To Be or Not To Be (In Remission)

A play in less than one act.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled newsletter to bring you a dramatization of my mental state throughout all of last week, which was the week that followed my final chemo treatment. Please enjoy.  

“To Be Or Not To Be (In Remission)”
A Play in Less Than One Act

Dramatis Personae:
Garrett ……… that’s me
Depression ……… a voice inside my head
Anxiety ……… also a voice inside my head

The play takes place in a cluttered home office. When the curtain rises, we see GARRETT, a middle-aged man hunched over a laptop at his desk. Garrett is wearing sweat shorts, a torn Paul McCartney concert T-shirt, and ridiculous-looking slippers, the kind of slippers that are incredibly comfortable but that Garrett’s wife refers to as his “Smurf feet.” Garrett is bald save for some weird peach-fuzz hair growing in patches across his head. 

Pacing behind Garrett is DEPRESSION. Scraggly and overweight, Depression wears baggy trousers and cheap loafers, plus suspenders pulled over a dress shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to the elbows. Depression’s hair is slicked into a greasy pompadour, and his glasses are large and slightly tinted.  

Depression: Alright buddy, you’ve spent enough time wallowing in your cancer sorrows. Time to dust yourself off and become a productive member of society again. Why don’t you write something deeply profound about all of this? 

Garrett: I’d really like to, but I feel like shit. 

Depression: How could you feel like shit? You’re done with chemo! The doctor said your latest scans showed no more signs of tumors. He said you’re in remission for chrissakes. 

Garrett: He said, “Technically, you’re in remission.” 

Depression: He did? 

Garrett: Yeah, that’s exactly what he said: “Technically, you’re in remission.” I don’t know why he chose to tack on the word “technically,” but it had the effect of adding an asterisk to it. 

Depression: I suppose that’s the way I’d see it, sure. And the fact that he didn’t even tell you until you specifically asked him about it—that seems suspicious, too. But hey, no time to dwell on all this because we’ve got work to do, and by “we” I mean “you.” 

Garrett: But I said I feel like shit.   

Depression: Why would you feel like shit? 

Garrett: I dunno, I guess because of the chemo? The side effects? I feel tired, kind of nauseous. My feet hurt from the neuropathy, and my fingers are all pruney like when you’ve been in the pool too long—I can’t even guess as to why that is, but it’s chemo-related cuz it happens every time. I just feel vaguely, persistently crappy. It’s like Chuck Prophet said: You get the blues. And for whatever reason those things hit me harder after this final treatment, probably as some kind of karmic parting gift. 

Depression: You know what this all sounds like to me? 

Garrett: What’s that? 

Depression: Excuses! You and your excuses. I’m sure you’ve got a million of them. Here’s what I think: I think you should take your excuses and drown ‘em in the bathtub because they’re not helping. You know what would help? Being productive—doing something.   

Garrett: No, you’re right. These do just sound like excuses. OK, I’ll try to write something. 

The lights go down and a large, spot-lit clock is lowered from the rafters. We hear a TICKING SOUND and see the clock’s hands furiously spinning. We hear a DING, then the clock ascends and the lights come back up. 

Garrett: Hmm, that didn’t go well. 

Depression: Of course it didn’t! That’s because you suck. A real writer could have pushed through whatever it is you call this. 

Garrett: Chemo side effects? Post-traumatic stress? 

Depression: Right, whatever. A real writer would’ve smashed through that and gotten the job done. Kinda makes me wonder why you waste so much time on this crap. 

Garrett: What should I be doing instead? 

The door of the home office bursts open, nearly breaking off its hinges. It’s ANXIETY, who’s dressed in a green Adidas tracksuit, complete with a headband and expensive running sneakers. 

Anxiety: Hey guys! 

A bright applause sign is lit up on stage left and right. The audience hoots and hollers. 

Anxiety: Man, I was just watching this YouTube video about cancer relapse rates. Did you know there’s a 5% chance of relapse for lymphoma? Sounds small, but that’s like 1 in 20! You wouldn’t drive a car if there was a 1 in 20 chance of being killed in an accident. 

Garrett: You saw that on YouTube? How do you know it’s true? 

Anxiety: I don’t! 

Depression: I say believe it anyway. 

Anxiety: Trust me, I will. I see you guys are right where I left you. What’s the update? 

Depression: The update is this guy’s a loser. 

Anxiety: Tell me something I don’t know.  

Depression: Can’t write, doesn’t feel like reading, and he definitely isn’t up for getting on the phone with his insurance company to try to resolve that one thing. He says he feels like shit and just wants to sit around. 

Garrett: I didn’t say I wanted to sit around. 

Depression: Ah, forgive me. I was extrapolating.   

Anxiety: Sounds like you guys have already been at it for a while today. 

Garrett: Try most of this week. He won’t leave me alone. 

Anxiety: Well, that is his job. In my experience, Depression is like those finger traps you used to get at the Chuck E. Cheese, where the more you struggle the tighter it gets. 

Depression: Ah, that’s flattering. Thank you. I’m not sure how much struggling this one’s doing, though, unless snacking on peanut butter pretzels is considered a form of struggle. 

Anxiety: Not last I checked. So has he accomplished anything? 

Depression: Not a lick. 

Garrett: Jeez, you guys! You know I’m still dealing with cancer. 

Anxiety: Yeah, I had a question about that… 

Garrett: What’s that? 

Anxiety: Well, see, when this all started and we were pretty naïve about cancer, the term “lymphoma” sounded really bad, but now what we’ve read more—not a ton, mind you, there was definitely more we could have read, if you weren’t so prone to distractions—but now that a tiny bit more has been read by us collectively, it seems to me, to us, like lymphoma’s one of the more chill cancers. 

Garrett: Chill cancer? 

Anxiety: I’m just saying—it’s one of the more treatable cancers you can get. A lot of these other types of cancers—colon cancer, pancreatic cancer, even breast cancer—you can end up doing chemo for much longer and then have radiation and surgery and still not even have a very good chance of beating the thing. I mean, the five-year survival rate for colon cancer is under 15%. You only had eighteen weeks of chemo. 

Garrett: Only? The side effects from my first treatment were so bad we had to call 911. I had to get multiple blood transfusions and spent the better part of a week in the hospital. I thought there was a chance I could die. 

Anxiety: Yeah, but you didn’t. And you were probably never going to. And now a few months have gone by and the tumors are gone. 

Garrett: So what’s your point? You want me to go out and get a worse cancer? 

Anxiety: I think what I’m saying is, maybe if you did have a worse cancer, it would make more sense to feel the way you do. 

Garrett: And how’s that? 

Depression: You feel sorry for yourself. 

Anxiety: Right. You feel sorry for yourself. 

Garrett: You think this is about feeling sorry for myself? 

Anxiety: I’m just trying to be helpful. 

Garrett: Are you? 

Depression: Me too. 

Garrett: Now wait a second. 

Anxiety: Speaking of being helpful, when are we getting back to work, and when I say “we” I mean “you.” 

Garrett: Like I said, I feel like shit. I want to be productive, but I feel like shit, and on top of feeling like shit I think I might be depressed. 

Depression: Heyo! 

Anxiety: OK, but I’m confused. You had your last chemo, the tumors are gone. What’s there to be depressed about? 

Garrett: I don’t know—a lot? Shouldn’t I be allowed to feel the way I feel after going through something like this? Not to mention—I still have to do radiation. That’s going to be every day, five days a week, for four weeks, through all of October. I am still very much battling cancer. 

Anxiety: Yeah, but it’s more like a skirmish than a battle at this point.

Depression: Kind of a dust-up, is what I’d say. 

Anxiety: Yeah, a dust-up. Exactly. It’s like—it’ll make the papers, but it’s far from front-page news at this point. People have moved on. 

Garrett: But it’s a lot to process! I need time to heal emotionally as well as physically. That’s what my friends keep telling me.  They say I should give myself a little grace.

Anxiety: Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me. 

Depression: That’s what I said! 

Garrett: Alright fine—it’s a bunch of excuses. A tougher, more resilient person would be back out in the thick of things right now. Look at Jane Fonda—she’s 85 years old and was out protesting in D.C. following her last chemo. Is that what you think I should be doing? 

Anxiety: Ha, that’s rich. Trust me, our expectations aren’t that high. 

Depression: We’re prepared to settle for far less. 

Anxiety: I’ll tell you what you need to be doing. You need to sit down and knock off this crybaby shit and get to work. When’s the last time you checked your subscriber count on this app? Well, lemme tell ya: It’s paltry. If you’re not growing your subs it means you’re not a good writer, and if you’re not a good writer then you’re not talented, and if you’re not talented you’re not contributing to society, which means you’re a worthless human. 

Garrett: Did I tell you we have a baby on the way? 

Anxiety: Oh, here we go. 

Garrett: We do. We have a baby on the way, due Thanksgiving day. We’ve started taking childbirth classes and have reached the point where anyone we mention it to with kids tells us how much our life is about to change. “Go to the movies now while you still can,” they all say. I don’t know why all of them say this, but they do. 

Depression: I think it’s because— 

Garrett: The point is that having cancer would be a lot to process all on its own, but on top of that there’s the imminent arrival of our first kid. It’s a lot of stuff, and it can be overwhelming. You know I cry in the mornings when I watch the news? 

Depression: I knew that. 

Anxiety: This is the first I’ve heard. 

Garrett: I do. Sometimes it’s something legitimately heartbreaking, like the story of how authorities found the charred remains of a boy in Maui, who died shielding his dog from flames. 

Anxiety: Jesus. 

Garrett: Yeah. But other times it’s just random. I cried when my wife was watching a rerun of Sex and the City and Samantha told Carrie she had breast cancer. 

Anxiety [to Depression]: Wow, another gold star for you, my friend.

Depression: What can I say, when you’re hot, you’re hot. 

Garrett: I assume—I have to hope—that this is just a phase. “This too shall pass” and all that. I should know better than to beat myself up about all of this, but I’ve yet to succeed in giving myself a break. Everything’s just felt so fucking hard. Holy crap, it’s already Friday and I haven’t accomplished anything.  

Anxiety: Well, there’s always next week. 

Depression: Yup, next week is a whole new week. We can try this all over again—all of us.  

Anxiety: In the meantime, if you don’t need me, I think I’ll go watch some more YouTube. 

Depression: I think I’ll join you. Our work here is done, for now. 

Depression follows Anxiety as both exit through the office door. Once they do, we see Garrett alone at his desk, his face lit up by the blue glow of the laptop. The stage lights go down, leaving only the laptop light. Garrett sits there for a moment, seems to have an idea, types something, then SIGHS to himself in defeat. He closes the laptop. The curtain falls.

THE END.

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This is the Healings Newsletter. It’s sent out on Thursdays.

It’s written by Garrett Kamps and edited by Tommy Craggs.

It’s illustrated by Abner Clouseau, whose pen name we apologize for.

It’s about illness and recovery, and comes with jokes. 

Healings is free for all, but if you subscribe, half of every dollar goes to charity, currently the Patient Advocate Foundation. The other half goes toward paying our contributors. This is the model for now. We reserve the right to adjust it but will let you know if we do.

If you have a suggestion for a story, would like to contribute, or want to chat with Garrett for any reason whatsoever, reach out: healingsproject@gmail.com.

 “Illness is the night side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.” — Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor