Well, Sh*t: a true story of Cancer, Prayer, and Emotional Shrapnel

Why Am I Writing This

I have been questioned by people why I have not capitalized on my cancer. You had this horrible thing happen, why not take advantage of that?

I do not think I would hear this question quite as often if I were, say, in hospice dying from it.

It's only because I'm the equivalent of Harry Potter, the boy who lived, a miraculous survivor of an attack from Voldemort's death spell that has always killed anyone else.

People are astonished that a "writer such as myself" has not turned my experience into an award-winning memoir by now. (Yes, actual words said to me). 

I don't think anything related to my cancer deserves any more attention than it has already received, and it certainly doesn't need a ribbon for participation.

But I... got cancer. And my mental response was something along the lines of "Well, shit."

I'm playing that card I guess. 

Actress and producer Mercedes Rose, part-time boss and friend, told me once that I didn't play the cancer card often enough. I realized she was quite right, I rarely played the card at all, even in the throes of it.

Let's try it right now: I didn't do my laundry? I had cancer, you know. Called in sick? I had cancer. Hate puzzles? I had cancer. Used a naughty word? I had stressful cancer. Spent too much money?! CANCER!

I don't play the card much, so I've decided to play the 52 card pick-up and throw the entire deck at you. You are getting me and my cancer uncensored, irreverently and (I hope) disturbingly hilarious at times, but also just as sad and dark as you might suspect.

And you'll read it for me.

Because I had cancer!