Everyone has a cancer story. They’ve had it (check, but hooray only basal cell skin cancer); they know someone who had it (check, check); they know someone who died of it (check, check, check).

There’s nothing I can say that hasn’t already been said, and far more eloquently. I’m not interested in running for a cure; I’d much rather just fork over some cash and sleep in that day. I don’t math or science well, so clearly I’m no use on the actual research front.

So instead, I’ll tell a story about my dad, who died during his second round with cancer in 2018. When he went into the hospital for the last time, he didn’t know he wouldn’t be leaving. He thought he was going in for a blood test, and then they decided he was full of clots, and then they decided he was full of tumors and then they decided they wouldn’t operate because hey, why go down swinging? Why risk dying while unconscious and feeling nothing on an operating table when you can tough it out lying in a bed eating lousy food? (Not that I’m bitter about this. Not that my dad was, either.)

So after the doctors dithered for a couple days and finally decided to let him go on his own (but on their terms—no dying at home, no dying from choking on spicy chicken wings, no dying with his dog’s head on his lap), my dad sort of bopped in and out of coherence. At one point he told me Hillary Clinton had been arrested. At another point, he watched the winter Olympics and said he was sad that we’d never go skiing again. Eventually, he hit a point where the pain was too much and the nurses (who, in my experience, are the medical practitioners who are really God’s gift to humanity, unlike the doctors) hassled whoever they needed to hassle to get my dad the good stuff: fentanyl. 

And boy, did he love it. My dad was a connoisseur of illicit substances from way back: LSD, marijuana, meth, bath salts—all of which came with their own amusing anecdotes. In a moment of lucidity, he said fentanyl beat them all. Then he fell asleep, and when he woke up, he outlined our agenda for the day: Karnak Temple, Luxor Temple, drinks by the pool at the Winter Palace.

I was 23 the day we actually did all that—it had been a lifetime ago. But that was a great day. I was glad he was there instead of where he actually was.

I’m reasonably sure that cancer is gonna get me at some point, too. After all, I look like my dad “spit me out,” as his secretary told me once. So, yeah. I guess what I’m saying is when it’s my time, send me out on fentanyl. I have no idea where in time I’ll go. I’ve got a lot of great options already, and I reckon I’ve got a few more in store for me. If you need me, I’ll be out making them happen!