3. Making lemons into hot fudge sundaes:
Turning lemons into lemonade is not hard. Squeeze lemons, add sugar and water. Boom! Lemonade. The real trick is turning a crappy sour lemon into something truly amazing—like a hot fudge sundae . . . with brownies, nuts and lots of whipped cream.
With that in mind, there are a few great things about going through cancer and chemo and we’d be (lemon) suckers not to take advantage of them:
The 2 ½ minute shower: I’m about to blow the roof off something big here, ladies and gentlemen. There’s not much to do in the shower when you have no body hair. Lathering, rinsing and repeating? Not necessary. Deep conditioning with expensive product? For the birds! And you’ll never hear me complaining about not having to buy a $17 razor to shave my legs. This is found time, people! I’ve gotten at least an hour of my life back each day because hair is a thing of the past.
The unbridled, unmitigated, nearly-unholy superhero status: I’ve never been more popular than when I was going through chemo. Just showing up to a social function got me adoration akin to a nomination for a reoccurring role on a soap opera at the daytime Emmy’s. If I showed up looking half-way decent to said function wearing a smile (and maybe a little makeup), it was like being automatically handed the best-actress Oscar when no one else was nominated simply because I was so clearly the only one who deserved it. Right before chemo started, an oncology nurse told me it was time to take off my Super Woman cape. What she meant was, as a mother of two, wife, teacher, and author, there would be no way to get everything done that I was used to doing. And that was true. But, in a totally different way, battling cancer and braving chemo gave me superhero powers. Everything I did was considered awesome. Every effort I made was beyond expectations. I have been labeled brave, which is an honor that I take very seriously. So wear the cape your adoring fans will give you. We survivors are living, breathing superheroes and we deserve it.
The card: If I ever get pulled over by a police officer, the first thing I’m going to do is pull off my cap and fish the pink ribbon pin out of my car’s cup holder and fasten it on my shirt. Ain’t no shame in it. It’s the cancer card and it’s a beautiful thing. Don’t want to go to a social function? Cancer card. Don’t feel like changing out of your pajamas for a few days? Cancer card. Want preferred parking at Dodger Stadium without having to pay $35 for it? Hey, if you can finagle it, pull that cancer card! The battle we fight is serious and real, and the human population on the whole respects that fight, so let them give as you need.
4. This too shall pass, no matter what this is:
“This dang pimple won’t go away!”
Yes it will, because this too shall pass.
“The cute guy from Algebra doesn’t even know I exist.”
Maybe not, but he’s an idiot. This too shall pass.
“I have to survive invasive surgery, multiple rounds of chemotherapy, months of radiation and every single day in between.”
These were my obstacles. Could something of this magnitude actually pass?
Time marches forward. And though it sure seems like it, time doesn’t move slower when you are suffering. The quicker that I realized that even the hardest thing passes with the beat of the clock, the easier it was to get through it. No matter what you are going through, no matter how scary it seems at the time, please remember that this too shall pass, no matter what this is.
5. You gotta have faith:
“O remember . . . that there is no other way nor means whereby man can be saved, only through the atoning blood of Jesus Christ, who shall come; yea, remember that he cometh to redeem the world.” Helaman 5:9
My five-year-old came bouncing out of Sunday School with a simple white piece of paper in his hand. I didn’t think much of it since he is an avid doodler and bringing home pictures from church happens every week. On our way home, he handed the paper to me. On one side was a drawing of me laying in bed with him on his knees at my side, arms folded. The word “prayer” was carefully handwritten across the top of the picture. On the other side of the paper was his best rendition of the famous picture of Jesus praying in Gethsemane as He takes upon him the sins of the World.
My five-year-old gets it.
There ain’t no other way through it folks. You have to have faith. The kind of faith I’m talking about isn’t the same as hope. I hope my new jeans make me look skinnier. But faith is different. Faith is powerful. Faith changes things. Your faith will give you an emotional rock to build on and carry you through. And no manner of support groups, self-help books or even cow socks will replace it.
Cancer is tough. You are tougher. Let this experience make positive changes in every facet of your life. And most importantly, always remember that if God leads you to it, He’ll get you through it.
REMISSION
Charlie Fish
Charlie Fish is a popular short story writer and screenwriter. His short stories have been published in several countries and inspired dozens of short film adaptations. Since 1996, he has edited www.fictionontheweb.co.uk, the longest-running short story site on the web. He was born in Mount Kisco, New York in 1980; and now lives in south London with his wife and daughters.
On an overcast afternoon in late July, hundreds of us stood shoulder to shoulder in the big plaza outside Middlesex Vocational College, waiting for our futures to be decided. The air was thick with humidity and tension, all eyes facing Speaker’s Plinth.
“Brown, Camelia; Lunar 4 Geomechanics. Bullen, Carter; Lunar 4 Processing.”
Dean Porter stood atop the plinth wearing a ceremonial gown and a stern expression that made it look like he was delivering a eulogy. As each name and job was read out, there was a ripple somewhere in the crowd. Mostly back-patting and congratulations; sometimes commiserations.
“Dyer, Felix; Lunar 1 Planning. Frobisher, Jules; Lunar 4 Processing.”
I stood with Fred, Don and the Olivers (there were two of them), the guys I’d grown closest to while we’d been studying here. We were all hoping to get placed together, on the same mine at least, but it wasn’t going to happen. Lunar Corps and the other mining agencies placed grads like us according to academic performance only. No mere social considerations held water.
“Hitt, Semia; Lunar 2 Processing. Ibsen, Thomas; Lunar 4 Ventilation.”
Don had all but flunked out. He’d be bound for maintenance or construction—one of the jobs where you routinely have to shove your head into giant machinery. Fred and one of the Ollies were hoping for the fast track to command. I’d aced my mining modules but embarrassed myself in the space disciplines.
“Idleworth, Frederick; Earthside Launch Mechanic.”
Fred jumped up and punched the air, whooping like an American. We put hands on his shoulder, smiled our fakest smiles. Being placed Earthside was even better than command; you could go home each day. I wonder who Freddie’s dad had greased up to get him that gig.
The Olivers were up next. Both got placed on Lunar 4. Ollie J got the fast track that he wanted. The logical part of my mind said I should feel happy for him, but I couldn’t feel till I heard my name.
“Jackson, Paul; Lunar 2 Engineering. Jackson, Phillip; Lunar 4 Processing.”
I’d wanted to go into space ever since I was little. My grandfather used to take me outside past bedtime to point out Venus or Jupiter through the methane mire that tainted the city sky. He told me to lie in the grass at night next time I went camping and look up; that I wouldn’t believe how many stars there were. It was only after he died that I first saw the Milky Way, and then there were so many questions I wanted to ask him. A question for every star in the sky. But it was too late.
“Judd, Donald; Lunar 4 Construction.”
Don’s whole body relaxed like a parted vice. He wore a beatific smile. Not because he’d got a crummy job, that was no surprise, but because he was going to Lunar 4 with the two Olivers. I felt sweat pricking my skin as if every pore in my body had dilated. My breathing was fast and choppy, but I c
ouldn’t slow it down. Lunar 4. Please, Lunar 4.
The next few names seemed to take a million years. A bubble of blood appeared on my thumb where I was nipping at a hangnail, and then it wouldn’t stop bleeding. I sucked the side of my thumb, my consciousness converging until I was aware of nothing but Dean Porter’s smug baritone. Then I heard my name.
“Lemont, Archer; Io 1 Generalist.”
There was a whooshing sound and time slowed. The sound, I realised, had been a collective intake of breath. Dean Porter was still talking, but everyone seemed to be looking at me. Not just my friends; everyone.
“Well,” I said, “talk about your space adventures. Io! I’ll have some stories to tell!”
Either they didn’t hear me or the words hadn’t actually come out. Don put his hand on my shoulder and left it there. The faces of the others were frozen.
“Sorry, Archie,” said Don.
“What are you sorry for? I’ll be ok.”
“I mean . . . the Pit.”
“I’ll . . . Don’t worry. I’ll—” My voice cracked. I smiled. Must have looked like something out of Madame Tussauds. Both Ollies squirmed. Fred crossed his arms and sneered—I couldn’t tell if it was discomfort or disapprobation. Don said what needed to be said; something we could all buy into:
“Let’s go for a drink.”
***
Lucy. Sweet Lucy Pinner. My childhood sweetheart, technically, although we’d both strayed plenty. But we kept ending up back together like a bad habit. Truth is, I’d never slept with another woman without picturing Lucy’s limpid blues, although I’d never admit that to her.
So when I stumbled in drunk that night I was glad to see her sitting on my sofa, eating my popcorn and watching old Britcom reruns.
“How’d you get in?” I slurred.
“Gave your landlord sexual favours. He might seem like a meek little Sikh, but he’s hung like a hoss.”
“I hope he tipped,” I said, shucking off my jacket.
“You’re pretty drunk. Celebrating, I hope.”
“And you’re pretty ugly, but I’ll be—”
“Sober in the morning? That’ll be a first.”
I landed next to her, kissed her deeply, then put my arm around her and started firing popcorn into my mouth. “Don’t toy with me,” I said. “I’m half-cut and emotionally vulnerable.”
“I’m just sore I didn’t get invited. I don’t like being soberer than you, your sway makes me seasick.”
“Well, catch up then,” I said and reached over to the wine rack. “Red or white?”
“Are we celebrating?”
“No, we’re drinking.”
“Hm. Make mine a large then. White.” She produced a glass from somewhere.
I filled it almost to the brim, kept pouring, then told her, “Say when.”
“When!”
“When you want me stop, of course.”
“Stop, stop!” A little wine splashed on to her leg.
“Let me get that,” I said. I slinked off the sofa and scooched between her legs, licking the wine from her thigh.
“Huh, you’re about as sexy as a pinscher.”
“What can I say, I can’t resist you.”
“You mean I can’t be resisted. It’s not a weakness of yours, dear, it’s my innate charisma. Don’t try to fight it.”
“Oh I won’t.”
“But first,” she said, grabbing a clump of my hair and gently lifting my head from between her legs. “Tell me. Is this a consolation prize? What job did you get?”
“Let’s not talk work, let’s—”
“Come on Archie, it can’t be that bad. Did they make you a cleaner or something?”
“Not now, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Lucy clamped her legs together. “You’ll tell me now.”
I gazed up into her eyes and felt the weight of the infinite future. My bones ached with it.
“I’m a Generalist,” I said.
“That’s . . . good, isn’t it? On which base?”
“Io.”
Nothing moved for a moment. A clutch had been pressed, my life changed gear. Then, gradually, the wheels engaged again and I continued, headlong.
I settled back on my haunches, kowtowing before Lucy. Her eyes grew wide, and I couldn’t look at her anymore. I stared at her ruby painted toes instead.
Her voice was steady. “How far is Io?”
“Six years. Give or take.”
“And how many shuttles are there?”
“Two.”
“So six years out, six years there, six years back? Eighteen years?”
“Minimum.”
“When do you launch?”
“Ten weeks.”
She said nothing for a while. I brushed a fingertip against the almost invisible hairs on her left big toe. She stood and walked out of my line of sight. I re-focussed onto an old grey carpet stain.
Then I felt her arms reach around me from behind, and her head rest on my shoulder. My heart swelled and my eyes stung. I turned and kissed her; we sank to the floor and lay like that, caressing each other’s hair and saying nothing.
I woke the next morning, still on the floor, with aches in muscles I didn’t know I had. Lucy wasn’t there. I stumbled around tidying up last night’s debris with a hand over one eye to stop my brain falling out.
Later I went to the bedroom and she was there, sitting on the bed, staring into the middle space. I sat next to her.
“Sit up straight,” I ordered.
She obeyed, correcting her posture.
“Smile,” I said.
“I don’t want to.”
I put my arm around her. She was stiff. “Lucy?”
“Yes?”
“Will you wait for me?”
Her face collapsed as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She shook her head and fat tears rolled down her cheek. “I wish you hadn’t asked me that.”
“I don’t mean wear black and cross your legs for eighteen years. I’m not asking you to be Penelope. I mean . . . I want to marry you and have a family with you and . . . ”
I stopped because she’d thrown her arms around me and started sobbing. It was the first time I’d seen her cry; it was explosive, as if she’d stored up a lifetime of sorrow. I felt no sorrow. Only weight.
***
I’d heard about the Pit, but knew nothing about it. Don filled me in; he always seemed to know more about the obscure space stuff than he did about the basics. Great for trivia, useless for exams.
“PIT stands for Preservation for Interplanetary Travel,” Don explained, over a pint at the student bar. “Most economical way to send crew to the outer reaches.”
“Most economical,” I said, “but not the most comfortable, I take it.”
“Most practical, anyway. Take the titanium mine on Io. It’s mostly automated, just needs a skeleton crew to keep it running, probably less than a dozen people. But it takes six years to get there. So you’d need to bring six years of air, food and water; plus another six years’ worth to top up the supply at the Io base; and a further six years’ worth for the people you’re taking back.”
“Six years, six years, six years, I get it,” I moaned, leaning my head into my hand and taking a swig of my drink.
“Sorry. Anyway, carrying all those supplies, you’d need a much bigger ship than for an unmanned mission. To keep the miners comfy you need to control atmospheric pressure, carbon dioxide and humidity. You need sleeping areas, exercise facilities, showers . . . And you need more crew—technicians, plumbers . . . ”
“Whores . . . ”
Don leant over the bar and picked up a little salt shaker. He put it on the table between us. “Sputnik 1, the first ever space probe back in the twentieth century, had a payload of 84 kilos. Unmanned. But Sputnik 2 carried a dog. For the sake of keeping that one little puppy alive, you know how much bigger the payload was?”
“How do you know this stuff?”
Don slammed his pint g
lass next to the salt shaker, splashing some beer onto the table. “509 kilos,” he said. “Six times bigger.”
I told you Don was crazy on trivia. “I get it. Manned journeys need more room than unmanned, which means less space for titanium, or at least less money for the Space Corps.”
“Right. Solution? Don’t transport living people.”
I stared at him. Downed my drink. “I do not like where this is going.”
“Instantly you’re two thirds lighter on supplies, you don’t need to worry about life support conditions, you don’t need any extra crew, and you don’t need to worry about your miners going stir crazy on the trip.”
“Back up. They’re going to kill me?”
“The Pit is the future of interplanetary travel. We can send people to stars hundreds of years away. We can—”
“Shut up Don, and tell me. I’m going to die?”
“Think of it like suspended animation. You get mechanically revived at the other end. Good as new, once you wake up.”
“I’ll have no pulse, no brain activity, no consciousness . . . ”
“Right.”
“So I’ll be dead.”
Don shifted in his seat. “Well, no. At least not legally.”
“Ha!”
“The Pit is actually pretty old technology, but it’s only a few years ago that the law got sorted out so the Space Corps could start using it. Routinely, I mean.”
“You mean the Pit technicians didn’t want to be tried for murder.”
“I guess.”
“I need another drink.”
Don nodded and got up to queue at the bar. I stared at a beer puddle on the table, trying to keep my eyes still, but they were floating on the alcohol in my skull.
Eighteen years. I focussed on the thought and tried to feel sad—it seemed appropriate. But I couldn’t muster up a tear. I tried laughing instead, and that worked pretty well, so that by the time Don came back he found me, gaping cross-eyed at the beer puddle, guffawing quietly to myself.
Bleed Page 12