I was talking to my mom last night about whether she was going to my cousin BJ’s wedding (Yes, I have a cousin named BJ. He’s heard the jokes). Anyway, my mom said she was going to go without her husband, prompting me to ask why. To which my mom replied, “Oh, Dave has a little bit of prostate cancer and he’ll be getting radiation treatment that weekend.”
A little bit? Who the hell who has ever heard of a little bit of cancer? And who drops “my husband has cancer” thirty minutes into a conversation? My mom, the first person to ever be blasé about cancer. Apparently, he was diagnosed over a week ago, but my mom didn’t feel like bringing it up until we were trying to co-ordinate travel plans.
I know me and Dave have never been all that close, but I’m not such an asshole that I wouldn’t care that he has cancer. Say a prayer for him. He’s supposed to be just fine and my mom says he isn’t tired or anything, just irritated he has to go to the doctor again. It’s about the only thing we have in common: hatred of doctors.
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