Craig Jones
Contributor
“I wish I had cancer.”
That’s the way it came, barely audible, somewhere between a thought and a whisper. I may even have moved my lips.
It wasn’t “I want to have cancer” or “I deserve to have cancer” or “I probably have cancer.” It was “I wish.”
Like wishing I had a screwdriver right now, or duct tape, or a penknife… or WD-40, or that thing you use to ream out the drain. The right tool at the right time. I wish I had cancer, because it’s the right tool for the job. If I already had it, I could use it, right now, no need to go to Home Depot.
But how did such a fucked-up notion show up? Intrusive, urgent, sudden. Out of nowhere, like a hard-on in eighth- grade math right when you might get called up to the blackboard. Did I actually form that sentence? About having cancer? Seriously?
Just recently I re-watched “Cast Away” and recalled the scene where Tom Hanks is on his raft somewhere in the Pacific. After escaping the island, he’s floating mid-ocean in the middle of the night and suddenly a whale is right next to him. Its big eyeball is right there, at the level of the raft. Then, just as quickly, it dissolves quietly back into the sea. That’s how the ‘cancer’ sentence occurred to me. It appeared out of nowhere, then vanished. But, later on, I still knew that I had seen it.
And I’m pretty sure there was an unexpressed “terminal” in there, just out of conscious range, and an ellipsis, three little dots followed by, “that’ll show ‘em!”
Show whom? Show them what?
I wished I had cancer, I think, because that would show them. Cancer is the tool that would get the job done. The Big C, now that’s attention grabbing. It’s a power tool.
Now, I don’t believe the mere speaking or writing of words can call something magically into existence; yet I was still leery of doing so. I walked it back just in case. “Universe,” I thought, “I don’t really wish I had cancer.” I didn’t want it hanging about somewhere, taking note of that old chestnut, ‘be careful what you wish for.’
So, tools were much on my mind just a few weeks ago at the first Al-Anon meeting I’ve ever gone to. I said my name, and said I’d finally realized I was out of tools for dealing with the reality of my thirty-nine year old daughter’s alcoholism. I was there because things with her had just come to a head. After sending what I thought was an innocent text, I received a tsunami of grievances about me as a father. One said “You suck,” and another “You’re like a seventy-two year-old boy. Grow the fuck up!”
These were not the kind of things I can ever unhear, nor can she ever unsay them. Later, she got back to me saying she felt like a piece of shit because she’d been really drunk. She was sorry, she said, and was being mean just for the sake of it.
That’ll show her.
And all this invective came on the heels of a trip to Stockholm where my eldest son, his ex-wife, and their children live. He’s been through a nasty divorce, caused by his actions, yet he insisted we stop communicating with his ex. Stop, he said, or he wants nothing more to do with us.
“That’s not going to happen,” I told him, because we like his ex and we didn’t divorce her and we also want access to our grandchildren.
Another tidal wave followed, a series of messages about how hurt he was, and how disloyal we are, and if we really cared we’d do what he asked and so on. He has substance abuse issues too, and I can’t help but wonder which voice I was actually hearing. Was he drunk? Stoned? Rational?
Whatever, that’ll show him.
So, I’m floundering, rummaging in my metaphorical toolbox, tiptoeing around unsure how to proceed or what to say to either kid.
And, then along comes cancer as a possibility. There was a positive result to my Cologuard test, results that dictate whether a colonoscopy is necessary. My results said yes, which is when the cancer idea first showed up.
I’ve had polyps before, though always benign. But, I thought, if this time I really did end up having cancer, I could insert it into this whole clusterfuck with my adult children. Like a Hail Mary pass, I could knock their ass, and their animus, to the canvas.
I could end all this, right now! Because if they knew I had cancer they’d be forced to take a look at their relationship with me and feel all sorry, and regret what they’d both said recently, and over the thirty-plus years since the divorce. They could feel some real pain. So you’re pissed at me, eh? Well, fuck you, I have cancer.
I actually imagined them at my Celebration of Life, being sad, meeting people who cared about, loved and admired me and valued my company. It was an enjoyable thought. But fixing it by dying?
“That’ll show ‘em!”
Probably not the most mature way to handle this, though. How lousy do you have to feel to even imagine wishing you had cancer, even for a millisecond, in order to somehow say fuck you to your pissed-off kids? “Jesus, grow up, dad, you’re like a seventy-two year-old boy. Grow the fuck up!”
So instead, I opted to finally get my ass to Al-Anon. I got clear that this is for me only. I can’t fix them or our relationships. At severty-two it’s time to let this go, using the best tools for the job, the best I have at any rate. Cancer is not among them.
