Southern Legitimacy Statement: Sean McFadden had a mango branch wedged under his bed after Hurricane Ian ripped his front door from the hinges. The door was located half a mile down the dirt road where you really best watch your speed, because of the gopher tortoises and potholes.
Success
They took the cancer out yesterday, which was nice of them. Now I have less cancer. I don’t tempt fate anymore by announcing ‘I’m cancer-free.’ It’s only a matter of time with that fucking disease. They caught this one. Not like the next one’s not already growing. Why such optimism? This was my fifth cancer–four different locations and this recurrence–to go along with three hurricanes, all happening in the last three years. Big fun.
Pan down, and you might notice my Foley catheter, which drains blood clots after bladder surgery. That PVC pipe jutting from my stretched-out dick hole–nearly as comfortable as it looks. These opioids cause vicious constipation. But the cherry on top? Last month, a coworker picked up flesh-eating bacteria through her stomach sutures. Her surgery was in a nearby, older hospital — just like mine, just yesterday.
I’m tired. Of waiting rooms, needles, and hives from adhesive. Tired of payment plans, deductibles, and early withdrawals from my IRA. That money, intended for dreams I can’t even recall, now goes toward surgery down payments. I’m tired of taking unpaid time off work. Tired of fear, insomnia, depression, and thoughts of suicide. Of politicians and talking heads excited about killing my insurance, and by extension, me.
But the world keeps on spinning. The human Labrador anchorman says tonight’s jackpot is over 1.3 billion and he wants to know if I’ve bought my tickets yet.
“I have less cancer today,” I report, killing the news with one finger while saluting with another.
