Cancer jumped the shark.
Cancer jumped the shark yesterday.
Jumped the shark in this context (for those not born in a generation remembering its sitcom origin) is an idiom I’m using as a pejorative to summarize the indescribable feeling when life keeps coming at you in a ceaseless walloping of circumstances to the point that there is a crossing over from ‘what the fuck is happening right now’ to hilarious absurdity. You know those days where you get garbage sleep then fall in the shower, then are late to work after hitting all the red lights and spilling your breakfast on yourself to an unfolding workplace drama you’re somehow at the center of, then you get that phone call that your dog/spouse/kid/BFF is sick and somehow that is a breaking point where the sheer volume of crummy events triggers a burst of spontaneous and unexplained laughter? Congratulations, life just shark jumped the shit outta you.
The best example of such a breaking point I’ve seen of this outside my own life is Tig Notaro’s infamous stand-up set which became her album Live! If you haven’t listened, stop reading now, and listen to the video below. I’ll wait.
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I was right, huh? Totally worth it.** Skipped my sound advice past the 6 dots to reading again? The cliff notes are Tig, a stand-up comedian, has 3 months from hell where she contracts C-Diff, a dangerous and deadly bacterial infection that almost kills her, goes through a break-up, finds out her best friend and mother died unexpectedly after a fall and a head injury, and then learns she has stage IV breast cancer. It was cancer that was the shark-jumping moment, cracking open the devastation and suffering wide enough for the humor, the absurdity of life, to shine through - when the art of Live! was born.
The electroencephalogram (EEG) test was my jumping the shark moment. First of all, the test was scheduled along with the MRI as a precaution after last week’s seizures to uncover if I have any brain disorders that may have caused them. The test, in my case at the cardiopulmonary department in the hospital, and had 4 parts:
A technician attaches electrodes to your scalp using a sticky glue that you will need your fingernails and a buddy to remove the next day. The electrodes are connected with wires to a machine you carry home in a little black pouch. This machine amplifies and records brain waves.
The same technician stares at a screen while you are asked to do 3-minutes of deep breathing AKA the Wim Hof method, and almost pass the F out in front of a stranger panic panting. This is the only moment I’ve regretted not hopping on the trendy cold plunge optimization train popular with start-up CEOs and the Dutch.
The lights are dimmed, you close your eyes, and the technician presses a button I can only assume reads “psychedelic, disturbing light show”. Moments after it was originally set, this shatters that record for the most uncomfortable 3-minutes of me acting like I’m totally chill. For your Oscar consideration.
A fine white mesh netting is tightly secured over your head (think gourmet sausage casing), you’re handed a 20-pound case with a video camera for documenting any episodes you may have, and you haul both the case and your shameless mummy head out of the hospital making as little eye contact as possible.
Stockholm Syndrome. For who? Yes.
It wasn’t getting the test itself that cracked me up, although there was the moment when the tech put the leads on my head and made note of my ideal “haircut”. Umm, I don’t think we can call this shiny, patchy AF, obvious chemo-related alopecia a “haircut” but…thanks? The exact moment, the exact shift in my perspective on this whole dang experience happened was when I walked into the house afterward. I gently closed the door, set down the camera briefcase, and stood in the doorway, locking eyes with Evan. What he saw was me in my dumpy leisurewear uniform with a little pouch slung like a strappy purse across my body connected to a waist-length cotton mesh ponytail protecting wires glued to my ‘haircut’ covered by taped-down white mesh. Him in his chair, me in the doorway, taking each other in with flat, motionless faces in silence. After a full minute, he broke the silence and said to me, “you know who you look like?”
Samsies.
I just lost it and so did he. Bent over in laughter, tears streaming down our faces, in unison, we said “Star Wars”. Yep, I look like some medical version of Jabba the Hutt’s enslaved dancer from Return of the Jedi including being sad and hairless. The absurdity of getting to this point - of having to navigate my day of going to the bathroom and eating and sleeping and brushing my teeth with a chin strap of netting taped to my face whilst carrying this little weird pouch - doing this on top of feeling like nauseated hot garbage with no energy in my emaciated bones and scarred-up skin laying indoors as the air quality is unsafe for me to be outside because I have cancer in the middle of a global and surging pandemic. deep breath ALL this was suddenly and unequivocally hilarious. So hilarious that Evan and I decided to spend the day doing intermittent photoshoots with said pouch and netting. So hilarious that all my angst has faded into the background, into the place where true I-don’t-give-a-fuckary resides. A place I hope to reside for the rest of this non-stop, shark-jumping thrill ride.
I hope you enjoy the prime cut quality content that was borne of this latest unexpected odyssey with cancer. I don’t expect to have any funkadelic stuff with my brain but, if I do, I hope the tests bring new kinds of photoshoot-inspiring headgear. Fingers crossed.
Arbitrary footnotes:
**I am a lifelong fan of comedy and comedians. I will save you my long resume proving such love and showing off my excellent taste in comedy to just assume that, if you’re reading this, maybe you can, I don’t know, just trust me. Do people still do that nowadays? In any case, TRUST ME that Tig sits on the tippy top of my fave comedian list because she is a deadpan genius and everything she touches (for my taste) is solid gold. I recommend checking out her documentary Tig that is an extension of the Live! album or, if you’re a busy person short on time, THIS short Conan clip. Really, just freakin’ Google her and enjoy it all.