’t you ever consider treatment abroad? You could have avoided all this, and the conditions might have been better.

  I heard this a lot. ‘You have the money. You can go and get treated somewhere quiet.’ That’s what they said to me. From a financial standpoint it wasn’t that easy, but such a thought did cross my mind.

  The problem, however, was time. Sickness kept attacking, and we had to act immediately. Looking for another hospital could have been risky. I would be probably still paying back my debts now, too. Besides, there is no place for a doctor’s creativity when treating leukaemia. It’s a standard therapy, the same everywhere in the whole world. The medicines are the same, too.

  Of course, I did my research quickly. I asked people who knew about the issue, and I found out that it was not easy to find a specialist who is as good as doctor Hellmann. But I had other doubts.

  The Medical Academy buildings are not really very modern; they’re notoriously sad, dark, and daunting. I wondered—at least at the beginning—if such conditions would hinder my struggle. Ultimately, some other factors affected my decision, too. Staying in Gdańsk kept me close to my home, my family, my friends—the people whose presence and support I cared about. I have no idea how I would have managed without their help. My mother and father were with me the whole time. That was so damn important to me. I could also afford long phone conversations; that was really vital for me, too. Besides, if I had a break from the hospital—a day-pass—it only took me ten-to-fifteen minutes to get home.

  Did they let you go home often?

  I did leave a few times—in the breaks between particular chemo cycles. But those were short passes. Most of the time I was sitting in the hospital room.

  How did you cope with all that on a normal day?

  I worked. Or at least I tried to work. I had my own system. I called it ‘ramming the harpoon’. In short, it was about doing everything I could to get mobilised. I didn’t think about the present; I made plans for the future. And whenever I planned something, I always tried to do it, step by step, as if there was no other way. Every toehold was of vital significance. I felt better with each one. Work made everything make sense and I fought for the band as well as for myself.

  But how is it possible to work as a man with leukaemia, tied to a hospital bed?

  I had lots to do, actually. I had a computer; I had a phone, so I could make moves. Working on our Evangelia Heretica DVD took me a few weeks, for example. I designed the cover—the whole layout. I took care of all the details. Every day I would just sit with the phone in my hand and talk to the graphic designer, the publisher, and the guys from the band.

  When I was so weak that I could not even move my hand, then—for a while—Orion would take over and continue with the work. Whenever I felt better again, I was right back in the game. When the DVD was finally out, I sat on my bed and signed a thousand copies for the fans. It took me two days.

  Did it ever occur to you that these autographs might have been your last ones?

  It did cross my mind. But I fought thoughts like these. On some deeper level, I really just wanted to feel wanted. What if I don’t make it? What if I lose the battle with this sickness? Even if that turned out to be the case, at least a thousand of my fans would be happy. I assumed a motto that I cling to until this day: I treat everything as if it’s the last thing I will ever do in my life. I put all my heart into it. That gives me a kick.

  What else kept you fighting?

  Do you remember that cartoon, ‘Once Upon A Time … Life’? I viewed a similar movie in my head, every night before I fell sleep. I imagined an army of red blood cells marching on the ultimate battle to defeat the sickness. It was like a ritual. It helped me to program my psyche—to direct it toward fighting. I wanted to be focused and ready for action at all times. I avoided numbness or apparent calmness. I did everything not to give up. Peace is only for the dead and the dying, as the New Model Army song goes. And I was still alive …

  How did you manage to maintain that discipline?

  Despite everything, it wasn’t so hard. Being in hospital is a bit like being in the army. Or like in prison. Each day looks the same.

  You get up at six. The nurse would come into my room. I normally get up much later, so I was usually half-conscious when she showed up. I just gave her my hand; she took my blood and set up the drip. When she left, I tried to fall asleep again. I woke up again for breakfast at around eight o’ clock. Then I checked my mail and sta
rted working.

  There was no time to relax?

  There was a lot of time for everything. I decided to change the appearance of my room, for example. I started with the cross. I took it off the wall, and in its place I hung a rosary with Mahomet’s figurine. Next to it there were portraits of Bruce Lee, Crowley, and Nietzsche—characters who inspired and turned me on in different periods of my life.

  Later, I hung a golden medal next to them—one that was brought to me by a friend. It turned out that some anonymous man ran a marathon in Gdańsk for me. He won the medal and decided to give it to me as a token of his support. It really meant a lot to me.

  When my isolation room looked a bit cosier, I got addicted to watching movie serialisations. I fell in love with Spartacus—the one where Andy Whitfield played the main part. I learned by accident that he was diagnosed with lymphangioma during the shoot. Then they said that he had overcome it and they were shooting another season. My story corresponded beautifully with the theme of the series, and the hero became twice as heroic in my eyes for me. Just like him, I wanted to come back, because what I feared most was that I would never go onstage again. The stage shaped me, hardened me; it was my element. Can you even imagine how much strength it gave me?

  But in the end, Andy lost his fight with cancer.

  I found that out a few weeks later. That news daunted me a little. Fortunately there were other heroes who had won their fights. I’m a huge fan of Dexter, for example. It’s one of my absolute favourite shows. The actor who played the main part, Michael C. Hall, also had a type of lymph-node cancer. He underwent chemo between seasons. He beat cancer and came back and shot two more. That was a strong kick for me.

  Did you read in hospital?

  Habitually. I made up for the last few years.

  What did you read?

  I was under the spell of Robert A. Heinlein’s Stranger In A Strange Land. And Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian.

  The latter isn’t really the most optimistic read though?

  But it’s perfect! I actually read various books. I had the Bible with me and, for contrast, Richard Dawkins’s books. In one of them I found something that really turned me on. He described an experiment conducted on two groups of seriously sick people. There were masses conducted in church for the people in one group. People prayed for its members. The other group was left to fend for itself. Of course, both were treated normally. It turned out that differences in these people’s states and self-feeling were negligible—so much so that that the numbers could in fact be a statistical error.

  Nothing particularly revelatory there, then.

  But that’s not the whole story. There’s another more interesting element. The most surprising conclusions came from the second phase of the experiment. That’s when the first group was actually told that they were being prayed for, and that they had this spiritual support.

  Did they recover?

  On the contrary! Those patients’ results suddenly got worse.

  Did Dawkins interpret it in any particular way?

  I think he left it with no comment. But just think. You’re sick, and you know that somebody prays for you. If they’re praying for me, I must be in a really bad shape. That’s surely your first thought. Besides, when you’re a religious person and you know that somebody is praying for you, when you believe that it can help you, then you give yourself to God and relax. You let go, because you think it’s not you who influences the results of the battle.

  People prayed for you, too.

  I even got a special certificate from one of the Polish religious communities in Berlin. It was official confirmation that the members of a particular community had got together and prayed for me. My friend Kikut from Pneuma also came to the hospital. He’s a real practicing Catholic. He also tried to pray for me. I kept telling him, ‘Fuck, man, give me a break, or, at least don’t do it when you’re here.’

  Did he listen to you?

  I don’t know, but I can’t imagine that he would give up very easily.

  But your results didn’t get worse as a result?

  They couldn’t, because I don’t believe in that bullshit. I think it had a reverse effect. Kikut really cheered me up.

  There were also people who interpreted the

  commandment of love in a little different way. They said that your sickness was a punishment for sins; that Nergal now had one last chance to convert.

  I read about that. I even got emails, often full of hatred and contempt. Sometimes I wanted to write back in a really harsh way. But I let it go. What do I need that for? The only effect these people achieved was that I became even more firm in my convictions.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE COLD WAR

  Why did you dump Dorota?

  What kind of question is that?

  The papers said you behaved badly and insensitively.

  And you actually believe that bullshit?

  People are presented with simple facts: he picked her up, used her, and dumped her. That fits your image, because you keep saying you’re the alpha male.

  But I’m not like that 24/7. And that’s what Dorota had a problem with. She expected that I would always be like that, no matter whether I was sick or healthy and if it was sunny or rainy—like a comic-book character.

  You couldn’t show your weaknesses?

  I took Dorota for a date abroad; we went to Prague. I got a cold. It happens. No big deal, just a fever and a runny nose. But there was no mercy shown. She was fucking pissed that we had three days off and I was indisposed.

  Maybe you complained too much?

  I like to complain. Everyone likes to complain when they’re sick. I value people who, in that situation, don’t press you and just take care of you. And I pay back the same way.

  Maybe Dorota was afraid that if she gave you too much space, you would complain in every situation?

  In my normal disposition I fly high, never low. Maybe she just didn’t know that …

  But later, when you were fighting leukaemia, you didn’t complain.

  That was a war for my life, not just a runny nose. You react differently when mosquitoes bite you than when you stand in front of a lion. Of course, I had moments of weakness. When I was in the hospital I complained, too, but it took a while.

  Did your illness destroy your relationship?

  It certainly sped up the process of decay. It was a catalyst for all the doubts. But I tried to turn a blind eye to many things. When you’re in love, you ignore certain signals or push them down into your subconscious. In hospital, all these thoughts crawled out of my head and I started wondering what really connected me with my partner. And, unfortunately, I saw more discords than harmonic notes.

  On the outside, though, you both kept your cool. A very simple message was sent to the outside world: you were fighting cancer and she supported your every step.

  That was true to some extent. I can’t say a bad word about her involvement. She did what she could and she did it because she wanted to. There was no strategy in it or playing for the crowd, as some people suggested. If something started to rot, it was not because of bad intentions, but more because of a huge difference between our characters and priorities. We were from different worlds, and a critical condition brought that to light.

  Did any cracks show up earlier?

  Much earlier. I started to suffocate terribly, even though I had a lot of genuine feelings for her. I really cared about her—maybe even too much. I got so involved that I gave up too much ground at the very beginning. After all, every relationship is a compromise. In this case, however, it was different. Never before in a relationship with a woman had I been so tolerant, elastic, and conciliatory. But even saying that, I really felt that our compatibility was flawed.

  Do you mean chemistry, fascination … ?

  It was an enchantment, sure. Everything blossomed beautifully at the beginning. We wanted to be together despite all the obstacles. We turned a blind eye to what divided us,
but the rose-coloured glasses started falling off my nose after a while. Even before my illness, we had a few serious arguments. For six months we lived like a married couple. During that time I packed my bags twice and moved out of her place.

  What divided you?

  I moved to Warsaw for Dorota. I left my friends and family in Gdańsk. I needed contact with them, so I would often spend hours on the phone with them. For her, that was a sign of weakness in that, in critical situations, I sought help or support by calling a friend. In Warsaw I had no one to talk to. Rational dialogue with Dorota was almost always impossible.

  You agreed to it, though.

  Yes, because at first I saw a sweet and fantastic woman. Only with time did I realise that there was an intellectual gap between us—that there was no bridge to connect us intellectually. This relationship was a misalliance. It doesn’t have to mean that it was wrong; my whole life is based on extremes after all. So I believed in that misalliance deeply and sincerely. I pushed all the doubts somewhere deep.

  And what did your friends tell you?

  They kept their distance. I take pride in the fact that my friends are very mature people. They never judged me or, for that matter, Dorota. They always tried to give me good advice, even when I was sad and bitter. It would have been easy to say, ‘You know what? Just dump her, or she’s going to wreck your life.’ Instead, I would often hear, ‘If you’re happy in this relationship, it’s OK. We’re happy for you.’

  But you were not happy.

  Remember, I had been independent my whole life. I had my own apartment, my own car, my own job and passion … I valued the liberty and space I had. Suddenly everything changed. I was suddenly a guest in somebody’s house. I had a designated wardrobe and toothbrush, but that’s where my space ended. I was overwhelmed. From every wall there was Dorota looking at me. Doda’s figurines, Doda’s photos, a painting of Doda … I felt like I was in a museum. It was constraining me second by second.

  Was she a bad woman?

  It was more a question of her nature, not any bad intentions, per se. Dorota is just very dominating. She openly admits that she has a lot of manly features. And there is something to that. She’s a testosterone-woman, no doubt. She used to play sports and she still loves rivalry. One day we had an idea: let’s do paintball! We were supposed to go with our friends. Let’s make teams, it’ll be fun! She agreed, but under the sole condition that we are in opposite teams.