You know that feeling when you’re having a shitty day at work and people are assholes and you have no money and the car you just bought is now beginning to show signs of a flawed cooling system, but you just tore off a new piece of ass the night before so nothing can really get you down? Well, Nikol’s cancer is in remission. So nothing can get me down today. Also, I tore off a new piece of ass. But mostly it’s Nikol.
Nikol’s cancer is in remission. I never even thought about her cancer, when she had it, unless some big shit like surgery was happening, or it was right after her hair fell out. Unless it was in my face. She was sick, but she’s always sick, because she can take a handle of Von’s brand whiskey to the head and does tons of drugs; she’s the kind of person who texts you “I just took 30 tylenol PM’s and I’m going to die” and you can just laugh it off because she can eat pills that would make a billygoat puke. She’s a tank. But you could never tell if she was just hung over as fuck or if it was, you know, terminal illness. She wasn’t one of these cancer talk people, cancer cancer cancer all the time, my treatments, my symptoms, my positive thinking program, my misguided attempt to use alternative medicine from Mexico that will only accelerate my death. You didn’t think about it.
But it turns out I was real fucking worried about it this whole time because when I got her text I was almost crying and wanted to jump out of my chair and do all that shit that people do when they experience wholesome, positive emotions. Nikol is in remission. That means all of jack shit, really– she could still go in in 6 months and they’d be like “welp, it’s back. Worse than ever in fact!” Robert Urich went on The Tonight Show and proudly announced her was “cured,” in “full remission;” big round of applause, and like 6 months later he was dead. And with him the dream of Ice Pirates 2. Michael Landon said he was in remission, didn’t he? Then he bit it. He ascended a literal Highway to Heaven, making hack obituary writers’ lives laughably easy for one brief moment. If I ever get famous I’m going to create a well known work called He’s Dead Now or something so people don’t have to be stumped coming up with a headline when I eat shit drunk driving the Benz. But anyway, yeah. He was in remission. Now he’s remitted all the way to the motherfucking grave, whence he emphatically did not return to help a needy family in a new town each week. Nikol still might, too.
She might get cancer back; I might get fired; you might get your nuts run over by a tractor. Let’s not mourn the bridegroom while he’s with us. Let’s not take a shit while we’re still eating the meal. Nikol is in remission. She may die; she may die horribly, in unimaginable and crippling pain, and soon. But not that soon. Not as soon as it might have been. She will be with me for a little while more. Not much in the span of geological time, but, you know, fuck rocks.
I’m gonna take this gift. This time with her. I’m gonna hold it in my hands like a bowl of fresh milk. I’m gonna be a better friend to Nikol; I’m gonna spend more time with Trast; I’m gonna drive her places when her car’s broken and soothe her when she’s sad and fuck her when she’s horny and not fart rotten meat and cabbage smelling farts directly into her nostrils when she’s lying on the couch while Trast is helpfully pinning down her arms. Maybe.
So, suck it, other cancer victims. “Survivors.” You still got it, and she doesn’t. She’ll see you in hell, but you’ll have to keep a seat warm for a while. Warm beyond the ordinary warmth communicated to the seat by the fires of hell.