And especially ‘those people’ kind enough and/or unemployed enough to spend a variable measure of their and, more importantly, my time to come along to my chemotherapy. Not theirs. If it was, I am sure they would be writing this, but they aren’t so my word goes. Anyway, I am talking about ‘those people’ who so regularly turn-up to alleviate the pain and tedium of my chemo without ever needing to be asked. Not a single time. Not once. And yet they still come. Isn’t that great? Well, it is mostly but, well, sometimes it feels like it’s all about you. There, I said it. And that single, selfish thought, my selfish thought, has been really bothering me.
As has the response to my FB posts of last week. WTF? Who are ‘these people’? What is this wider ‘friendship’ group that exists solely in a virtual world construction? I mean, c’mon, what is that all about? Whilst it really did overwhelm me just how many responses I got on FB to those posts about ICU and cancer, it has also bothered me a lot too. Who are you?
Of course it’s important it is to have ‘friends’ at a time like this. And, of course, it is wonderful at any time to have chums, buddies, pals and the like but for someone going through cancer and all the shit that goes with it, knowing that you have an actual army of ‘friends’ should really make the burden a great deal lighter. Shouldn’t it? Mmm. Again, I am not so sure and, again, I am bothered by my thought.
What kind of monster am I?
As many of you know, I have/had a long and moderately successful career in the music business. Yes, its sounds demandingly sexy but the reality is that I am the guy that counts the dosh to make sure everything gets paid as expected. You play Jay Z on the radio? You don’t pay? I come and GET YOU! You illegally film a concert on your ‘smart’ phone rather than watch it through your own eyes even though you are ACTUALLY there, the very thing you paid 300% over face-value for on those rip-off ticketing sites YOU MUG, and then post it on YT so other people can see just how bad your seats were then I will GET YOU because its illegal, immoral and grossly unfair to the poor Artists and song-writers whom I valiantly represent.
But what I really like to do is play with data. It’s my professional hobby. I wouldn’t say I am the NEO of music biz analysis, but, I can spot a trend, years before it gets to Dagenham High Street. So, as everything has been bothering me so much, I thought I might surf on the latest political zeitgeist tsunami and do a little research on the many, many responses I received to my most recent FB posts to gather your most intimate, private data and, believe me, it’s really interesting. Really, really interesting. No, it is.
Ok, I currently have 516 ‘friends’ on FB. That’s 516 ‘real’ friends. People with whom I have a personal unique and special form of ‘friendship. Having looked at some of your profiles, I realize that this is actually quite a very large number by comparison, but I am not making any judgements about popularity and stuff, I am just stating facts.
So, I posted my FB ‘Dolly & Kenny’ post. You know the one - you already probably commented on it – the one where the 2 nurses serenaded me whilst I lay dying in hospital last weekend because I have cancer and it nearly fucked up my diabetes and killed me? Yes, that one. Well, here is an interesting slice of the data that I think proves that I either (i) have lots of ‘friends’ that didn’t actually give a shit about my inopportune hospital visit or (ii) something completely different. I mean, who would not have been roused from whatever torpor or stupor they were in last week to respond with at least some small acknowledgement to my cry for help? Well, 86% of you to be told. Fact. Look…
Almost all of you couldn’t give a shit.
Compelling, but what do we really know of the other 14%, my ‘real friends’, those that actually gave a shit that I was dying in ICU?
What we know is that my predicament got 55 ‘Thumbs-Up’ responses. So, 77% of the people who claim to actually like me give my being in ICU a ‘thumbs-up’. Dying in hospital gets a ‘thumbs-up’. Still, gotta be better than the 14 ‘friends’ that ‘loved-it’. I was dying in bed with something that wasn’t even cancer - I admit they probably didn’t know at the time - but to state publically you are ‘loving-it’ that one of your ‘best buddies’ is dying in hospital is, well, just fucking cruel. Who would do that? Well, I know, because I can see your names…
Interestingly, since only 28% of respondents were female, that seems to suggest that the majority of the men who I know care enough to idly thumb a screen in response to my post and so clearly value my ‘friendship’ more than the women in my life. My wife is smart enough to not be on FB so she escapes any opprobrium. The same doesn’t hang for my sisters.
But this is mere froth compared to the deep-dive analytics I made on the responses to the ‘Bertie Wooster Cancer Confessional’ of the following day. The one where I subtly parodied the writing style P.G. Wodehouse by appropriating his most famous comic character to explain the most serious of matters - my cancer - and tagged to the end of the piece a Braveheart-like inspirational call to arms for those so harshly affected. Same massive total of 522 ‘friends’ at my disposal, same simple math but look at the numbers this time. Go on, read and weep…
…for me.
Really? Only 24% of ALL the ‘friends’ I have bothered to respond to my heart-felt outpourings. 122 of you. Just a quarter of ‘you people’. I put everything into that post. My heart, my soul, my full linguistic range and literary character-based comedy writing techniques AND it was typed with the use of my left-hand only. My right – writing - hand was indisposed due to it being connected to 6 different drips, ports and lines feeding various lifesaving liquids into it as I lay prone on my near-death bed and even then, even with the odds stacked against me, 76% of ‘my people’ could NOT even be arsed to give me a ‘thumbs-up’ somewhere or other.
And it gets worse. Of the quarter of the people who in this world I call my ‘friends’, almost half of them love the fact that I have cancer. They ‘Love-It’. Half of a quarter of all the people that I know think its ok that I am dying a little bit faster than they are. And as for the 6 of you that think my inspiring words to raise the banner in support of those of us who are actually dealing with cancer deserve an ‘OMG that’s Awful’ emoji, well, SCREW YOU, it’s not awful writing, it’s inspiring! And, I didn’t write it for ‘you’ anyway.
Which brings me back to the original idea for today’s missive, “10 things not to do as a chemo-buddy”. I was going to concentrate on providing a long list of bad stuff that ‘you people’ do but I have realized since I boldly set myself up with a split infinitive that it all just seems rather churlish and unfair. Especially in light of the social media ‘friendship facts’ I have uncovered. The uncomfortable truth for me is that it is you who matter. I should be grateful…
Having chemo is really hard. So, if I am a bit green, a bit tetchy, a bit quiet, a bit unresponsive and everything is running a bit late and out of synch, well tough shit. If I don’t seem to care too much right now how your job is, your university, your revision, how your kids are, how your stocks and shares are performing, how your partner is a bitch/areshole/idiot/wanker, what your dog has for tea, your Facebook, your Twitter, your bloody Instagram account, your sinking boat, your expensive shoes, your plans for this evening/this weekend, your bitches, your moans, your bloody endless suggestions for box-sets and books and EVERY bloody piece of advice or tip about how to deal with cancer the holistic-way through various spicy suppositories and everything else that you come up with then that is probably because I am actually quite sick. With cancer. Having chemo. For fuck’s sake!
Coming to see me on chemo day? Great. Telling me all your shit whilst I have my shit done to me? Fantastic. Making out on WhatsApp that my cancer really is funny? Brilliant. Sending me a card in the post? Wonderful. Bitching and moaning about your life? Heart-warming. Giving me a deep hug when you see me? Aww… Calling me up and not being pissed when I don’t answer? Thanks. Baking me a cake even though I am diabetic. Doh! Buying me a pint? That’s more like it. Telling me off and being angry with me for all of this? I am sorry. Telling me that you love me? Ahh…
All of that? Yes please.
Talk to me like we are in the pub. Or having a spot of lunch. Or toweling down after a hard, sweaty gym session. Turn up in person if you can and if you can’t, turn up any which way you can. Even social media is ok.
Just treat me like it’s ok. Treat me like this is normal. Because for now, it has to be.
Neil
