In this cancer Afterworld, life is sometimes a b*tch, but often bliss. Blissy vibes happened the night I threw a spontaneous “Survivor Party & Sing-Along” at Honey, a pal’s suave nightclub. Scores of friends showed up. (They had to, or I’d kill them.) Honey’s sound system rocks, so I brought along guitars and did a short show of songs and stories and snickers and endeavored not to make a fool of myself. Friends sang (and played) along. It felt great.
As I wrote in my first cancer post, I’m the luckiest man in the world…because I have so many friends. 1,000 thanks, folks!
As one emerges from the blur and body slam of treatment, you peel back the fried & dried skin and open the burnt eyeballs and sense the neglected wreckage awaiting. Things like: Responsibilities. Relationships. Metaphysical laundry. The treatments stop and, ready or not, an impatient waiter presents a Reality checklist. The C card was wild for a while. But even the luckiest cardholder learns it won’t settle these tabs.
Atop the list sits a common psycho-cogitation: What did I do to deserve to win? I know several people suffering with cancer now, and acquaintances still tell stories daily of loved ones they’ve lost. Well, try not to think too much about survivor’s guilt, fear, or remorse. Don’t google it. Don’t google anything: It will just say you have cancer. But there’s some serious conditioning in order when transitioning from fight-fight-fight to taking victory laps.
Perhaps the Afterworld has parallels to post- 9-11, when everyone kept saying—with fervent voices and furrowed eyebrows—“Everything changed!” I was stymied then. And I’m baffled now. What, exactly, changed again? “Everything, man!” Whoa. That’s heavy. I don’t even know what “everything” is. So, I’m working on that. I’m working on everything. It changed.
The appointment agenda changed for sure, but it’s still jammy. Dr. Nostril’s camera still goes up the nose and we discuss that mysterious ecosystem. Last time, he loved what he saw—more than ever. “Pristine!” he proclaimed. He was probably ready to scoot me out of the exam room and move on to messier cases.
But being the journalist that I am who increasingly cares about his body’s adventure, I peppered him with a lightning round of Afterworld Q&A: “Doc, what about these dang headaches?” “Perfectly normal!” “My eyelid gets stuck and people think I’m winking.” “Might work wonders for your love life!” “The nagging cough?” “Common. Did you like steroids? We can set you up…” “No-o-o-! Just let me cough!” “As you wish, but it’d be a much smaller dose and you might enjoy mopping the carpet at 2 in the morning.” “About my nose. When I blow it, I still get…” “OF COURSE you do. Give it time. It’s like a fine wine…”
Before departing, I mean signing off, we do need to talk about my hair. But it’s probably best saved for another post. Or thriller novel. For now, please know that it…changed. Really changed. It now redefines kinky. I mean, I wake up in the morning with a hair-ache. Mother Wren is back from Mar-a-Lago and checking me out nonstop.
Even Dr. Zen was shocked. Last time we met, he entered the room with his usual beaming smile, which abruptly fell into a painful frown. And—not in his usual, soothing voice—he muttered, “Oh my, your hair came back, but, but…it really…changed. I did not expect this.” He turned away and started rubbing his forehead. Nurse Parrot bolted from the room, perhaps to get him a stiff cocktail.
Not to worry, I’m seeking professional hair help. I’d show you a recent picture but, well, I doubt it would pass the new internet politeness protocols. So stay tuned…
Until then, get back to your mess, your lists, and your songs. And remember…We got this!
Thanks for listening…