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Let me be blunt. I hate cancer. Actually it would be more precise to say I hate people with cancer. Let’s be serious here for a second. I hate the way they smell when they’ve been at the hospital. How their hair falls out from the treatments. How that’s all they talk about once they get it. How they call themselves “survivors” when their cancer goes into remission. Survivor? Give me a break. It doesn’t change the fact that you had cancer, does it?

When Mom died (cancer, of course) back in’ 93 it got the old man in a real funk. Never seen him so bad. I don’t know what was worse, her cancer or me having to hear about it all the damn time. Life, death, how her stomach hurts from the treatments. Anyway, like I said, it really got to the old man. He talked a lot about stuff back then, especially sadness.

One day I went over to his place to pick up some mail and I found him coating Mom’s belongings in Vicks, pictures, letters, her menagerie. He had slathered the stuff all over the apartment. The walls and floor were thick in a slippery, slick sludge of camphor mucus. It was like a vapo-tomb in there. You almost expected the damn walls to have fast acting squiggles like you see in the commercials throbbing from the walls. He told me he thought it made feel better inside. It stung my eyes real bad.

My dad always thought Vicks was the answer to everything. Growing up we had cases of the stuff in the closet. If I had a headache he’d rub into my hair. If I had a sore throat when I was a kid he’d make me swallow it. It hurt real bad going down, the bastard.

Last year after the old man was diagnosed with cancer. You can probably imagine how annoyed I was. He wanted to talk about all kinds of stuff. “What happens to me when I’m gone? Will I see your mother again? Give me a hug.” I lied to him and told him there was a special wing in heaven for cancer people. That made him happy.

He asked me to come over and rub jars of the stuff into his tumor. At first I bought the name brand stuff. But honestly, I don’t think it matters whether it’s the namebrand or some knock off. So I thought I’d save some money and bought the other stuff. But the old man he can be a real son of a bitch. And now, you know, with the cancer, he’s become intolerable. He says to me, “Don’t you love me? Get me the good stuff. Get me the real thing, here.”

So now to save a little dough I keep the old Vicks jar and scoop the cheap stuff into the new container. He can’t tell the difference anyway.

P.S. – I hope you all get cancer.

Date Written: March 17, 2005
Author: scoop
Average Vote: 3.2857