Relapse

Three years. I had made it three years. My hair had finally grown back out. You could never tell by looking at me. Brown hair. Average. Brown eyes. Average. 5’11”. Average. Average enough, anyway. 148 pounds is low average. Maybe. I think it’s all average. I don’t know. I don’t stand out. No one ever stares, or double-takes, or anything like that. Not for three years, at least.

I sort of forgot the word “relapse” even existed. I remembered “remission.” I remember being warned about metastasis. I remember sitting in that chair, just sitting, for what felt like days. I remember being asked where my parents were, because even though 22 is an adult, it isn’t adult enough to hear the words “you have cancer” on your own. Not that he said that exactly, but you know.

I remember the seven months of chemo. I remember the look on Erin’s face when she walked into the bathroom, and saw me with the shaver. I remember her reflection in the mirror, after she offered to help, and the single tear that rolled down her left cheek. And I knew right then that that tear wasn’t for me. She wasn’t ready for this. Not what she signed up for, but what kind of girl leaves her boyfriend when he’s going through chemo? I remember not being surprised when she left last year. No relapse in two years means you’re in the clear, right?

“Leo! Lee-o! Come ‘ere, ya dumb cat. Come Leo! Come!”

I forgot Matt was even here. He banged his hand against the side of the couch, louder and louder until I looked up. I gave him the smirk I figured he was hoping for, then looked over at the cat, just outside of his arm’s reach. He stared too. “Dude, I think your cat’s dumb.”

“I don’t know man. I think he’s just a cat.”

“Naw, this isn’t any cat. This is Leo! Leonardo DiCatrio. He ain’t just any cat.”

I turned back to the TV. Matt has no idea.

It’s been three years. How does this even happen? Last time I had this conversation with him was four years ago – when he had heard the word “lymphoma” before, but he never really knew what it was. Four years ago, when my paraphrasing of what the doctor said was simplified to “white blood cells go rogue.” I guess he took it more seriously when I was throwing up in the morning for reasons other than a hangover. Well, that, and I didn’t have it in me to go out drinking. And the hair thing. And the weight loss. He caught on pretty quick.

My lap suddenly felt heavy, and I must’ve missed when Wins, the other cat, jumped on top of me. I’m not even sure what’s on TV, despite the fact that I appear to have been watching intensely for the past 20 minutes.

“Well well well, if it isn’t miss Cat Winslet herself. I can’t believe that old broad of yours tried to take her when she left. What kind of person tries to separate Leo and Kate?” Matt reminds me that he’s with me. Physically. To talk. “Hello? Jake are you even here right now?”

“Huh? Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Just distracted.”

I invited him over because my cancer is back. I invited him over, to tell him that the cancer is back.

“Well, sure. Your lap’s full of pussy.”

And he has no idea.

I cracked a smile and turned to see that Matt finally got a hold of Leo. Even though he was hardly paying attention to the thing, Matt’s half-assed stroking could not have been making that cat happier.

“And I see that doesn’t seem to be distracting you at all?”

“Clearly not. You see, I’m a fantastic rubber – I know this, they know this. My hands work magic. I don’t even have to pay them any mind to still make ‘em feel fantastic. Ain’t that right Leo? Yeah, that’s right. You love it. You love the rubby!”

“I bet he does. You do seem to be fantastic at stroking that male right there…”

He slowed the stroking down and glanced up at me. The look on his face told me that he was trying to come up with a clever comeback, and with each passing second, he and I both knew that it was going to be too late to be effective. He tried anyway, by telling me “I’ve had some practice.”

“Really?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“I know that but I mean, really? That’s all you could come up with?”

“Just shut up and keep watching that 30 Rock you can’t get your eyes off of.”

“Oh, that’s what this is?”

“What do you mean ‘that’s what this is’? You’ve been watching for twenty minutes!”

“Yeah but I told you-”

“There were even those stupid ‘and now, back to 30 Rock!’ announcements after every commercial!”

I paused. Matt had completely distracted me. This realization, of course, has brought my mind back into focus.

“Nuh uh. I know my mind’s everywhere right now, but I’m not that bad. They don’t even say those things anymore!”

“Sure they do! TBS does it all the time.”

“I bet.”

30 Rock. I decide that maybe I should try to pay attention to the TV. Maybe staying distracted is a good idea. Cancer’s a big deal though. It was a big deal before. It’s still a big deal the second time around. To me, anyway. Probably not to other people. I can see other people not really caring. It’s kind of like the second baby. If you’re the parent, you’re having another baby. That’s awesome. You feel good. You’re excited. But to everyone else, well, the first one was exciting. Now you’ve already got a kid. Cool that you’re having another but you’re already a parent. You have a baby, you did it. You have a second baby, everyone already knows you can be a parent or whatever. And I’m already “the guy that had cancer.” People don’t separate “had” and “has” as often as they should. Either way, cancer guy has cancer isn’t a big deal.

“Remember that time we thought that I was gonna be a dad?”

“Yeah, and it scared Erin into being crazy about her birth control.”

“Yeah…”

I start to wonder if something baby related just happened on the show, or if Matt is simply used to drastic subject changes that are seemingly completely unrelated to what is going on. I guess Tina Fey was pregnant not too long ago.

“Instead of just crazy.”

Matt’s on my side. Cancer’s still a big deal to him, when it’s me and my cancer. The second time isn’t just a second kid, because “oh well you made it the first time, you can make it the second time” isn’t as convincing an argument. This is more like beating the boss and forgetting to save, so then you have to do it again, and even though you know you somehow managed to do it the first time, you have no idea what you did and are not at all convinced that you can do it again.

Or maybe it’s a little different. I don’t exactly have a reset button.

“Exactly.”

“Imagine if though? What would we even be doing right now?”

“Probably watching Sesame Street instead of 30 Rock.”

“And your place would probably be messier.”

“Probably more toys.”

“Less beer.”

“More beer.”

“Less women.”

“More women.”

“Maybe if it was a girl.”

“Less cats.”

“Oh shit, that’s right. You didn’t get Wins until after that whole thing, huh?"

“Yeah. Wanted to replace the baby she lost. The so-called baby that she so-called lost. So obviously getting another cat was the best way to do that.”

“You coulda worked that one out in a way that resulted in you getting laid a lot more.”

“But then I’d be a dad, dude.”

“More beer, more women, right?”

“More problems.”

We both laughed, but I stopped short because apparently cancer is the only thing my brain will allow me to think about. I wonder if this would’ve happened, was I still with Erin. And had a baby. I don’t even know if I can do that now, post-chemo and everything. It’s not exactly something I want to try to find out.

I figured that I had set myself up enough that it was time to say something, since the thought was literally driving me crazy.

“Well, maybe not more problems.”

“You don’t think? I’d consider a baby a problem…”

“Yeah, same. But-”

“But you don’t have the woman so you can’t have the problem.”

I took a deep breath. “It’s back.”

“What, your crabs?”

“Matty, I’m being serious.”

“Baby scare? Are you still fucking around with Erin?”

I shook my head and mouthed the word “no.” I don’t think any sound came out. Erin and I were sort of hooking up for a bit, but then she suddenly had this new guy in her life. And I guess that’s what happens in life, and I knew this. I know this. I wasn’t too upset and it’s not like we were hanging out or anything. I just wasn’t allowed to text her at the end of the evening to ask if she was down.

When we broke up, I knew it was going to happen at some point. I still loved her, and she still loved me, but it wasn’t that passionate love like the movies show. It was some sort of loyalty. Responsibility, maybe. She couldn’t leave because of the cancer. I couldn’t leave because then I become the asshole. It might even be worse to be the one that leaves your sweet loving girlfriend who cared so much about you and was there for you and helped you through the cancer and whatever else they might say. Not that I wanted to leave. I knew that it was all too much for her and everything changed and somewhere along the lines that meant that we changed too much to be together. I knew she was going to leave, but I couldn’t know when. Maybe I thought that love was gonna be enough.

I realized Matt was still looking at me, for some sort of explanation.

“No babies. Just the-” I had to stop myself. No “just the.” No such thing as “just the cancer.” “You know how I had that doctor’s appointment the other day?”

“Sure, sure…”

“Well, yeah. They called me this morning.”

He readjusted himself on the couch, his eyes not straying from me. Even when he shook his hair to move the curl out of his face, he was still watching me. He either knew exactly where I was going with this, or he had no idea.

“Blood test came in and it tested positive… which I, uh, I, yeah. I guess it’s back.”

“You… shit. No. No, there’s no way. They said you were cured! Didn’t the radiation kill it all?”

“Zombies, I guess.”

“Dude.”

“I know. Sorry. It’s just-"

“Don’t apologize man. It’s just… you have cancer. And you already had cancer. What the fuck, man.”

“I know dude. That’s what I’m saying. I don’t even know what to do. I haven’t told anyone else yet.”

“You gonna tell Erin?”

“I don’t know, you think I should?”

“Probably not before you tell your parents. Or Kevin or Brian. But she was there through it and I don’t know, they might ask how something was and you don’t remember but she could?”

“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.”

“But dude. I… when did they call you?”

“9? 10? I don’t know. Some time this morning. I was doing laundry. Pretty sure all my stuff’s still in the washing machine.”

“And you texted me at what – 1? – to come over? Why didn’t you say something then?”

“Over text?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t know. Fuck. Now I feel bad for fucking with you.”

“I’m still the same.”

“Yeah but, no. You know. How does it even come back after so long? I thought they said you were good?”

“Just a cancer thing, I guess? I guess it’s not in your body anymore but it was, so it is, you know? My body knew how to make it before and it never really forgot.”

“So it can just happen anytime?”

“Well, with lymphoma apparently it happens more often than with other cancers. I need to go to talk with them Tuesday to see what to do. See how bad it is and stuff.”

“Jake man.”

I wonder if there’s a correct way you’re supposed to respond when your friend tells you that your cancer’s back. Or a correct way to tell them. I don’t think there’s any sort of “I’m the big sister!” shirt, like for the supposed only child.

Not surprisingly, telling Matt didn’t free me. I spent the next few hours merely existing. The world was doing its thing, but I was blocked off. Mental capacity full. Everything came back to cancer. The cancer came back. I was scared the first time, but I had no idea what it was like. This time, I remember it all so vividly and that’s what frightens me. It’s miserable. It’s painful. I feel like any steps forward in my life don’t matter, and I’m exactly back where I was four years ago. Except Erin’s not by my side, which of course means that everything not only comes back to cancer, but it comes back to cancer with Erin. And Erin. I’m moved on, and suddenly I’m caring about her again. In some sense, anyway.

And that might be the worst part. Moving on, moving forward, and then getting caught and falling back into the past. Any progress you made, or thought you made, gone. Exactly where I was four years ago, but even worse off now.

What did I do?

I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, took three ice cubes out of the freezer, and poured myself the still-open Jack sitting on the counter. I figured that now was just as good a time as any to let Erin know. She was good to me, but I’m not trying to bring her back. I’m not in exactly the same place as I was.

I pull out my phone and open up my messages. I jump to the body and begin to type the words “I have cancer.” And again. “I have cancer.” I had cancer and then it went away and now I have cancer. It came back. I leave the recipient field blank and type out “I have cancer” one more time. I guess you could call this an exercise of acceptance.

Why do I even feel like I need to tell her?

I close the open text message and go to the phonebook. Scroll to Erin, and call. It’s ringing. Ringing and I don’t even know what I’m going to say to her. Do I small talk? What was the last thing we talked about?

No answer. So I go back to my messages and type out “hey, can you talk?” and hit send. Do it before I back down. Even though I just called, and she’ll see the missed call. Or ignored call. Whatever it was.

I’m losing my mind. No response. Maybe I was a little too unclear. I type out another message, this time saying “I really think that we should talk. It’s important.” Before hitting send, I decide to add the word “please” in there. Not that that should make a difference, but it feels like it will.

And it does.

My phone vibrates in my hand. I let it ring once before picking up.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Hey…”

“So uh, shit. You want to talk?”

She made me realize that I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to have to tell her I have cancer again, but I want her to know, and I want her to know why she’s supposed to know, and whatever that reason may be, I want it to be something beneficial. For me.

“Well, I guess. I mean… I heard some stuff… and I think we should…”

“Oh, um. Yeah. You’re probably right. I meant to say something… I didn’t want you to have to hear through the grapevine or whatever. Guess I fucked up.”

“You think you fucked up?” I am not processing what she’s saying. Did someone else tell her about me? If that’s the case, I highly regret making this phone call. But I guess I don’t have to figure out what it is I want to say, or how I’m supposed to tell her.

“I’m sorry Jake. I meant to tell you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I know, I guess I don’t have to, but we were pretty serious and I suppose that you’d find out soon enough, but you deserve better than to find out through Facebook or something that your serious ex that you still occasionally talk to and have some leftover shared things that require us to sometimes talk is getting married…”

“You’re getting married?”

“That is why you’re calling, isn’t it?””

“Yeah. Yeah that’s it. Just wanted to say good luck. Congrats on moving forward with your life and shit. I gotta go.”

“Jake do-”

I hung up the phone. Erin is getting married. Erin is off getting married, moving forward with her life, and I’m here. Alone. With cancer.

I grab the bottle of Jack from the counter.

This time, I don’t bother with the glass.

Broken Up 101

People have this funny way of not knowing how to admit to defeat. Especially when it comes to love, relationships... anything, any time they feel vulnerable, they need to be in charge. People have this way of lying to themselves.

One of my least favorite arguments is the girls, or even sometimes guys, who rely on that stupidly inaccurate quote: "If you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." Really? Do people believe that? People think that they go through some little bullshit and the guy isn't interested anymore - that's when they were at their worst? Listen, that's not the worst. When it's 9am and you're late waking up for work, hungover as fuck from the night before, no time to shower or "get cute," you're crabby and miserable - you think that's your worst? When a guy sees you without your make up on, that's when you're at your worst? You're PMSing and not making any sense, arguing about anything and everything you can? So what?

You don't get to your worst until after he's already gone. That's when you're at the worst. Of fucking course he can't handle you at your worst - and he doesn't have to, doesn't want to. That's why he's leaving. You don't get to your worst until he tells you that it's over, and everything you thought you had, everything you invested, it all becomes meaningless. Your worst is that moment when you two are done and his mind is set. It's not a "I think we just need some time apart, but we can still sleep together and act like nothing has changed" type of thing. It's when you try to suggest that. When you're stupid and desperate. You lose it. You lost it. You go crazy. You probably were already over-analyzing everything, and were likely irrationally jealous about things like porn and him going to hang out with just the guys once a week... but now? That looks like nothing. EVERYTHING out of his mouth has secondary meanings. Third meanings. Fourth meanings. You did something wrong. Hell, he can even give you a reason of why it's not working out - but you won't believe it. There was something else. Something bigger. "That was okay before, that can't be the problem now."

It might not be the worst moment of your life, but between you two - that's the worst he will ever see you. You're going to be angry. You're going to be hurt. You're going to feel betrayed. You'll want to be mad, but then feel bad for doing it because somewhere in that fucked up mind of yours, you still think that maybe this will work. If you keep trying hard enough, you'll find something that will work. You'll tell him that you're thinking very straight, you're very calm, you're completely relaxed and you know exactly what you're saying. All of these things are lies. You don't know that, though. You can't see that. You really do think that you know best. You selfish piece of shit. Don't you love him? Don't you see that he's not happy anymore? You are at the worst that he will ever see you. You'll have your friends and whoever else around, and sure, they'll see you bad, but they won't really know. You can't understand the full extent until that's you on the other side, being pleaded to about how "I can be better" "Just give me one more try." "Let me do this one last thing."

Then there's a point when you accept it. You give up. But you don't really give up. This is when you get angry. You're still at your worst. You might try talking to his friends. You might try talking to girls he knows. Who knows what you might do, but lucky for you, this is the end of the worst. You feel horrible and want him to feel the same way. There are a select few who have been on that other side though, and know just how bad it feels to be pleaded to like that. It might cross your mind that maybe you should stay, that maybe things can and will finally change, or whatever the problem is. But you know. However, it's so easy to forget. It's so easy to forget being on that other side. It's hard to be rational at your worst. Near impossible, even. So you get mad, do something stupid, and then you try to make yourself feel better. Instead of just admitting that this is the end, that maybe you were both wrong, maybe whatever, you play pretend. You act like it was your doing. You tell the world that he couldn't handle you, and therefore he doesn't deserve you.

What a fucking joke.

On the other side, there are the people who stay sad when rational, instead of angry. And you know what quote they use? The "you don't know what you have until it's gone." That's true for some situations - you were an unappreciative asshole who didn't see how good he was, or how good she was, or how much you needed and relied on this person, whatever. Sometimes people try to use this as a claim - a more passive aggressive way of saying "you don't deserve me." A little "hey, I was great, you couldn't see that and you left me."

Here's the thing. When he left you, he knew exactly what he was doing. You might try to tell him that he'll regret this. That he made a bad decision. Listen, if he thinks he made a bad decision, he already knows. Any time - ANY - time you ever make a poor decision, you know. Not in the "I didn't appreciate you and I know that but still chose not to appreciate you" kind of way. That's not a decision. That's an accident. You don't mean to do that. But when you CHOOSE to make a bad decision... you know! You'll think, or even say, "this is a bad idea." If you think about every bad decision you've ever made, you'll remember. You know that's right. You always know that you're being stupid. Maybe not making a mistake, because you want to do this, but you know that somewhere, there's something telling you you shouldn't do this. You can justify it all you want. That doesn't change anything. When you're doing something stupid, you know you're doing something stupid.

Usually if he actually decides to leave, it's two things. One, you're right - he's stupid and making a bad decision. Bravo. He knows, or at least will realize and remember, his stupidity. More likely though, he knows it's what he has to do. People have a very hard time understanding the difference between a bad decision and a hard decision. If something is hard, something is making it hard. You have to overcome something, do some sort of big difficult thing, to complete it. Sometimes you know that leaving means breaking your own heart, and what could be harder than that? So you stay because you think it's stupid to break your own heart. But sometimes it's what you need to do. It's the hard decision, and it will hurt - it will hurt both of you - but it's the best choice. When he leaves, don't tell him he doesn't know what he had. Of course he knew. He knew and he still chose to go. Doesn't that make you feel worse? It should. So don't say it.

Or keep lying to yourself. Keep telling yourself that you were perfect, that he'll never meet anybody as good as you. That he's making a mistake. All of these things - he knows. Instead, make it constructive. You live, you learn, you move forward. You don't have to blame yourself. But blaming him? Trying to make it look like this was all your choice?

Just remember. He's seen your worst. You haven't seen his.

Male vs Female

Every time I write something, whether it be a full-on story or just a silly little conversation like the previous post was, I try to get some sort of feedback. I don't necessary want positive or negative, or helpful even; just some sort of reaction. Some response. I got two responses from the last post.

Female:
"I know exactly what you're going through. Does this mean that you guys are together now? Like, an official couple? Or are you just trying to get that to happen? You shouldn't put up with that bullshit! This is like that time I was with..."

And so on and so forth. Some sort of tangent about some sort of relationship she was in, that has absolutely zero relation to the story. Or my interests, for that matter.


Male:
"Are you trying to tell me that you're pregnant?"

This is Your Brain on Words

"You know that thing when someone tells you not to do something, or not to think about something, and then because they said that, that's the only thing you can think of?"
"What's that have to do with anything?"
"No, but, you know what I mean, right? Like when someone tells you 'don't look' so then you automatically turn around to see why they said don't look?"
"Or you just don't look?"
"No no, you look. Or when someone tells you bad news that they know is obviously going to freak you out, but then they tell you 'don't worry' and try to get you to go on like nothing changed."
"Because maybe nothing did change?"
"No dude, like if a girl you were with tells you she's a week late but don't worry. Like, why would you even tell me that if you don't want me to worry, you know? Stuff like that."
"What are you getting at?"
"What's that called?"
"...being pregnant?"
"No the whole thing. When they say don't and then you do."
"...not listening?"
"No seriously, it's called something, right?"
"I don't know what you're getting at."
"I just want to know what it's called. What the name of it is."
"I'm pretty sure it doesn't have a name."
"It's gotta be something!"
"Why does it have to be called something?"
"Because it has to have a name."
"Why are you so obsessed with it having a title?"
"It's just bothering me."
"Why?"
"Because. You know what I'm talking about. It's something, so it has to be called something."
"..."
"I shouldn't have to describe it and give examples every time I want to talk about it."
"How often do you talk about it?"
"That's besides the point."
"Not really."
"It comes up."
"So describe it to the people it comes up to, and then they'll know for next time."
"But I shouldn't have to do that. It should just be called something."
"Sorry dude."
"It's really bothering me that it doesn't have a name. They have words for everything else."
"Do you know how petty you sound?"
"Don't say that."
"I'm saying that."
"See, look you just did it. I told you to not do something, and you did it anyway."
"That's stupid. That doesn't even count. I said it first."
"And now you're getting all defensive about it."
"This is stupid."
"You're stupid."
"No this is seriously stupid. I'm not talking about this anymore."
"I just want to know what it's called."