One-plus year ago, I received the blessed news that my Care Crew and their amazing arsenal had won the cancer war inside of me. Of course, the journey carries on anyway, like a long, lost cruise. Still, I’m pleased to note every little cancer-versary, even though I keep mostly mum and celebrate with nary a sliver of chocolate cake.
In this transition into the After-Life, I wonder: Should I continue writing about this topic? Usually I decide, Heck no, move on! But the appointments and occasional complication continue. And funny or forehead-slapping scenes persist. So then I figure, How can I let this stuff go? After all, my Cancer Comedy career is still emerging—and can a comedian ever have too much material?
The good news is the bad news: When you ask anyone who has to endure thorough check-ups, they will say It’s not just you; it’s genuinely stressful and anxiety-inducing. I mean, just look at the guy in that picture. Does he look like he’s having fun? Has he lost that can-do attitude? Would he rather, say, be undergoing root canal? I think his kindergarten teacher would be ashamed.
I happen to know he’s trying, and he’s tough. But the process is also trying and tough, and the cheerleaders have left the building. Most staffers are kind enough and remember me; one saw me at a track meet recently while another had seen me biking. So those singing dollies at Disneyland got it right: Cancer is a small world—a world of laughter, a world of tears, a world of hope, and a world of fears.
A Disney dolly is not what I resembled today when the pain went to 11 as they shot some of Kim Jong Un’s ordinance into my veins as part of a scan. For some reason, it burned like hell. “F**KING A!” I screamed as I shot up from the plank. They apologized and offered an explanation (that made no sense to me) of what went wrong. I resisted the urge to run away and blow off the test.
When enduring this particular scan, a recorded Voice of God tells you what to do: “Breathe. Hold it in.” That’s when they shoot the high-octane gas into your veins and the machine makes extra-terrestrial sounds—echo-y little pings and pongs and the faraway crunch of bones and brains smashing. And then, 5 minutes later, Voice of God says “Exhale.” It can seem like forever, but I find my flesh looks surprisingly good in blue. Matches my eyes.
After a pause, Voice of God gets all tricky and says, “Exhale. Don’t breathe.” And the flush of molten asphalt flows again. In my mind, I’m fantasizing that I take the microphone from Voice of God and say things like, Please rise and bow your heads or Stand up! Sit down! Fight Fight Fight!
Now, about those infusions: They do a nice job of describing what you will experience, stuff like…A hot sensation…flows into your whole body…a bad taste will fill your mouth…and you’ll have to pee…then you’ll think you ARE peeing…but you’re not.
Of course, when those sensations happen, no one is in the room, since they don’t want to undergo the toxic radiation they’re putting you through. That’s probably a good thing—so they don’t hear us patients yelling, GAWD, this sh*t tastes like sh*t! and Stop! I have to pee! and Help! I think I’m peeing! I swear, when Voice of God tells me it’s over and I can sit up, I stare straight at my crotch and wonder, How DO they DO that!?!
The blood-thirsty nurses always say that to me. I don’t know what it means, and even though they’re usually women, I doubt it’s a come-on. But they are honest, because they don’t ever say, “This will be easy.” Or “This won’t hurt a bit.” And then comes the ice pick in the arm.
Blood. They take blood, lots of blood. I usually turn the other way and read the paper (upside down). If it’s not going well (some are more on-point than others), I try out some new material, like Are you part vampire? Or Shouldn’t I get paid for all that? Or Where’s the dang cookies and Kool-Aid? They cart the blood away like milk cartons. Days go by before they reveal what emoji face they might apply to the specimens.
I’m unsure about spirits and angels and things. But they do make great literary devices. And sometimes, when you’re lost in the deep, dark woods of your thoughts, a perfect stranger can show up with a message of miracles and hope. So I was not surprised yesterday when a Caribbean dude with dapper dreads sat at the table next to me under the scalding sun at Chipotle. We were the only ones who could handle the heat and eat outside.
With that patois that instantly takes me to my don’t-worry-be-happy place, he lit up and went off loudly like only an Islander can: If you ees bone een America, you nevva tink life ees guud enough. Always be want-in’ mo’. Da people who get to come to dees country, DEY WANT to be hee-yah! Ass wha’ I’m say-een to you! We got to stop all da figh-TIN and fear-INN an’ com-plain-INN. We got to bring back da gra-ti-TUDE, mon!
We had a long chat, naturally. He told me lots of things, including that he is in love with a woman who lives in Norway. He wants to marry her, he says, And just teenk of datt! Den I might could gitt to leeve in No-o-o-rway, mon! he beamed.
I told him I’d been there, that it’s magnificent, and that it’s one country where the people actually like and care for each other. He bobbed while singing out Ya mon! Ya mon! and squeezing some lime. Then, with the timing of a master comedian, I asked, “Does your girlfriend have a sister?”
He bellowed out a large, life-loving Island laugh and guffawed, I Iike you! I like YOU! You eess faaaaah-NEE!
I don’t know if he really was an angel. Or if I’m really funny. But that really did happen. And since I must admit that these advanced-class tests can bring out the inner snark and angst, he really did remind me to be grateful. And that I must pass these tests, for I want to see Norway (and the Caribbean) again.
Gratitude. I got this, mon.
Thanks for listening.