I promised that I Blame The Patriarchy wouldn’t turn into CancerBlog, and I meant it, but the novelty of my bizarro diagnosis hasn’t worn off yet (remember when I first got my puppy Bert and I posted pictures of him every day for a month?) so here are a few canceresque observations I can’t resist making.
Not a few people have, of late, pointed out to me that coming down with breast cancer does not appear to have diminished my "wit." Apparently I am just as hilarious as I always was. They seem surprised by this. Their surprise surprises me, until I recall the traditional ancient American belief that a woman’s sense of humor resides in her right boob.
When I was in the hospital after my mastectomy, basking in post-traumatic stress and the soothing aroma of disinfectant, I noticed there was a wooden crucifix hanging on the wall. This brought me great comfort. I don’t know how many times I’d turn to it and say, "Thanks for the cancer, Jesus!"
Since coming down with cancer, I have kissed my happy old life of lazy, hermit-like reclusiveness good-bye. Cancer is a hell of a lot of work. I’m not talking about the treatments. I’m talking about socially. The social whirl is ridiculous. My phone-hours have quintupled, and I spend the rest of my waking hours writing thank-you notes for sick-person gifts (such as the 15-year-old book on breast cancer that begins "This year, 140,000 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. Eighty percent will die."). Friends who have contentedly ignored me for years are suddenly calling to "check in."
Except for Brad Hines, who I’ve known for 20 years.
What about it, Brad, ya big pussy?