| Current mood: |  nauseated |
Wow.
Wow. Erika told me today that Jen (that's boa-constricter-Jen, not from-new-york Jen) has fucking Cervical Cancer. It's not even normal cervical cancer, it's "mother-fucking god damn cervical cancer." It's in a twenty-something year old woman, and anything that destructive in someone as good and young as Jen can only be described as "fucking cervical cancer." I don't even know what I would say if I called her right now.
"Hey! It's Kevin. I know it's been like 6 months, but, how are you? Oh, really, Cancer? Wow. Bummer."
So, the voice that's usually subconscious and not-at-all logical, the one that says "call her, numnuts" is saying all these things to me. To summarize, the terrible things I've thought:
1. "She's poor, man, she probably can't afford the treatment neccessary to live very long. If you call her, you'll only remember how awesome she is and what a great person she is and how much it really sucks that this kind of fucking cruel shit has to happen to her, and it's going to hurt pretty bad when she gets worse later on, so it's probably best you dont' call her."
I mean, can you believe that shit? I actually thought that. How fucking selfish is that of me?
2. "She probably won't even care if you do or dont' care."
That's a fucking cop-out. That's me not wanting to get involved. Again, fucking terrible.
3. "It'll be like Roni."
I'm going to be honest here. I liked Roni. I liked her alot, and it was fucking terrible she had spinal cancer and left her two daughters before she could even see them go to college. It was bullshit, and only a fucking psychotic, hateful deity could allow such good people to suffer so. (That too, is sort of bullshit reasoning, but I'm angry right now) The fact of the matter is that I watched Roni slowly die. There's no other way to say it. I saw her face shrink and pale, her eyes sink and her bones appear like dead fish rising to the oceans surface. That last time I saw her, from the door of her hospital room, gaunt, yellowed and straining to whisper "Don't let Kevin see me, alright?" will never, ever, ever go away. It fucking sucked, brother. She died on Christmas Eve, which I think was on purpose, for her part: a silent joke, a bony middle finger.
Now, I'm thinking about what'd be like to see someone I know, (not even really well, mind you, just as a sort of aquaintence, though we had moments of real connection, I think) someone that I'm not just dating the daughter of, rot away in their prime and wither like a dying flower. The thought of it actually makes me sick, makes me want to throw up like an over-dramtic horror film character confronted with a dismembered corpse or something of that ilk. I don't know if I should do anything. I don't know what I should do. I don't know what I should do.
Fucking hell. While she was finding out she was dying, I was probably waiting in line for Shaun of the Dead or something equally futile and wasteful. Here, I've been staring at this mole under my arm, noticing the discoloration and change of shape and kind of sighing and shrugging and thinking "maybe it's skin cancer, everyone in my family gets it." There, Jen is sick. Sick. What a word.
(Read comments)
|
