Death, Sex, and You: The Cancer Edition

"Not Today."

There may be times in life when you find yourself interacting with someone with a scary, perhaps even life-threatening illness. Maybe you meet them at work. In class. At a bar. Making small talk with tact can be difficult amongst all that is icky and emotional. How does one discuss awkward topics like cancer without being awkward? How does one discuss all that is depressing and debilitating? 

Some initial tips:

- Don't insinuate fault. Don't mention karma, "life teaches us lessons", or any other potentially blame-laying notions. 

-  There is a fine line between being light-hearted and being facetious. It is best to assume you are 1. not funny and 2. any inferences you make regarding life expectancy will be wrong and/or insulting. It is also best to refrain from trying to parlay an anticipated life expectancy into a one night stand because "life is short as you know, lolz, yolo".

Or how about we just avoid the topic of death altogether? No dead relatives, no asking about how long I have left, or how I think I would be as a ghost (though I will credit the individual who came up with that particularly precious bit of pillow talk with the most creative take to date on discussions of impending mortality). I know it is super tempting to dive straight into anticipated funeral arrangements when a person you encounter reveals (s)he has been stamped with the "Big C" (or other life-threateningly fun diseases), but how about we all collectively decide to hold back on the er, charm until at least the 3rd date. Or 10th date. Or never.

Re: the dead relative comment. Yes, it can be brought up with a certain level of finesse. Let us assume you, and any of your friends, coworkers, drinking buddies, etc do not have that level of finesse and therefore should avoid mentioning someone who died from the same disease/disease family the person you are speaking with has recently revealed they have. Some of you may find this a bit silly, or unnecessary to address but you would be surprised by how quickly an acquaintance can turn around and say "Hodgkin's Lymphoma? My aunt/grandmother/aging rock star had that. She's dead though..." when you make the mistake of mentioning you are ill.

And on the topic of illness, how does one indicate interest without being intrusive? Follow their lead. 

For many of those recently diagnosed, they are completely terrified and haven't the faintest idea what to expect. They may not be the best resource for specific disease-related information, as they are likely overwhelmed by all the new medical jargon they have yet to become fluent in. Ask lightly and let them tell you what they feel like telling you. This is not the time to be pedantic or preachy. If you have suggestions, provide them gently. Everyone has an anecdote about some treatment x or some supplement y that cured z disease. Try prefacing each suggestion with "I'm not sure if you've heard of this, but..." or  "I'm not sure this is something you'd be into but..." If you want to share something, make it accessible. Or better, send them the bottle/box/book with the understanding they may never use said product at their doctor's request or simply because they forgot.

Comments on changes in appearance or hair style should be entertained with caution. Really, all opinions except those of the unwaveringly positive or life-affirming sort should be kept to yourself.  Chemo (among other treatments and medications) does funky things to all things hair, skin, and body and your sick friend is most likely fully, if not hyper-aware of any/all minute changes their treatment has caused. Whenever you feel compelled to make facial or verbal expressions of disgust towards your friend's deteriorating physical state you can instead choose to not be a completely selfish, emotionally destructive human being and keep it to yourself.

As a friend, it is not your responsibility to enumerate all the ways getting sick can inhibit social, academic, or professional success. Hours of waiting room visits provide plenty of time for sick kids to examine every possible angle, every missed opportunity, every friend who no longer calls, every trip that requires too much energy, every scenario that could end in rejection simply because it has been revealed one has a less-than-stellar immune system. Refrain from asking leading questions such as:

"Who will want you if you're infertile?" 

"Why won't you work/exercise/go out/drink?" 

"Shouldn't you be married/promoted/back in school by now?" 

This may be difficult for the Type A among us to grasp, but you don't get to decide what your friend's limitations are. Or what is an acceptable career, life path, or timeline. Even if it may seem that control over circumstances no longer falls with your sick friend, it most certainly does not fall with you.

But the least welcome comment (in my opinion) is a prediction of failure. Perhaps you feel you the sick friend needs to be "brought back down to earth" with some friendly statistics, risk profiles, or mortality rates. They don't. And they especially don't need it from you, defeatist-masquerading-as-realist, non-medical-expert. Unless you have the spy capacity of the NSA or are a mind reader (in which case I'm impressed), it is safe to say you do not know what your sick friend knows or doesn't know about their treatment or potential quality of life.

"But what if I'm the god of death?"
All you need to know is:
not today.

Palm Reading

Patches, Trax, and Cupcake draped their lethargy-pumped bodies around a wooden table obscured from view of other patrons. It was humid inside the private alcove; but the importance of privacy far outstripped the inconvenience of a sweaty brow.

They nursed their drinks, musing over past days. With markings on the tops of their hands, silvery declarations of title, they were distinctive from the others. Atop the table, among the varied condense-tipped glasses, was a book.

"Put one palm on top and stroke the pages with the other. Think about your question until it feels...right. Then open to the page you touch."

Questions were asked and answered. Though many of the cryptic messages required the combined interpretations of hope and cynicism, often enough the text spoke loudly and clearly.

"Am I good in bed?"
"Don't be ridiculous."

Ouch. That's gotta burn.

The book was then unceremoniously tossed, to be replaced by another round.

Priorities.

Saviors in Boat Shoes and Stilettos

Memory:

Hustle and bustle at the house. Curling irons scorching counter tops(just kidding campus apartments!) Powders and creams; shine and shimmer coating sinks and faces. Dresses. Heels(That do not fit.) Handles of vodka. It's formal time.

Date ETA: 45 minutes. Primping: on schedule.

Discovery of plastic tag still on dress. Strong resistance to conventional means of removal. 

Screaming. Panic.

Hammer. tweezers. Swiss army knife. Ripping a hole in the thing and calling it a day.

Realization that gaping hole in dress is, well, a gaping hole.

Temper tantrum. Panic. 

Savior in pink taffeta: sew it for you?

Rejoice.

Savior in brown BCBG: peach schnapps?

Calm.

Sometimes peace of mind is a just a phone call or sewing stitch away. I've been very fortunate that I've never been lacking in the crisis-be-gone! ointment department. Y'know, the type you put on a particularly egregious zit like a break up or typical panic attack. The main person hooking me up with this salve over the years has been my dad.

So I'll admit it: I'm a daddy's girl. But instead of the typified shopping sprees for shoes, our idea of an impulse buy is a book. or five. Sadly, I appreciate these sorts of purchases infinitely more than the former. I know this makes me totally weird. And very hard to please.

Because half the time I'd rather hang out at a Barnes and Noble with my dad, laptops out, sharing articles we know the other will find interesting, relaying stories of the day about our coworkers and friends. I have blown off parties to sit and talk about Vonnegut and sip caramel macchiatos with my dad. I am in college. There is something wrong with this picture.

I remember one time I dragged a guy to my favorite haunt. Poor kid didn't know what hit him. We sat in the fiction aisle, and I tried to explain to him how boss Anne Rice is. Apparently vampire novelists aren't the best topic of discussion for dates, who knew?(Stephanie Meyers YOU DO NOT COUNT.) After making him uncomfortable for a wee bit longer, I let him take me for ice cream. 

When I think of our ventures - almost always involving food(Hey. Hey. Want to get dessert? YES. I'm on my way.), I remember I am very fortunate to have people like him in my life  - those waiting to rescue you from whatever crisis comes your way. I can only hope I've been a least a fraction of the white knight he and other dear people have been. 

At least, as these things go, I have time to make it up. 

Your Love is My Drug

Oh this is so perfect, the soft feel of your lips against mine...I don't want anyone else.
"Oxytocin."

So wonderful, ah. every single word you say makes me want to just --

"Oxytocin."

The way you touch my hair, just pull me in closer, I --

"OXYTOCIN."

I love you. Only love. I can't stop thinking about the way --

OXY. TOCIN. OXYTOCIN!!!"

There should be an alarm in every girl's mind every time she potentially slips into this horribly frustrating, anxiety-driven quicksand.

This alarm could be supplemented by a boxing glove shooting out of a built-in wall. 

Or an anvil falling from the sky, a la Wile E. Coyote.

Sadly, that would probably not be enough. Because half the time we are very well aware of the stipulations and limitations of the situation, yet dance off half past the moon and whatever one can consider some version of reality. We just ignore them.

Thank you, every single love song, card, movie, novel since the creation of time.

vasopressin. dopamine. IT IS LIKE CRACK, PEOPLE.

Listen to "It's in His Kiss". Catchy right? Absolute bullshit. It is not in his kiss. It is in the evolution-produced secretions in the brain that are supposed to influence you to reproduce and protect the offspring. It is not the way he holds you, it is the oxytocin/vasopressin/dopamine released when you cuddle with another human being. It is a chemical reaction. It happens to everyone. With everyone(if you are not genetically programmed to be repulsed by them from the get-go, that is.) With anyone. It could be any member of the male species. Female, even.  We are programmed to crave affection, interaction. Anyone(or thing really) can fulfill this. We just overcomplicate with influences from cheesy romantic comedies that lead to absurd ideals about who or what we are supposed to be doing amidst the pre-reproduction song and dance(big white wedding? BUY ME A CAKE.)

And then there are those who cloak themselves in these flights of fancy to extract whatever possible from whomever possible. The manipulative types who are capable of making any situation appear to be your fault. Managing to sever all ties with reality, they shamelessly guilt-trip others into drinking their toxic Kool-aid.

I had had similar experiences once before; both of us wide-eyed college freshmen with our hearts set on being lawyers in New York. After my break with both him and the idea of being a lawyer, my favorite comment on the matter was "I'd hire him as my lawyer in a heartbeat. Manipulative bastard can convince anyone of anything."

This world would be a very cruel one if not for one (sometimes-secret)weapon:

Friends.

Primary role: "It's ok, we will hate him for you."
Often we find ourselves revelling in the fact that we can see "potential" in people; we minimize flaws and magnify positives, often at the cost of the accuracy of our memory. The manipulating type thrives in such an environment. Dearest bacteria, friends are what you have to be afraid of: they don't forgive, and they especially don't forget.

Sometimes only they are the ones capable of assessing a situation or, more aggressively, taking you out of it. Though they are often the worst enemy of our hedonist drives, our pleasure-seeking stems, at the end of the day what is good for us is not always what is convenient. Or texting you at 3am.

Often a thankless job, the friends may be the ones taking the phone out of your hand or at the very least, giving you damn good reason to put it down yourself.
Capable of being the most resilient force-field against the effects of Mr. dopamine and his friend "the douche-bag," the friend group is the disillusion task force - your karma dollars at work.

And let there never be a day when you find yourself broke.

Decisions

2am: Decide to go to Atlantic City
4:30am: Purchase bus tickets
2pm: Wake up
5pm: Bus to Atlantic City
6:30pm: Arrive
6:30pm-7:30am: Steak and crab legs, Boston cream pie, daiquiris, silver people with silver beads, heels, $2 shots, $20 kamikaze, a dentist and an accountant, BOBBAY!, craps and slots, Australians in white, sand, funnel cake and cheese fries, seagull attack, breakfast(in bed).
8:50am: Bus back to Philly
11am: Brunch
12:30-4pm: Intermittent sleep/cuddling/pillow talk


When deciding whether to take the comped room in AC, several arguments were batted around. But one that comes to mind in particular is the "What other opportunities are you going to have to do this?" or rephrased as "It's not everyday that..." or simply "Dude. Free hotel room." The 21st birthday celebrations that were in full force at the time may have contributed to the "FUCK YEA" decision.


Needless to say, it works on me. I like living in the moment. Or the 15 hour stretches of "moment". Hours of conversation with people you may never see again in a city where people actually DO NOT sleep (sorry New York). All I can picture is the eventual "settled down" version of myself who will have legitimate excuses to tone down the fun. Or have a new concept of it - Legoland? Mr. Magee's Wonder Emporium? Sunday night HBO? I feel personally responsible for ensuring that the "settled down" version has enough memories of shenanigans to look back on. (There needs to be something to explain the account balance.)

The women shine like the twinkling lights of the slot machines, and are expected to tolerate the staring one typically associates with evaluating a particularly complex painting(no but really there is some finesse to this, people). With stilettos and vodka-cranberries they teeter like the last tumble of the die before settling on a number - which may make or break your heart(bank account). Beyond that, grannies with pennies pull the night shift while sipping whatever drink is placed at their side. Mohawked men pick up tabs for the underaged without interaction beyond a "you're welcome". Children run around in circles with beads jingling around their necks - incentives given to their parents to remain faithful to their casino of choice. A world of insomniacs. My kind of place.

And then I come back to the cocoon of my dearest friends, the kind of people that have love spelled out as chocolate-chip pancakes and 5-person-bed-parties. I'm trying to soak up as much as I can before I have to "go without" for an entire semester. By that I mean, I'm going to have less people to smother with affection. This places me in the "spontaneously combust" level of worry. I might actually have to get a boyfriend.
Ehh. I think I'll be fine.

Red Nose Bulldog

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