Sometimes, life has a twisted sense of humor. Recently, I found out that my best friend has stage 3 Breast Cancer. While I am devastated, I've decided to use humor as my coping mechanism. I'm counting on the old cliche, "laughter is the best medicine," to get us through this shit storm. Below is a guest blog I did for her. I'm also attaching a link to her blog in the sidebar, which chronicles her struggle with the 'Big C.'
Dear God, You’re Fired Gracelyn and I are warriors. Collectively, we’ve survived through less than ideal childhoods, a loser parade of emotionally unavailable men, fluctuating waistlines, betrayal, a string of short-lived careers, absent fathers, the unfortunate change in the recipe for McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets, the cancellation of our most beloved TV shows, a Sears-sized catalog of bad fashion choices, crazy family shenanigans, two nights in county jail under the protection of a prostitute named ‘Simone,’ crushing disappointments (I almost met Tom Selleck; Gracelyn could’ve made-out with Queen Latifah, but wouldn’t take one for the team), unprovoked funny business from strangers, bigotry, phases of delicious hedonism and wretched self-destruction, sexism, emotional outbursts and tears (I only cry now during the Folgers commercial when Tommy surprises his family on Christmas morning), poverty and exotic living conditions (I once lived in a hallway, while Gracelyn lived in a car), the dark political objectives of our country’s foreign and domestic policies, and of course…the perm.
Because of previous muggings (once by a man who looked like Mr. Rogers), Catholic school, botched tattoos, and an embarrassing incident of cameltoe—I thought we’d finally built up an almost impervious armor. Such experiences should, at the very least, guarantee us a generous sabbatical from sickness and death. Sure, there were a few ridiculously painful incidents of kidney stones, and Chlamydia from that one-night stand with a fisherman (thankfully cured with pills), but real sickness and disease usually happened to someone else. Not to us.
At the end of 2009, I was feeling restless. It is a nasty habit, causing me to have been nomadic for most of my adult life. And my subsequent move from Los Angeles to New York City marks the second time I have moved away, only to find a best friend has fallen ill with a major disease. Gracelyn and I joke that my exit brings with it sickness and despair. Perhaps I will put that on a t-shirt.
But when Gracelyn asked how her cancer has effected me, I am at a loss for words. She is the black mama to my white mama—the token black friend in an otherwise white movie ensemble that gets needlessly sacrificed in the opening scene, but delivers the best dialog. So I don’t think I’ve really processed this news. I just went into crisis mode, clutched my autographed 8x10 glossy of Jet Li, and began to formulate a plan. And when I finally understood that she had begun the downward mental spiral, I convinced her to talk, called in the troops, and jumped on a plane (without snakes).
I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know why people think Tom Cruise is straight. But I do think the only higher power I can get behind (to borrow from my dear friend Jody) is Richard Pryor. Apart from that terrible movie he made in 1982 called The Toy, where he played a black man purchased as a toy for a rich white kid, I think if given the chance, Richard would do a better job than the current man in the sky…if He exists. So He should clean out his desk, because we’re going to have to let Him go…it’s clearly not working out. We need to bring in some new management that will correct this most obscene injustice being done to my dearest friend.
Gracelyn, we’re going to beat this damn cancer thing, and get some of those Shamwows, because they really are incredibly absorbent. True story.
Love you, chica-J
Dear God, You’re Fired
Gracelyn and I are warriors. Collectively, we’ve survived through less than ideal childhoods, a loser parade of emotionally unavailable men, fluctuating waistlines, betrayal, a string of short-lived careers, absent fathers, the unfortunate change in the recipe for McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets, the cancellation of our most beloved TV shows, a Sears-sized catalog of bad fashion choices, crazy family shenanigans, two nights in county jail under the protection of a prostitute named ‘Simone,’ crushing disappointments (I almost met Tom Selleck; Gracelyn could’ve made-out with Queen Latifah, but wouldn’t take one for the team), unprovoked funny business from strangers, bigotry, phases of delicious hedonism and wretched self-destruction, sexism, emotional outbursts and tears (I only cry now during the Folgers commercial when Tommy surprises his family on Christmas morning), poverty and exotic living conditions (I once lived in a hallway, while Gracelyn lived in a car), the dark political objectives of our country’s foreign and domestic policies, and of course…the perm.
Because of previous muggings (once by a man who looked like Mr. Rogers), Catholic school, botched tattoos, and an embarrassing incident of cameltoe—I thought we’d finally built up an almost impervious armor. Such experiences should, at the very least, guarantee us a generous sabbatical from sickness and death. Sure, there were a few ridiculously painful incidents of kidney stones, and Chlamydia from that one-night stand with a fisherman (thankfully cured with pills), but real sickness and disease usually happened to someone else. Not to us.
At the end of 2009, I was feeling restless. It is a nasty habit, causing me to have been nomadic for most of my adult life. And my subsequent move from Los Angeles to New York City marks the second time I have moved away, only to find a best friend has fallen ill with a major disease. Gracelyn and I joke that my exit brings with it sickness and despair. Perhaps I will put that on a t-shirt.
But when Gracelyn asked how her cancer has effected me, I am at a loss for words. She is the black mama to my white mama—the token black friend in an otherwise white movie ensemble that gets needlessly sacrificed in the opening scene, but delivers the best dialog. So I don’t think I’ve really processed this news. I just went into crisis mode, clutched my autographed 8x10 glossy of Jet Li, and began to formulate a plan. And when I finally understood that she had begun the downward mental spiral, I convinced her to talk, called in the troops, and jumped on a plane (without snakes).
I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know why people think Tom Cruise is straight. But I do think the only higher power I can get behind (to borrow from my dear friend Jody) is Richard Pryor. Apart from that terrible movie he made in 1982 called The Toy, where he played a black man purchased as a toy for a rich white kid, I think if given the chance, Richard would do a better job than the current man in the sky…if He exists. So He should clean out his desk, because we’re going to have to let Him go…it’s clearly not working out. We need to bring in some new management that will correct this most obscene injustice being done to my dearest friend.
Gracelyn, we’re going to beat this damn cancer thing, and get some of those Shamwows, because they really are incredibly absorbent. True story.
Love you, chica
-J
