The Uninvited Guest, The Uncomfortable Gift
You know the old joke, “It’s a brain tumor!”? The one we causally assign to every recurrent headache, every personality shift, every persistent cough? I’m here at the party, drink in hand, reminding you that -- fuck -- it really COULD be a brain tumor. Maybe it’s not a joke. Maybe it’s not such an impossibility. Maybe it could happen to you.
As we knock back our drinks, my presence reminds you that maybe you could one day be bright and happy and 35 years old, but day after day you start to feel a little off balance. You could go to doctor after doctor before you finally get an MRI, and then you could get the news no one wants to hear (ha --joke’s on you!).
As you pass me the guacamole and remember my sister (because I will make damn sure that she’s not forgotten), you’re reminded that one day you could go into surgery, healthy and strong, and then leave with a hole in your cerebellum so gaping and wide that you can no longer easily see, speak, or move. You will never walk unassisted again. You will never drive or work again. You will never start the family that you and your husband were planning.
Let’s start the party games while my presence reminds you that you could suffer round after round of truly horrifying radiation, that you could be left with permanent disabilities. But now for just a moment, you can take a breath (whew - time for dessert!) - you’re declared cancer-free! You can start to build some semblance a life again, slowly and painfully, even though you can’t do so many of the things that you used to, even though you’ve had to give up making art and playing music and taking hikes and working a job you love and doing just about everything that made you, you.
Except you can’t breathe for long, because four years later those tumors will start to come back. This time they can’t be treated. This time they forge new attacks, take away pieces of your cognition, destroy your short-term memory, make every single day like the movie “50 First Dates.” This time they are too much. This time you die, 40 years old, two weeks before Christmas. There is no redemption here, no path that make sense. This is nothing but a heart-wrenching tragedy.
The uncomfortable truth that I bring to you is that having long odds and being a “good” person offers you absolutely no protection at all. My sister’s cancer had an occurrence rate of 1 in 2 million. She was loving, generous, hilarious, and kind. She devoted her life to helping others. She always stood up for what was right. She was as brave and as bright and as true as they come. Pour another drink, because if it can happen to her, I promise it can happen to you.
And despite all the bullshit rhetoric about “fighting” cancer, my beautiful Melissa was brave and wise enough to know when it was time to surrender. I know that part makes you uncomfortable; you might hate that part most of all. I know you want to believe that if you just fight hard enough -- if you just think positive enough -- you will survive. The uncomfortable truth that I bring you is that you are powerless.
And the GIFT that I bring? Hell if I know. Right now I’m just the town witch, babbling nonsense, hanging out on the fringe and unable to just be “normal.” I know my sweet Seester’s life was beautiful and bright and true. I know that our love was a love for the ages, that my bond with her was unlike any other sisterhood I’ve ever seen. I know I’ll be grateful forever, that I’ll love her forever.
But her illness, her suffering, her death? I’ve got nothing. No gift. No parting wisdom. No powerful truth. Nothing at all.
As we knock back our drinks, my presence reminds you that maybe you could one day be bright and happy and 35 years old, but day after day you start to feel a little off balance. You could go to doctor after doctor before you finally get an MRI, and then you could get the news no one wants to hear (ha --joke’s on you!).
As you pass me the guacamole and remember my sister (because I will make damn sure that she’s not forgotten), you’re reminded that one day you could go into surgery, healthy and strong, and then leave with a hole in your cerebellum so gaping and wide that you can no longer easily see, speak, or move. You will never walk unassisted again. You will never drive or work again. You will never start the family that you and your husband were planning.
Let’s start the party games while my presence reminds you that you could suffer round after round of truly horrifying radiation, that you could be left with permanent disabilities. But now for just a moment, you can take a breath (whew - time for dessert!) - you’re declared cancer-free! You can start to build some semblance a life again, slowly and painfully, even though you can’t do so many of the things that you used to, even though you’ve had to give up making art and playing music and taking hikes and working a job you love and doing just about everything that made you, you.
Except you can’t breathe for long, because four years later those tumors will start to come back. This time they can’t be treated. This time they forge new attacks, take away pieces of your cognition, destroy your short-term memory, make every single day like the movie “50 First Dates.” This time they are too much. This time you die, 40 years old, two weeks before Christmas. There is no redemption here, no path that make sense. This is nothing but a heart-wrenching tragedy.
The uncomfortable truth that I bring to you is that having long odds and being a “good” person offers you absolutely no protection at all. My sister’s cancer had an occurrence rate of 1 in 2 million. She was loving, generous, hilarious, and kind. She devoted her life to helping others. She always stood up for what was right. She was as brave and as bright and as true as they come. Pour another drink, because if it can happen to her, I promise it can happen to you.
And despite all the bullshit rhetoric about “fighting” cancer, my beautiful Melissa was brave and wise enough to know when it was time to surrender. I know that part makes you uncomfortable; you might hate that part most of all. I know you want to believe that if you just fight hard enough -- if you just think positive enough -- you will survive. The uncomfortable truth that I bring you is that you are powerless.
And the GIFT that I bring? Hell if I know. Right now I’m just the town witch, babbling nonsense, hanging out on the fringe and unable to just be “normal.” I know my sweet Seester’s life was beautiful and bright and true. I know that our love was a love for the ages, that my bond with her was unlike any other sisterhood I’ve ever seen. I know I’ll be grateful forever, that I’ll love her forever.
But her illness, her suffering, her death? I’ve got nothing. No gift. No parting wisdom. No powerful truth. Nothing at all.