
Hope Chasing
What is hope chasing — Why the world does not need another cancer memoir — Why cancer jokes are funny — What to do with a four leaf clover
You know that moment, when you are on the very top of the rollercoaster, when your stomach falls down in an attempt to narrow the abyss between itself and the ground? That is what hope chasing is. Your rational being knows that it is pointless. But your body grovels to the floor to lick any crumb of possible salvation, grateful for the anecdotes, the single case study medical papers, the Reddit posts about the evil aunt that is still torturing the family 25 years after her cancer diagnosis.
But once the roller coaster rushes down, even your mind gives up on logic. After all, if you are one of the six people in a million to get this cancer, why wouldn’t you also be the one of those six that might make it? It’s logical, you convince yourself, even after you have poured over peer reviewed papers, and with your graduate school statistics level class interpreted the findings with the only conclusion that makes sense — you are fucked…
I admit, I have never actually read a cancer memoir. I have read the reviews for a few and they all sound like the brave, touching journals of talented people whose time had come too soon. And that is the funny thing — I have not come across a well-reviewed cancer memoir that ends with the author making it. Maybe it is the lack of anticipated crisis that deflates them like a balloon, their voices tinny on helium. It is a bit unremarkable, after all, if after all the doom of a lightning that is about to strike you directly, you just put up an umbrella and whistle indoors, splashing into a few puddles. I can imagine how the reader could feel that they have been tricked into being compassionate witnesses to a high-maintenance nuisance…
There is not going to be any misleading dramatic buildup in this post (or any future ones) that suddenly pops like a soap bubble, leaving rainbow residue on the sidewalk. Mainly, because there is no release from the type of cancer I got struck with. But also because these writings are not a cancer memoir. They are an outlet to the cynical commentary that has been the incessant subtitled interpretation of my life. I may even not even write another entry — it feels hard to avoid the cliches when you are on the only true “once in a lifetime journey.”
People are uncomfortable when I make a joke about cancer. To me, the compassion of a stranger and the commiseration from someone who does not know you never feels less like a consolation, more like an empty platitude. Perhaps to laugh about it, when you do not suffer from it is like making German jokes when you are not German, Jewish jokes when you are not Jewish: a cultural appropriation that can quickly cross a line the line to the offensive if your own identity is not defined by what you are joking about. A special form of racism (cancerism).
It follows that since I have cancer, I cannot be a cancerist and therefore am allowed to make jokes about it. I can’t help myself, although it gets harder the grimmer the reality becomes. The field is just so ripe for exploration. The absurdity of little vanities suddenly exposed by the very tangible prospect of death. The inability to stop planning even if you were just confronted with the truth that:
- plan all you want, things can change with a phone call;
- you are really not the center of the world.
I am sure the physical comedy of cancer is also a fertile ground. Not looking forward to that.
So please, don’t be afraid to laugh at my jokes. Even if you do it out of pity, to avoid hurting the self esteem of a very unlucky person. I would take it. And it would make me feel better. Because in the absence of logic and comprehension, the other option is to cry.
Speaking of lucky, earlier this year, I found a four leaf clover, a universal symbol of good luck. Don’t waste your time looking for them.
