A good cry

I like to double my dose of weed to 30mg and meditate for thirty minutes until I lose control of my body and melt into my chair. That’s my idea of fun—real mellow and chill. I like to keep it light, and I like the classics. New movies are too loud and violent. Give me a Robert Redford film that looks like it was soaked in a sepia tone. I like the kind of movies where nothing really happens, but you’re not mad because it was nice to sit quietly for an extended period. It calms me to think that no one knows what they’re doing. If I were a houseplant and treated me like how I treat me in real life, I’d be a dead houseplant; Houseplants can’t live with this much anxiety.

So I thought it was a sign when I was trying to return the book “Beyond Remission: Words of Advice for Thriving,” and the Amazon chat lady told me to keep it. The book’s about being hopeful when facing a cancer diagnosis, and I was chatting with her on my phone, sitting on the stairs, in my empty house. My wife and kid were out doing something that most fathers would probably do with them, but I was telling the Amazon chat lady I didn’t want the book. As I typed, I misspelled a bunch of words. However, it was clear that she understood the book wasn’t addressed to me but to a person named Beatrice Huxley. The determining factor in her refusal to accept my return was that Beatrice’s address was mine. It made no sense to me, and I’d never heard of this person. Someone must have made a mistake.

My exchange with the Amazon chat lady ended like this:

Me: Please, I don’t want this book.

Amazon Chat Lady: You can give it as a gift to someone else.

Me: It’s a book about cancer!

Amazon Chat Lady: I understand.

"Someone wants Beatrice Huxley to have the book," I chanted to myself as I paced the front room. I had a hole in my socks, which made me 10% less comfortable. That is to say that although I was saying her name, most of my mind was focused on my endeavors. It always works like that. My narcism operates in the background like a hacker’s code on a computer. But I jump from one thing to the next with abandon, so I feel like I’m always trying to put puzzle pieces together. I pictured the Amazon chat lady in India, my go-to country when thinking of an outsourced workforce, but I didn’t know where she resided. I heard on a podcast that the AT&T people are all ex-convicts who live and work in Mexico. Also, on a podcast, I listened to a puffy man with a veiny red face say horse tranquilizers are an effective treatment against COVID-19. Consuming this type of media makes my heart race like I’ve just drunk several cups of coffee, but I still fill my waking hours feasting on it because it keeps my self-centeredness at bay.

I don’t have a bible in my house, but I imagine if I had one, it would hurl guilt at me the same way this cancer book did. It was meant for Beatrice, and I felt guilty that I wouldn’t do anything more to help get it to her. They say everyone knows someone with cancer, but I hadn’t met anyone with the disease, so, naturally, I assumed the world was trying to tell me that I had cancer. It’s not like I have anything against God. I just grew tired of prayer. When the book was in my house, I thought of starting it back up to see if that would cleanse me of whatever I deserved. I determined since I wouldn’t randomly call up a friend I hadn’t spoken to in several years and ask for help, I couldn’t do it to God either. I grew fearful of the book, believing it could give me cancer just by being in my house.

I put it in my office in a corner, away from all other things, because I was sure it was capable of destroying whatever it was next to. Several days passed before I mentioned the book to my wife because I was worried I’d summon cancer if I spoke about the book. I imagined her recoiling at my trying to hand it to her like my daughter does when I ask her to hold hands in the parking lot, but my wife just flipped through its pages and said it was sad. I agreed that it was, and right afterward, she asked me what I would do with the book. I told her I wanted to throw it away but feared karma’s repercussions, and she chuckled like I’d made a joke. She suggested that I take it to a book drop-off, but I argued that the cancer book didn’t belong in there; the book wasn’t reading material meant for book donations. It must have seemed like I brought up the book to get into an argument.

I was going to write that the worst battles are fought in your head, but then I thought of war and decided not to lead with that. Two days came and went, and I was spinning out, thinking every ache, cough, or anomaly in my mental capacity was a symptom of cancer. I worked from home but couldn’t even take my afternoon couch nap because I was so wound up with the idea of death. I wouldn’t say that I’m afraid to die because I’m a man, and I shy away from showing signs of weakness, but I’m terrified of getting cancer. In my moments away from myself, I thought of Beatrice Huxley; the person who bought Beatrice the book was probably pissed because Beatrice never thanked them for giving her the book. Then again, maybe they were quick to forgive Beatrice because it’s rude to hold a grudge against someone with cancer. Hell, since Beatrice never knew that she was even supposed to get a book, maybe they never talked about it.

Then a Tuesday came, and this product guy named Kumar declined the call I’d set up, so I slacked him and saw that little palm tree icon as his status. It meant he was on vacation; I was jealous. Then Thursday came around, and our CEO called a ‘Town Hall,’ where we found out that Kumar was taking time away from work because he was dealing with cancer. My jaw was on the floor, and I felt the cancer book staring at me from the corner of my office. As the CEO continued to talk, I saw the book fly off the shelf, pages spread wide, and show me a google calendar invite with only one word in the meeting notes: cancer. Somehow, all of this was still about me. People cried as the CEO told us that we should tell the people around us that we love them. I felt that it was good advice, but I didn’t take it. I tell my family I love them all the time; I wish I could say it to myself. The CEO ended the call by telling us we could find Kumar’s address on Pingboard if we wanted to send him something. What followed was my only time using Pingboard.

My wife wrapped the cancer book before I sent it to Kumar, which felt weird because of the circumstances, but she convinced me that regardless of the occasion, gifts should be wrapped. I imagined him in a hospital room hooked up to an IV, asking someone to help him dispose of the wrapping paper. It was dull and sad. During the wrapping, my daughter burst into the room and asked us who the present was for. I replied, “It’s not a present.” And she said, “Then why are you wrapping it?” My wife placed some tape on the paper and chuckled. I told my daughter we were doing it because it was the right thing to do, then she twirled out of the kitchen.

I’ve found that predictability is one thing that makes me have less anxiety, so I spent a lot of time alone because when I was alone, I was under the illusion that I had control. The cancer book has made me accept that there is no hiding from anything: anxiety, fear, shame, cancer, etc. Everything is always right around the corner. After the book was out of my house, I found myself thinking of how Beatrice and Kumar’s loved ones reacted to the news, and I started to cry. After thirty seconds or so, when I was beginning to snap out of it, I had the urge to keep crying, so I thought of my family finding out I had cancer and cried even harder. It taught me that I might value myself after all.

Eventually, Kumar came back to work, then switched jobs, and I haven’t heard or thought about him much since. I’ve learned that not everything has to be a sign, but I kind of hope I’ll get another package addressed to Beatrice.