Like this:

My penchant for cuntdom, it turns out, does not extend to those I do not get along with yet managed through some misfortune or another to be diagnosed with cancer.

My dad falls neatly into this category.

He was recently diagnosed with colon cancer, interestingly (creepily)  on the one year anniversary of my own diagnosis.   After about a month of arm-twisting with his HMO, he finally had surgery to remove 15 cm of his colon.  I imagine this hurts a lot.  I also imagine his scars are a lot more badass than mine.  I then wondered how hospitals dispose of diseased and completely unusable body parts such as, say, cancerous strips of colon.   His surgery went well, yet it is a humbling experience nevertheless to see someone usually snarling at you instead tucked into bed half-lucid from copious amounts of morphine.  We tried speaking to him post-op and he muttered back incoherently.   Always startled by the lack of routine, I felt incredibly uncomfortable because he was in no shape to snap or yell at me.   He later told my mom and me that he had no recollection that we spoke at all.

Since Monday, my mom and I have spent every day at the hospital for hours on end.  For whatever bizarre reason, I enjoy these long hours a lot more than I probably should.  Most of it is spent helping my mom help my dad and avoiding  seeing him naked as much as possible.  There is also free air conditioning and wifi.  I spend a good chunk of time watching ESPN with my dad and discussing the fate of Rich Rodriguez.  I also casually flirt with the nurses and doctor because they think I am sixteen and therefore cute, harmless and full of bubbly medical questions.  Overall there is something very calming to me about hospitals–despite whatever trauma endured by the patients that landed them there in the first place, I’ve always equated hospitals as the friendly places that patched me back together when I was one big bald medical mess.

This of course does not extend to all patients and I was aptly reminded of this by Michael.  Michael had been labeled “that non-compliant patient on the surgery ward” and my dad had the luxury of being his roommate for a day.  He was an older fella; my mom pointed out he had nice tattoos on his arms and suggested that I take a look.  I peaked over and instead noticed that both his legs were amputated.  When not intermittently drugged up with anti-agitation drugs, he was apparently a wide-awake nightmare for the nurses and staff.  On Tuesday, I found out what happens when you give “that non-compliant patient on the surgery ward” his three-hour dialysis treatment.

Michael had been scratching his arm so intensely that he bled; because he was on coumadin he ran the risk of bleeding to death.  The nurse panicked and restrained his arm in fear that he would interfere with his treatment.

Nurse: Michael, do you know why I’ve tied your arm down?

Michael: Because you’re an evil bitch!

[Pause]

Nurse: Well, I can accept that.

And so for the next three hours, in between sobs for water,  he called her variations of bitch and detailed the many ways he wanted to kill her.  It was certainly the first time I heard someone say to a complete stranger that he wanted to “crack you in the face and strangle you until you can’t breathe no more.”  To alleviate the tension, the nurse casually tried to initiate small talk.  It led to conversations where he admitted he used to abuse heroin and had a daughter with “a girl who sold her ass to everyone, just like you.”  I sat there bemused.  My parents kind of just frowned a lot.

That being said, my dad’s run after surgery is the first time I have stepped foot in a hospital as a non-patient.  Despite all my self-righteous grumbling about my suffering as a patient, being outside looking in seems infinitely more difficult.  It is one thing to vomit, bleed, pass out, and sob uncontrollably as I have so gracefully perfected in the span of one day;  it is another to sit there helplessly and watch it happen to others.

So the point is, take care of yourselves.  Or I will have to crack you in the face.