For me, writing is like sex. If you're not in the mood, you're not very good at it. Unless, of course the writing is of a technical sort, in which case it's more like a jigsaw puzzle; somewhat challenging, mildly entertaining but devoid of passion.
I have to figure out why my cancer blogging fountain of words dried up, and it finally comes to me: I'm thoroughly sick of cancer conversations. Not the back-and-forth, information-sharing, what-if exchanges that I love, but the inevetible tales of woe or faith that so many casual acquaintances subject me to. They knew someone who had cancer so they're an expert, or they're traumatized or they feel that they can forsee the future to tell me I will be cured.
I'm horrified that so many people know so little about this bastardly disease that attacks one of every three people on the planet. Some have cancer, are being treated for it, and they don't know what kind it is. They do not know what kind of cancer they have. Not a clue, and this floors me. Aren't they the least bit curious?
Jesus tapdancing Christ, this cancer may kill them, don't they have any interest at all? Apparently not but, in spite of this, they're eager to tell you all about it. I always listen politely and wish them luck. Sometimes, if I'm in an evil mood, I grin like an idiot and say, "Oh, you'll be just fine!"
I've already talked about the plethora of secret, miracle cures people let me in on. Oddly, everyone learned about them from a friend of a friend of a friend, on the Ophra show or read it in a magazine (I'm guessing an ad in a magazine). Anyway, I don't even bother argueing anymore.
I learned my lesson after responding, "Oh, that's reaaally wonderful, I had no idea I could cure my cancer just by taking some kind of hemp oil preparation. Guess I'd better run right down to the health food store and buy up a whole bunch of it, eh? Gee, you're so clever! You should be a doctor!"
And I may have gone on a bit longer, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Anyway, Miracle Cure Dude finally gets it, looks me right in the eye and snarls, "Fuck you, douche bag!" as he turns on his heel and stalks off down the Italy aisle in the wine section of the liquor store, heading for Kokanee. I smile, because I imagine yelling at him, "Hey buddy, you should quit drinkin' yer beer out of aluminum cans, it's killing brain cells."
Finally, there are those who lost a loved one of cancer and, believe me, I have great sympathy for anyone who has lost a loved one because we all do and it's always rough.
My sympathy dwindles when, on my first solo trip shopping after my lobectomy, a woman about my age but a bundle of energy and the picture of health, runs up to me to to say, "How ARE you!" I reply, "Not bad, thanks," and she launches into the saga of her mother who died of "female parts" cancer.
Really, that's what she called it, and I wonder if, at her age, she still does not know the names of female reproductive organs. Maybe she thinks these are bad words not to be uttered in public or, most likely, she doesn't really know much about what killed her mother and doesn't much care because it's really all about her.
I'm in pain, exhausted and stupid from Dilaudid, hanging on to the grocery cart to keep from collapsing on the floor of the IGA and struggling to get some air in my lung.
She prattles on about her mother who died ten years ago and she went to stay with her and she cooked for her and she cleaned for her and she shopped for her and she loved those little butter tarts and it was so hard and her mother ended up in the hospital but she stayed on with her sister to look after Dad because he was just beside himself because she had looked after him all these years, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
There was something in there about getting a flat tire on Granville Street in Vancouver, but I missed a lot of the details. At one point, when she paused for a breath, just for fun, I said, "My mom was murdered by a rhinocerous with AIDS," but she never batted an eye, just kept right on about what a dedicated daughter and selfless person she was when her mother was dying of cancer of her female parts.
Next time I'm gonna turn around, yank up my shirt and show her my scar!
So for the most part I try to avoid cancer chats, but a few of them put an honest, happy smile on my face for most of the rest of the day. They are the ones who are honest and direct, the ones who say "cancer" instead of looking at their toes and mumbling, "the C word," the ones who don't treat me like an invalid or a freak, the ones who know they won't catch cancer by standing too close to me.
I think it was Scientific American Mind that ran an article recently that explained this peculiar behaviour in otherwise sane and intelligent people, tracing it back to early evolution when there was safety and strength in numbers. Be it fighting off predators or an invading tribe, a sickly individual is of little use so they weren't desirable as fellow citizens. We're getting better though, it's 2010 and today we rarely send our Stage 4 cancer patients off on ice floes.
Now I'd like to share with you a couple of Facebook posts I made while holed up at home in Kleindale, avoiding the stupider cancer chatter. Each was given the title...
~~~ A D V I C E F O R T H E D A Y ~~~
August 20
When the raisins in your cereal taste really bitter, consider that the milk you poured on it might have been sour. Do not ignore the bad taste while eating 3/4 of the bowlful before pouring milk in your coffee to see it curdle.
September 2
When softening butter in the microwave, do not set it for two minutes on High, and don't put a quarter pound in one of those tiny little souvenir plates. Coming soon... how to clean a quarter-pound of liquid butter out of your microwave!
September 8
After removing the screen from the kitchen window, do not leave said window open wide enough for a Stellar's jay to fly through after you have, like an idiot, placed peanuts on the windowsill. Note to self: buy more Fantastik Orange Action just in case you have another morning of cleaning up birdshit in the kitchen.
