If you were told less than half a year ago to buy a plot in the cemetery and get measured for a coffin—this by honored and decorated practitioners of mainstream American medicine—your perspective on a lot of things would change. Having groped your way back among the living (thanks to a Mexican clinic unsanctioned by Their Holinesses at the FDA), you’d find that you didn’t care much about matters once deeply important to you. “COVID-19: oh my God, there’s a .3 percent chance that I might die if infected!” Nope… sorry. Those odds don’t accelerate my heartbeat at all, except to make me angry with cowards who are terrified by them. “Well, how about this: the nation is poised to elect a bunch of socialists who will so mangle the system that the republic can never recover!” Okay, that’s disturbing… but it’s also a doom we have been collectively courting throughout my lifetime. We don’t want to make our own mistakes any more: we want the avuncular hand of Government shielding us and guiding us through every corridor of our mortal existence. We want to be treated as children… or as slaves whose only task is to vote for our Masters (for the brief time that we’re still allowed to vote).
I could get angry about that, yes… but why? Why should I believe that human folly, so graphically illustrated on every page of history, has been banished from our own epoch? Our species only learns, apparently, when water-boarded over and over in disaster. We Americans will get the government we richly deserve next January. The mainstream media made it all happen? The universities made it all happen? But who forced us to listen to the “news” or to submit our children to “higher education”?
Sometimes I think the only genuine Christians on earth live in China, where Xi Jinping’s ruthless tyranny suppresses, arrests, and tortures the faithful at accelerating rates. Meanwhile, our priests and ministers urge us from the pulpit to support CCP-like social engineering projects and to scorn individualism as selfishness. And we return every Sunday to hear more.
Maybe I was granted more time—how much more, nobody on earth knows—to peck out my contrarian telegrams as our society’s ship settles to the bottom. Maybe that’s my part of the exchange that renewed my life in the flesh. When massive food shortages make my eccentric diet impossible to sustain, or when rolling blackouts make my therapies impossible to continue, I suppose I’ll lapse into a steep decline. Or maybe not. Who knows? Nobody here on earth.
My wife and I think a lot about where the “cancer road” may take us. Most people, upon discovering that you’ve had cancer, assume that the scenario of your remaining life is something like the protagonist’s in that old Ben Gazzara series, Run for Your Life. You have a year left, maybe two. Oh, they’re all so sorry. Poor baby… maybe you’ll get three. I understand the reaction. I was actually fortunate that the American “health care” system declined to give me any treatment at all. My fellow patients at the Immunity Therapy Center in Tijuana had almost all suffered through a combination of surgery, radiation, and chemo. The struggle of their weakened bodies to profit from more salutary, holistic therapies as mine did was uphill, and often heart-breaking. In our medical system, cancer is “cured” in the same way as a death-row inmate is “freed” because a lawyer agrees to take on his appeal. What a hope!
But for the rest of us cancer-revenants, with our hale-and-hearty physiques and our arsenal of vitamin supplements, how is the future any different? Do we live until a car wreck claims us, or a heart attack? Or do we still consider ourselves as having cancer, which will likely come roaring back within days if our bottles of pills stop coming? Exactly what is cancer—what’s its modus operandi? Is the mass of humanity free of it, while the unhappy minority must feel its shadow descending over their shoulders during every birthday and Christmas they enjoy from now on? Is the burden of that shadow never to be removed in this life?
I could say (and I have said: I have a section of this tenor in Why I’m Not Dead) that we cancer survivors at least know which gate of the city is under attack. The “healthy” around us could be harvested tomorrow by a stroke, by an overdose, by an undetected cancer. (By COVID? Very, very unlikely. Could it be that we want to make a bubonic plague of SARS-2 because insulating ourselves from it gives us a sense of being shielded from all other assaults on our mortality?) That ubiquity of exposure is true, insofar as it goes: the Reaper is stalking everyone. But there remains something distinctly different about living in his shadow, day in and day out. The blissful ignorance that renders the shadow undetectable to others does, after all, generate a kind of bliss. We don’t enjoy that luxury.
And as far as I can tell, we’re not going to, we recovering cancer-holics. The sobered-up wino dare not ever take a sip again; and most of our group, I think, are just as leery of ever eating sugar or red meat. Half the contents of the grocery store now wear an invisible skull-and-crossbones as we run our eyes over the shelves. We don’t even have intact memories in which to seek comfort… or, at least, I don’t. When I recall the summers of pitching a baseball to my son in the back yard and try to sell myself on how happy times were then, my effort is immediately sabotaged by the thought, “But you had that hideous dark snake sliding around your entrails and didn’t even know it.” I cannot make ignorance blissful even in retrospect: my ignorant yesteryears are now horrid to me.
Which, I might argue, makes me stronger than ever: mortality will never again be able to creep up on me. That’s a great boon… but it can also be a great burden. The childishly pious around me tell me to trust that God will keep me sound and whole, as if I might make a virtue of delirium—might shut my eyes, stop my ears, and sing hymns of praise at full volume. “The night’s not there, there is no night: all is sweetness, joy, and light!” Fa-la-la, fa-la-la! And when I decline to chime in, they consign me to outer darkness. Maybe cancer is God’s judgment on me for refusing to accept His gift of long life. That God Incarnate promised us immense suffering as the likely recompense of virtue in this world is… is no longer the concluding instruction of the Beatitudes, I guess.
So you don’t seem to garner much comfort from the very quarter where you would have expected to receive it. Comfort. There are days, you know—many days—when I’ve thought that just seeing children playing in a park would chase the Shadow away. They say that misery loves company… but it’s not true. Or it’s only true of man in his most fallen moments. The Shadow lifts one out of self-preoccupation, lifts one to prospects only accessible from the mountain’s peak… but our sick society has seen fit to drape those happy little valleys in mist. If only I could have watched our local Single A baseball team play a few games this summer… but no. But no. But we had to exile every joyful social pastime from our midst because of THE PANDEMIC! Because of the abject hysteria with which we greeted even mortality’s most wavering, transient vulture-shadow on the far horizon, we pounded all the joy out of life. We pounded it sadistically, with the seventy-two knife wounds or cudgel blows that one reads of homicidal maniacs delivering to their victims. Some of us did it. I didn’t. Maybe you didn’t… but a lot of us did.
Appallingly many cancer patients did. I always want to say to them, “Don’t you think you already have death before you in a sufficiently palpable form without running panicked from doors that bang in the night?” I don’t understand them. I would have thought a round or two with cancer would give you the courage to measure your limitations as a secular being.
No children at play, and no ballgames: that’s been the hardest thing to bear. Not knowledge of my own mortality, but knowledge of how little my fellow beings recognize the precious gifts within theirs. I should have liked to see you all—you who don’t have cancer, or who don’t yet have it, or who don’t know that you have it—finding a spot in the sun, enjoying its golden touch, and blessing God for the day. That would have done my heart great good. Instead, I see you complaining—constantly complaining: the sun isn’t golden enough, its beam is too hot or too cold, the spot where it falls requires you to move too far. You understand nothing, and you learn nothing. The valleys I see are minute pockets of fools seeking refuge in caves. I’ll look for my little patch of sunlight today, as I do every day now. It’s a lonely spot, but it’s directly from God, and I’ll take it. I’m sorry that most of the rest of you won’t be there.