I Can Barely Take Care of Myself by Jen Kirkman (top 50 books to read .txt) 📗

that the oil painting of her cat that a friend made does not need to be hung up above her fireplace at this very moment—or ever. (Just so you don’t think I’m a total monster—she made a full recovery and she still has her original boobs.) I stood behind Violet while she surveyed the plaster in her wall. I thought of taking a bronze candlestick to her head—just one sharp blow that would either sedate her into a silly grin like a cartoon character or perhaps injure her enough to go to the ER, where she could get some drugs that would ease her pain and get her to calm the fuck down.

I left the house to walk down her long driveway to check the mail. “Jennifah, I told you the mail doesn’t come until aftah two o’clock. There’s no point in walkin’ down there.” Oh, there’s a point. To get a few minutes’ respite from the chemically created Bob Vila–Womanzilla—even if it was a failed mission.

Even though Violet was doing things like telling me to rip the lettuce for her salad more quietly, I felt such compassion for her. The chemo didn’t make her nauseated like most patients, it made her irritable. I imagine it was like having a rush-hour Friday traffic jam, a screaming baby on a red-eye, and a fly that won’t stop buzzing around your head all pumping through your veins at the same time. What’s worse is that she was surrounded by a bunch of friends and family who loved her, but they did not have cancer. She was alone in a sea of smiling faces that couldn’t stop asking questions in order to make themselves more comfortable. Do you want to lie down? How about soup? Do you think that you need to see a specialist in the city? Have you tried drinking fresh-squeezed orange juice? You should really lie down. Have you thought of joining a support group? Are you nauseous? Will you be nauseous later? Can you spell “nauseous”? There are two us in that word, right?

My sister, who had divorced a year earlier and lived alone, had to suffer through the most annoying question of all during her recovery: “Do you regret not having kids?”

One afternoon Violet and I sat on her couch and watched Elf for the second time that day even though it was the middle of July. Our favorite scene is when Will Ferrell is in the waiting room at the pediatrician’s and he says to a cute little girl, “I’m a human—raised by elves.” And the little girl says in a sweet voice, “I’m a human—raised by humans.” We always tear up and say to each other, “Oh, she is sooo cute and so sweet. She’s just full of wonder and joy because it’s almost Christmas. She’s so innocent and pure—she doesn’t judge Will Ferrell’s character, Buddy, for wearing an elf costume because she hasn’t even learned how to judge others yet.” That’s about where our maternal instinct stops. By the next scene we’re grossed out by all of the kids who are touching things all over the store and we realize just how many germs we encounter when Christmas shopping.

Violet and I never talk that much about how we both don’t want kids. We don’t need to, because we both accept and respect each other’s decision and we don’t need to ask nosy questions we already know the answers to. Plus we’re usually too busy quoting lines from Caddyshack or talking to her tuxedo cat, Miss Mitty. But we definitely bonded over our collective outrage at how people turned her cancer into an opportunity to give her a sideways glance about being childfree at age forty. When my sister told me that some of her friends and even random people in the waiting room at the hospital had said some version of, “It’s too bad you don’t have children to help you through this,” I got as angry as a cancer victim who had to suffer the injustice of her little sister making a salad too loudly.

Look, you want to badger a normal, healthy woman about whether she realizes that if she doesn’t fix that biological clock, she could run the risk of never having C-section scars or her floppy post-childbirth vagina sewn up in episiotomy surgery like a real woman—that’s one thing. But to suggest to a cancer victim that she might suddenly regret not having children, when there is so much else to think about, like oh, I don’t know . . . Am I going to die? Do I have to stop eating Twinkies? Why can’t I use this free time off work to hang a paint-by-numbers replica of a cat in the most prominent place in my living room?

What kind of person would seriously wish for a cancer-ridden single woman to add motherhood to her to-do list? Not to mention wish for a child to exist in the world and have to watch her mother lose all of her hair. And oh, what a shame, Violet didn’t get to test out her cancer genes on a new generation. Bummer that her daughter won’t grow up to maybe also get breast cancer someday! My poor sister—I mean, she had to get in her car and go to chemotherapy without having to strap a child into a car seat. She must have been so not put upon by another human who needed her for life sustenance, and she had to take naps during the day—because she was too tired to even check her Facebook page to see whether any cute guys from high school were divorced yet—without worrying about a tiny helpless being screaming in the next room. It’s morbid but we joked that if she had died, people would be saying, “It’s such a shame, there are no kids at this funeral to lighten the mood.”

Since Violet was full of vim and vigor and anger-inducing chemo, she actually answered people with things like, “I have cancer.