For whatever reason, I never seem to cop on to the right ways of doing things - socially I mean - especially if there isn’t a written set of instructions. I have an innate tendency to do precisely the opposite of what society expects from me. If I am supposed to smile and be sweet, I scowl and swear. If I am supposed to frown and shake my head, I tip my head back and laugh.
Most of this is unconscious, but then I also accept that I engage in deliberate divilment quite frequently too.
I just can’t help it.
It has been dawning on me over the past 11 years (slow learner) that I may be approaching the cancer patient lark the wrong way.
Let me try to elaborate:
I never wore the wig/turban/headscarf. Even when my hair looked like something you’d find at the end of a very manky plughole, I still persisted in convincing myself it was grand. I assumed that bald cancer patients waited until they had actually lost all of their hair before they reached for the expensive headgear, but I have now surmised that they in fact shave it quite a bit before that, thereby looking less like an electrocuted mountain goat and more like a demure, stoic, and oh-so-brave beacon of strength.
I didn’t complain much (I can hear my family guffawing in disagreement, but bear with me). I kept my public discussions about the misery of cancer treatment relatively sparse and tried to have a good ratio of 3:1 of positive to negative posts.
I failed to big up the amount of chemo and other treatments I was getting. Triple, quadruple, high-dose chemotherapy; I never really got into the numbers. I took a load of drugs, they worked (mostly) - super.
The biggest mistake, probably, was the failure to cash in. Not a single free #gifted experience in a luxury spa, not one complimentary cashmere scarf, no community fundraisers to pay for my Leonidas addiction. It goes without saying that I got some absolutely gorgeous and heart-wrenchingly thoughtful gifts from friends and family, and even from people I didn’t know very well, but the bleeding dry of commercial entities with a huge corporate social responsibility budget passed me by.
I could have thought of all the ways my cancer could have been prevented, and then gone after the people who failed to prevent it. Hot dog manufacturers. Sir Henrys. Murphy & Sons. Surely one of them should be held responsible? And pay up?
I could definitely have milked the social media market and got myself a squillion followers, and then sold them tiny packets of curcumin to cure all their ills. If only I had seen the Belle Gibson documentary sooner.
I could flog a badly written book.
The possibilities are endless and I have walked right past them.
Dumbass.
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