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Fuck you, cancer. Fuck. You.

“... And these children
that you spit on
as they try to change their worlds
are immune to your consultations.
They're quite aware
of what they're going through...”
(David Bowie, Changes)

I first read these words, hand-written, hanging on the refrigerator of a friend's party house in the middle of nowhere. I read the words out loud; they sounded so familiar, and when I got to the end, my friend continued, "Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!"

I've loved David Bowie for as long as I can remember. Hell, for longer than I can remember. But I never immersed myself in music until embarrassingly late in high school. Music didn't talk to me like TV did. TV raised me. I couldn't love music without music videos to go with it.

And I didn't really pay much mind to lyrics until I read those words on the fridge. Surrounded by highly intelligent and talented and dirt-poor punks that the world looks down on, I realized I'm one of these people too, and I changed that night. I'll never be sure exactly how, but I felt infinitely richer. And I began to pay attention to music.

I still swoon when I think of the night he performed Little Wonder on Saturday Night Live, back in, what, '97?, looking through the camera right at me while he sang. I'll always be a little angry still at missing my one chance to see him live in Buffalo, and if I didn't have a piece of shit for a boyfriend back then, I'd have been there. I'll always put his Little Drummer Boy on my holiday music mixes. I'll always fucking love him.

I cried for two days straight. In the short ride to work (Charles takes me in on the way to his work), I caught a small segment of BBC or NPR, and they were discussing the Lazarus video. Understandable. It made a splash a couple days before. I got out of the car smiling, and felt my phone buzz. I got a text from my sister: "Bowie fucking died!" I stood there for a second and ran back to the car before he left. I started bawling before I even got back inside. I was very late for work that day, and was hardly keeping it together at my desk.

I wept this morning for Alan Rickman, but I think I'm just out of tears. I'm already dead from Monday. The one day I have to pull a double.

Fuck this week. I'm done. Lemmy. Bowie. Rickman. All from cancer. The first two were just days after their birthdays. Rickman had a month to go.

Fuck you, cancer.


( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
(Deleted comment)
Jan. 14th, 2016 09:33 pm (UTC)
And it's horrible to think that the cure is there -- It is there -- and it's being refused.
Jan. 19th, 2016 12:46 am (UTC)
EXACTLY!! The insurance companies don't want to let the cure out because that means less money spent on pushing off symptoms and death.
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )