About three days ago I met Alan. What a prick. It seems that the little fucker had been hanging out in my bowel, covert as fuck, draining me of blood and energy for what seems like quite a while. I had no idea.
It seems Alan wasn’t happy with his less than fragrant digs and decided to subdivide the land and construct another larger dwelling in my liver complete with pool, cinema screen, four bedrooms and ensuites in every room.
Not content to occupy just one of the residences, Alan brought the whole family and visits both homes for regular gatherings and get togethers. This prick ignored all COVID restrictions.
So how did I learn of Alan’s unwelcome tenancy I hear you ask??
Having been sent directly to Emergency by my very bossy GP – do not pass go, do not collect $200 (in fact pay $400 into the bank for choosing the private door); it took more blood tests, an abdominal scan, a very clever doctor and about four hours for my world to be tilted in the most terrifying of ways.
If you’re anything of a drama queen like me, you’ve probably played this moment out in your head. “Kristie, we have some bad news. We hate to tell you this, but you have cancer.” In reality, there aren’t too many possible variations on this line. It’s just really bad. It’s the worst moment of your life and there’s no filter.
My version went like this:
Doctor: We’re just going to move you into a private room so we can speak to you and your partner together.
Pause…
Me: I have bowel cancer don’t I?
Doctor: Yes, you do. I’m so sorry.
Me: How bad is it?
Doctor: It’s pretty advanced. It’s in your liver as well.
BAM.
Cue the doctor and the most incredible circle of nurses physically wrapping around me as I scrambled to sit and hold onto the rails on the bed. Cue hysterical sobbing and wailing and yelling stuff like “I’m scared!!! I don’t want to die!!!! OMG!!!” Cue me eventually finding my human anchor in Chris and trying to mentally rip his skin off so I could climb inside it and hide.
Fuck you, Alan. For lurking. For choosing my terribly unreliable bowel as your hiding place. You knew it would take ages for you to be detected down there in that constipated, diarrhoea cycling shitshow. And fuck you, Alan for being bowel cancer. I mean, it’s just one of the grosser cancers. Right now, my farts smell like something nuclear. I’ve had to show my poo to more people than I want to mention in the last few days. Let alone the conversations about it. Poo. Stool. Motion. It’s all just poo.
Why Alan, you ask? Well look. Firstly I should apologise to any lovely Alans out there. I’ve met a few of you and you seem cool. But if I have to give cancer a name it’s going to be a name that I might associate with a white, middle class, middle aged, badly dressed guy wearing pants that are an indescribable shade of tan. Nobody is going to miss Alan if he fucks off early. Nobody is going to be begging Alan to stay at the party and have one last round. Alan is just a drain on the whole vibe.
But a word to the wise, it seems Alan is quite determined to stick around. He has taken up residence, stretched out on his recliner and has opened his first bottle of cheap shiraz.
So I have to start by kicking him in the dick. Hard. With everything.