The Brutal Savagery

The Brutal Savagery

  7:41 AM    Unknown

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The Brutal Savagery

You may need to twist your sense of humor some to enjoy this story, so if you're incapable of doing so, you might want to quit reading.

Saturday, I was visited by some of my best friends and also some guy named Jonathan. Everyone says "You can beat this cancer!" and "Stay positive!" but then they travel for hours to see you for the last time, sending a bit of a differing message. It's still great to see them. Better take an opportunity now than later find regret in a missed one.

Cancer is strange and scary, and it couldn't have happened at a worse time. Not only is this the busiest time of the year with work, with football starting and millage rates being debated, my family is going through massive changes. My sister, Dena, got married the day before I learned I had a mass on my lung, and she and her kids are moving to North Carolina this week to live with her husband.

So Saturday night, Dena invited me to dine at our favorite Mexican restaurant with some of her favorite students from her now former job as librarian at Irwin County High School. One of my friends joined us, and I consider several of those former students friends myself, except for one person about whom I have somewhat mixed feelings.

I won't say this young woman's name, but she is a savage and bedevilling presence whose ice-cold judgment withers like rust. I mean this in the most highly complimentary way possible. I did not know until tonight the depths of this girl's savagery.

You see, several years ago, I interviewed this young woman, whom I will call Samantha, after the character from Bewitched. Samantha had won an academic award, and because I had encountered her many times, I thought we had a rapport. She seemed to be good-humored and open to a bit of back-and-forth wordplay. So, I teased her about how smart she thought she was and how pretentious her plans for the future seemed to be, which of course, was only joking.

I thought everything was fine as the interview ended, and we left on what seemed to be good terms.

Later, however, Dena called me and told me Samantha was very upset about our interview. My sister said Samantha was afraid that I was going to make her look bad in my story, which I most certainly didn't, nor did I ever intend to do so. Dena even told me Samantha went to another teacher mortified and sobbing about how devastating the interview had been.

I was shocked and felt like the worst heel in the world. I told Dena to apologize for me, but I didn't want to approach Samantha myself for fear of making the situation worse. All I could do was write the article I intended, and to make sure I didn't escalate the problem.

I was so regretful that I had so deeply hurt the feelings of such a sweet, innocent girl.

Hogwash.

One day, I ran into her in Wal-Mart, and Samantha told me she liked the article and she wasn't as upset as Dena told me. I didn't believe her. I thought she was only telling me I didn't upset her because she didn't want to seem weak or easily emotionally affected.

In short, I still felt like a heel.

For years, I lamented my too familiar teasing with Samantha, and I discussed my regrets several times with my editor. I really hated that I hurt this girl's feelings. I have a mental list of the worst things I've ever done, and it checks in at about Number 4: "Made a school girl cry."

So Samantha was a member of the dinner party Saturday, and I asked her a question about a recent event she attended. She said she wouldn't answer because she didn't trust me.

Again, I was rocked by the opinions of this young woman. As someone who aims to be as honest as possible, being told that I'm not to be trusted is a deep wound. Of course, I understand there are many types of trust, and someone who is overly honest may not always be the best to trust with a secret. They're too sides of the coin of trust, in a way.

But I have cultivated a reputation that my word can be trusted, and I hope that it's deserved, so when she said she didn't trust me, I was shattered.

A bit of back-and-forth began, and during it, she made some startling revelations about our past unpleasantness. She didn't cry, she said. She wasn't upset by the interview. She had tricked me, and Dena also, into thinking she was upset, I suppose to punish me for daring to tease her about being pretentious.

She wasn't so thin-skinned or easily affected. She was crafty as a fox and her guile had left me in fits for years. I felt like a fool, but I was also deeply impressed. No wonder she won an academic award back then. She was a smart, devious little master planner.

Still, I feigned defeat, consternation, and just plain shock.

I said "This is my lowest point of the week." And remember, I learned I had cancer twice this week.

As Samantha laughed with a brutality reserved only for the truly heartless, I reminded her she must not have much empathy for those with cancer. The others seemed to find this hilarious.

I've learned to make a joke of my condition to lighten the atmosphere and keep my spirits up. I said things like I've got a "weak hand" when we played cards later, a reference to my cancer-affected, nerve-damaged right hand, which has lost some strength. If I forget a name or miss a joke, I say "I've got brain cancer" as an excuse.

My condition became a running joke as we played the despicable card game, Cards Against Humanity, which sells itself as a Party Game for Horrible People. The title was accurately applied Saturday night, as this bunch of mismatched friends tickled ourselves with insulting banter and truly horrifying jokes. It was the best time I've had in ages.

In Cards Against Humanity, a judge reads a question from a card, and the other players submit a funny answer from a selection of cards in their hand. For instance, one time I was the judge and read the question, "Why am I so sticky?" And my loving sister submitted an answer from her card which read "A brain tumor."

Yes, she actually did that. And even though I can't explain why I would be sticky because of a brain tumor,  I awarded her the point because it was the funniest answer to that question and frankly the most horrible answer of the night. But that's sort of the point of the game, to be funny while being horrible.

And that's exactly what I needed.

I've felt like I was basking in an incredible ocean of love the past several days reading about the generous support and overwhelming kindness from people all across the world who learned about my health. In an insane way, I feel like I'm at the top of the world, that I've never been happier, because I've never felt or even dreamed that I could ever feel so loved, appreciated, and admired.

But inside, I know I'm falling, failing, from that unimaginable perch in the sky. And seeing those many touching, heart-felt compliments and humbling admissions of admiration often makes tears, half of joy and half of sorrow, leap into my eyes.

I don't hate crying though. I know men aren't supposed to cry, but men aren't supposed to be facing their own mortality at 41 either. And I recognize that crying is not an act of weakness, but the act of the body trying to make itself feel better and stronger.

So please don't withhold your love, if you want to share.

But for one night I was glad to be part of the crowd trading insults with each other like long-lost friends without a care or tear to shed. I grinned as they insisted I mime rather than speak to avoid hearing my raspy, cancer-altered voice. I let myself be the butt of their jokes, and I offered plenty of barbs of my own.

And no one was more cutting, with her sideways, judging eyes, than Samantha. At times, she would just start laughing when I spoke in my horrid hoarse rasp. Or she would trade whispers with her boyfriend when I said something because what she had to say was too horrible for people making jokes about... I can't even say how horrible the jokes are in Cards Against Humanity. it's horrifying.

But at least I know that if I ever did hurt Samantha's feelings, she has more than earned her revenge by now.

I'm thinking of making a bucket list, a list of things to do before I die, whenever that may be. It's hard because I've done or do most of the things I want. I've said before that if I was a millionaire, my life wouldn't change much.

I'd like to go skydiving, and I'd like to get a tattoo on my shoulder of the Cobra emblem from GI Joe toys and comics. I plan to go on adventures with a former classmate with whom I've rekindled a friendship. Some incredible people have offered to provide me and a guest a trip to anywhere in the world, sort of like my own personal Make a Wish Foundation.

But most of what I want to accomplish before I die is to tell the stories I've left untold.

But, if I was to choose to use my time to fix my past mistakes,  at least I'll be able to mark off "Made a school girl cry."

I asked Samantha if I could write this, fearful that somewhere under all the snark and judgement there was a young girl who might actually have feelings. She said I couldn't make her cry, so I could write it, but not to say anything that would make her mother cry. That sounded fair.

I enjoy clever wordplay and biting teasing more than just about any types of human interaction, so when Samantha asked why I hated her, I said I didn't actually. In fact, I think she's pretty awesome.

But what I didn't tell her is she must not be very memorable. When I saw her for the first time in years a few weeks ago, I knew exactly who she was, but I could not, for the life of me, remember her name. Only several minutes after parting did I remember her real name, and I felt like a moron for forgetting.

But I didn't know at the time that I had an excuse.

I've got brain cancer.