dark humour – sparkledame

Phlegm

“Ma’am, are you sure you need to buy seven bottles of cough syrup? Don’t cha want to leave some for other customers? It’s winter, everyone is gettin’ sick.”

Susan was incensed. How dare this shop clerk give her attitude.

“There is tons of dry cough medicine left, but I need the wet cough syrup. I have an issue with phlegm.”

“Phlegm? Best way to deal with phlegm is to hack it up and spit it out,” the clerk said, looking at Susan like she was from outer space.

“Well, not for me. My phlegm is different. I can choke and die on mine, so I can’t cough it up.”

The clerk stared at her.

“That will be $94.92 please. Debit or credit?”

“Debit.” Susan answered, glaring at the clerk, whose name tag read Emili.

“Is your name really spelled like that or did they make a mistake on your tag?” Susan asked.

“My name is really spelled like that,” Emili answered, her face devoid of emotion.

“Happy Holidays Ma’am.”

“Yes, Happy Holidays to you too.”

Emili spelled with an i was one of the more ridiculous things Susan had seen lately. The younger generation was nuts, just nuts.

At home Susan added the cough syrup to her bathroom closet. She now had 63 bottles. Not bad, but not quite enough. She would need 97 bottles to get through the winter.

Out of nowhere Susan coughed: a wet, phlegm-filled cough. She heard the phlegm swishing around in her lungs, sounding like hundreds of goldfish swimming in a bowl.

She un-packed a new bottle of couph syrup and took a swig, like it was whiskey.

Since it was bright outside she decided to put her head in the sunshine for a few minutes, the vitamin C would boost her immune system. Pacing back and forth in the backyard wearing her black puffer coat, she tried calming herself:
You’re okay. It’s only a little bit of phlegm, don’t worry.

“Susan, are you alright?”

It was her new neighbor, Ed. He had just moved in a few months ago. A divorcee with three cats. Three.

“I have a phlegm-y cough,” she answered.

“I hate phlegm. I prefer dry coughs.”

Finally someone who understood.

“I almost died once from choking on my own phlegm, I was seven years old.”

“That’s terrifying,” Ed said.

“My parents were having a dinner party. I went downstairs in my pink flannel nightgown and told them: ‘I’m scared. I can’t breathe. There’s stuff in my chest.’”

“And what did your parents do?” Ed asked, leaning on the wire fence.

“They said: ‘Oh Susan don’t be silly, that’s just phlegm. Cough it up and spit it out.’ And then my dad lit a joint and put on his favorite Cat Stevens album and they told me to go back upstairs. I stayed up all night trying not to cough, terrified that I would choke and die.”

“That’s the saddest story, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. How are your cats doing?”

“They’re pretty good. The oldest one, Jo Anne, is almost blind now, but she still gets up to hijinks. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“I’ve never had a cat, but I like them. They’re quirky.”

“Yep, they’re characters alright. Listen – if you ever need help while you’re dealing with phlegm, just knock on my door, I don’t want you to be scared.”

“Thank you Ed. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“No problem. See ya later.”

Susan tilted her head back, letting the mid-day sun warm her face, tears running down her cheeks.

Candy Corn

Walking around her neighborhood, Mirany was struck by the quiet. Where was everyone? It was like the morning after a very tidy apocalypse, all traces of humans gone.

But the creatures were out. The Weston’s one-eyed cat Henry was perched on his favorite blue Adirondack chair. Squirrels were already in play mode – like a group of sugared-up children, chasing each other around a giant oak.

Mirany liked squirrels, she collected them. Not real ones of course, not taxidermy ones, but little knick knack squirrels: a pair of brass squirrel candle holders, a porcelain squirrel, a hand painted squirrel with it’s mouth full of acorns and a few other objects. But she didn’t want to collect too many squirrels, she didn’t want to become that woman: dusty house crammed with collectibles, old green shag carpeting, corduroy recliner covered in crumbs, kitchen shelves crammed with Entenmann’s coffee cakes.

The autumn leaves were their most vibrant saturated selves. Mirany loved the pumpkin hued shades the best, but that didn’t mean she loved pumpkins. No. In fact she was suspicious of those who drank pumpkin spice lattes – had there ever been a more revolting beverage?

Parked ahead was a vintage Volkswagen camper. Peeking into it she saw two young people, maybe early twenties, curled up together under a Pendleton blanket. Very sweet. Until it’s not sweet and their young love blows up in their smooth, wrinkle-free faces.

A couple of goth-y crows squawked at her from a sad looking tree, it was practically bare, just a few leaves dangling from its branches. Mirany thought of Alfred Hitchcock’s movie “The Birds:” what if the crows attacked, gouging out her eyes and eating her eyeballs for breakfast. She crossed the street and quickened her pace.

Still no one else out and about. How odd. Mirany tossed a few pieces of candy corn in her mouth. She loved candy corn. She loved candy corn so much that at Halloween she bought it in bulk from Costco so she could eat it year round. But she had rules, Mirany had candy corn rules: she was allowed only seventeen pieces per day.

Somehow there were still a few glorious flowers blooming – “global warming flowers” Mirany thought to herself. She liked the giant coral ones, they were practically as big as her face. Mirany wondered if the owners of the house would mind if she took one. She decided that flowers really were God’s work and that she was allowed, quickly plucking one and hiding it in her cardigan.

What a lovely morning.

https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/folkloreaesthetic?ref=shop_sugg_market

J + D

I’m walking in my favorite forest. It’s not a forest forest, it’s a city forest, but still, it makes me happy.

I see a heart carved into a tree, with the initials J + D Forever. I see many more hearts carved into many more trees and I wonder if any of the couples are still together. Did some of them marry? Adopt a dog? Visit Italy? Have babies?

I wish there was a couple update on each tree, to let us know how they fared:

Jess & Maria fell in love, married and adopted two cats. Maria had five affairs before asking Jess for a trial separation. When Jess found out about her infidelity he said: “you’re kidding me about the trial right? I mean we’re obviously skipping right to the divorce part. And by the way fuck you and I’m keeping the cats.”

AND

Mike and Robert fell in love, then out of love, then in love again and this continued for three years. When they had used up all of their therapy sessions – the ones covered by medical insurance – they called it quits.

AND

Tara & Finn are still together. They live next door to each other in a duplex and share a silver Prius and a grey Schnauzer named Marty. They can’t decide if global warming makes having a baby selfish. Would it feel like welcoming a child into the apocalypse?
“So sorry about the fires, earthquakes, heatwaves, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes and ice storms. But we hope you thrive and live your best life little one!”
Tara has frozen her eggs until they can reach a decision.

I’m trying to remember if I ever carved my initials into a tree when I was young. No, I don’t think I did. Though there were some really cute early romances and I wish I had taken photos, (this was pre-cell phones), because my God it would be fun to look at my fashion & boy choices.

Instead of carving initials into a tree I would play the game True Love. Not sure if it still exists, but this is how you play it:
1. Write your full name + the full name of your potential love interest on a piece of paper.
2. Below the names write True Love.
3. Now the math begins: How many letters do your names have in common with the letters in the words “True Love.”
Example: Mary Ellen Brett + Eric Shields
T – 2
R – 3
U – 0
E – 5

L – 3
O – 0
V – 0
E – 5
Total: 10 + 8 = 108%
Oh My God, Eric Shields and I are meant to be! We are 108% matched together!

True Love was an early version of the dating apps. If you liked someone and you scored only 68%, it would give you pause. Although like any other red flag, we probably ignored it.
🚩

A

I’m wearing your silver knotted ring as I drive your skull and bones cardigan to the cleaners.

“Smoke. Smells like smoke,” says Tina, the owner of the dry cleaners.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry” I say.

“Smoke, so much smoke. I’m going to cough. Why are you suddenly smoking?”

Jesus. Here we go.

“I’m not, this belongs to my friend.”

“Tell your friend not to smoke,” Tina says grimacing.

“I can’t tell her, she’s dead. This was one of her favourite sweaters and her husband gave it to me. He also gave me her beautiful ring, see?” I say, dangling my hand in front of her.

“Sorry she died. Lung cancer right?”

“Umm, no. Anyway, how long will it take? Can I pay extra to put a rush on it?”

“No, no. No rushes on smoke items. Smoke items are very very hard. Next Friday.”

Sighing dramatically, Tina started writing up a receipt.

“Your friend died too young. She should have taken vitamins. Do you take vitamins? I take 18 vitamins every day and I haven’t been sick in fifteen years. No COVID, no nothing. Perfect health.”

“I’m glad you have perfect health,” I say, wanting to throttle her.

“You have very dark circles under your eyes, you need more Vitamin C. Here, eat this orange,” Tina said, pulling an orange out of nowhere like a magician.

“Oh that’s very kind of you, but I’m okay. Thank you though.”

Glaring at me, Tina made a clicking sound with her mouth.

“Dark circles is just the beginning, then doctor appointments every week, you’ll see. But if you take your vitamins you’ll live a long life. You won’t be dead like your friend.”

Oh My Fucking God.

“I appreciate you trying to help, it’s just that right now I’m feeling sad, I’m missing her. I’m just trying to get through this.”

“Ah yes, you’re hanging on by a thread, not a good feeling. Look at this black thread – see how it’s frayed? It’s about to break, that’s how you feel right?” She ripped the thread in front of me.

Why Universe? Just why?

“Listen, you’re a loyal, longtime customer and your friend died and I feel your bad energy. So, I’m going to give you something to help with the sadness – give me your hand.”

Oh no.

“Hand, your hand, open your hand” she said, making the weird clicking sound again.

I gave her my hand, palm open.

Jesus Lord Please Help Me.

“These look like candy, right?”

“Yes, they look like cinnamon hearts,” I answered.

“Well they’re not, they’re medicine hearts. The recipe is an old one, passed down from my great, great, great-grandmother.”

“Oh wow, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, these are powerful – no monkey-arounding with them. Take one heart every morning at exactly 9:00 AM for seven days. Do NOT miss a day.”

“Okay, got it. What do they do exactly?”

“Well, first you’re going to feel weird, a little out of body. So no driving for two to three hours after taking the pill. Then you’ll notice that your heart feels strange – don’t freak out: your heart is stitching itself back together with the broken thread. Your sadness will be quieted. By the end of the week your sadness will be sitting in the nose-bleed seats, not the front row – if that make sense.”

“It totally makes sense.”

“Good. I see you next Friday, here’s your receipt. And don’t forget about the vitamins: if you want to get old and beautiful like me, you need all the vitamins.”

“I won’t forget. Have a good day.”

Back in the car I start crying, then laughing. Then crying and laughing some more. That was such a trippy scene, like something out of a movie. I want to text you about it, to describe Tina and the medicine hearts and the orange. But then I remember that you’re dead. And that just makes me laugh harder: like Mary Tyler Moore in the episode where she’s laughing at the clown’s funeral.

Photo of Andrea & I, taken by our mutual friend Pam. Late 1990’s I think. Andrea died on July 7th 2023. This story is dedicated to her.

Shiny Happy People

Driving to the flea market last week, my chest suddenly felt like it was being crushed.
Like a giant garlic press was squeezing my heart.
Was this some type of new panic attack?
Maybe it was Panic Attack 5.0, the latest version.
I had anti-anxiety pills with me but they wouldn’t help, this was something different.
But what?
Ah, I know what this is, of course:
It’s loneliness.
I’m lonely.
I’m really fucking lonely.

During this revelation Cher was playing on the radio.
“Do you believe in life after love?” she sang.
Yes, yes I do Cher.
Then again I don’t really understand life or love, so there’s that.
Listening to her sing reminded me of my old Cher Barbie doll whose nails I had painted bright red. Her beautiful long hair had somehow ended up horribly snarled, forcing me to cut it into a 1920’s bob, a hairstyle that didn’t suit her at all.
I had ruined Cher.

Despite feeling choked with loneliness, I made it to the parking lot where I applied gobs of lip gloss.
I figured super shiny lips would distract people from my sad girl aura.

Why is it that when you feel lonely every fucking person you see looks ridiculously happy? Like they’ve just won the lottery.
The flea market was packed. A DJ played while trendy couples and cute families checked out vintage cameras, 1970’s polyester dresses and home-made $25 hot sauces.
They were all smiling and laughing.
Literally every single person – even the kids – were vibing like they were on edibles.

Why am I the only one here alone?
I usually have no problem with going out solo, but today it was getting to me.
“It’s a cruel, cruel cruel summer…” Bananarama sang in my head.

Crushing loneliness makes me cranky and I soon found myself critiquing everything I saw:
Like enough with the crochet stuff. It was a bad look in the 70’s and the 90’s and it’s a bad look now.
Also, why are so many people selling vintage tea cups filled with soy wax? Why is that a thing?
And what about all those play-dough looking earrings in the shapes of strawberries and mushrooms?
Just stop it already.

I spotted a few cool vintage dresses, but I was unable to get to them due to the hoards of euphoric shoppers crowding me out.
Nevermind, I had plenty of vintage dresses.
Plus the main reason I had come to this particular flea market was to check out a cute bakery I’d seen on Instagram. Their cakes were magical-looking, like they were decorated by artsy fairies.
Soon I too would be euphoric and no longer lonely, because I would have cake; cake solves all problems.

But to my horror, the bakery wasn’t there.
Checking their Instagram I found they were doing a pop-up at a flea market in the west end.
The west end? They may as well be in the U.K.
Driving across Toronto from the east side to the west is a torturous journey, one I made only for emergencies.
Did this bout of garlic press squeezing my heart loneliness qualify as an emergency?
Actually it did. But I just couldn’t face the traffic.

Then – pouf! – I saw a florist stall outside the flea market tent.
Next to cake, flowers were the best soul-soother.
I bought myself an obnoxiously large bouquet, then walked my shiny lips back to the parking lot.

Drugstore Baby

The following is a true story.

I threw two pregnancy tests into my basket, along with a box of saltine crackers. Fearing being judged by the cashier, I added Lysol wipes, a lipstick and Vogue, as if they would magically hide the tests.

“Wow, you are too old to be buying a pregnancy test. Get your shit together,” said the check-out lady in my head.

At work I lay down in the back room on a disgusting old carpet. I felt like throwing up and my stomach looked four months pregnant. My co-worker agreed:

“Ya, you do look kinda pregnant.”

I googled “can you get pregnant with a vasectomy?” It turns out that yes you can, though rarely. It usually happens because couples have sex too soon, before the semen is sperm-free. OMG. That’s us. I’m 46 years old, my life is in shambles and I’ve only been with my partner for nine months.

Peeing on the sticks I quickly discovered that I was not pregnant – thank god – but still, I knew something was wrong. I had been having horrible panic attacks the last couple of months and something was telling me the panic was my body’s way of waving a giant red flag:

“Hellooooo! There is something fucked up with your health. Do not pass GO. Go directly to the doctor.”

Unfortunately at that time I had a horrible doctor. I knew it would be difficult to convince her that I needed an ultrasound; she always thought I was being neurotic.

An evening of googling, note-taking, and practicing my sales pitch, (including a couple of white lies that I felt were necessary to make my case), and I was ready to face her. I had found enough evidence to suggest that I might have ovarian cancer and therefore would need an ultrasound asap.

My sales pitch worked and my doctor ordered an immediate ultrasound. Yay! The ultrasound revealed a mass. Not so yay. Soon after a cat scan revealed a more detailed image, including “ascites,” – abnormal accumulation of fluid in the abdomen causing swelling. That’s when my doctor gave me a few pamphlets and said:

“The Princess Margaret Cancer Hospital will be taking over your care. Good luck.”

“Okay Byeeeeeeeeee.”

I met with a top gynaecological surgeon and she was fairly confident that whatever I had was not cancerous. Yay! She performed laparoscopic surgery but it didn’t go as expected. Not so yay. She discovered a freak show-looking cancer.

“This isn’t in my wheelhouse,” the gyno-surgeon said.

Okay, maybe she didn’t say that, but she definitely thought that.

A well-known gastrointestinal oncologist then took over my care. I felt like I was an appetizer being passed around that no one wanted to eat.

By this point I was thinking:

“Can we go back to when I thought I was pregnant? I’d like that option please. Just give me the damn baby, I’ll be a great mother, I promise!”

My biopsy was not routine – shocker – and took a long time. A pathologist in Vancouver had to be consulted. The final diagnosis was:
Malignant Peritoneal Mesothelioma.

What the hell is that?

Apparently it was a rare, incurable cancer caused by exposure to asbestos.

Wait whaaaattt?

And thus began my cancer saga.

Cancer 101 Reminders:
– Trust Your Gut. If I hadn’t had that ultrasound when I did I would be dead.
– Be super pro-active. If it were someone you loved who was sick you would move mountains to help them. So move mountains for yourself.

***If you’re a woman: if you experience a swollen-looking abdomen, along with a sense of “fullness” for more than a few days, speak with your doctor. Women often assume these symptoms are “digestive issues,” when they are in fact symptoms of cancer, especially ovarian cancer.***

Chemo Soup

“You’ll feel like you were hit by a truck after the operation.”

“Jesus.”

“The surgery will take 9-12 hours, including administering hot chemo into your abdomen.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to save my reproductive system?”

“We’ll try, but it’s likely that it will all have to come out.”

“Oh no.”

“We will be giving you an ileostomy and it could end up being permanent. Be prepared for that.”

“Oh my God.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest. If you have any other questions please let me know. I’ll see you on the 18th.”

“Thank you Dr. Govindajan.”

I left the hospital in a daze, walking aimlessly for several blocks. A pub down the street caught my eye and I went in and grabbed a booth at the back. It was only 11:00 AM but I ordered a glass of wine. I also ordered a grilled cheese so I didn’t look like a sad alcoholic. I opened my notebook where I’d had written down everything my oncologist had just told me.

“Here’s your wine sweetie, tough morning?”

“Ya. I have cancer and I’m getting operated on in two weeks.”

“Oh I’m so sorry. My sister had cancer and she’s fine now. You’ll be okay too, don’t worry.”

“Thank you, that’s nice of you to say.”

Actually I’m probably not going to be okay because my cancer is very rare and there’s no cure and there’s not much research on it.

I started making a list of things I would need for the hospital: facial wipes, lip balm, reading glasses, secret stash of Xanax, cotton pillow case because the ones in hospitals are gross polyester, mirror, phone charger…

The grilled cheese arrived and looked delicious. I took a bite and then another. On my third bite I got that familiar feeling again, the one that had been plaguing me since I was first diagnosed with Malignant Peritoneal Mesothelioma.

My throat is closing. I can’t breathe. I’m dying. Please someone help me.

I pushed the grilled cheese aside and grabbed my pills. As I tried to swallow one it felt like there was no room for it to go down.

Oh My God the cheese has coated my throat and now I’m choking.

Thankfully the Xanax kicked in quickly and I felt like I could breathe again, but I couldn’t eat another bite. I had already lost ten pounds and I wanted to gain weight before going into the hospital, but food had become my enemy.

After the pub I headed to a nearby department store. In the shoe department I chatted with a friendly salesperson about our favorite fall fashion trends. I bought three pairs: tall wedge booties and fringed mid-calf cowboy-ish boots, plus a cool pair of men’s style oxfords.

Where are you wearing these? You’ll be dead soon.

In the cab home I leaned back and shut my eyes. Wait, so I’m going to go through menopause all at once? Like – BAM! – I’m a crone now? Is that how it works? Why? Why is this happening?

Do I even want this operation? Like, what’s the point? With this disease I’m basically fucked, so why go through all of this? And why the hell can’t they save my female bits? Is it bececause I’m 46 and they figure I don’t need them anymore? I do need them and I want them God Damn it.

And, side note, why can’t I have a normal cancer like breast cancer? I mean Mesothelioma? Caused by exposure to asbestos as a child? What the actual fuck?

Having only been dating my boyfriend for one year I felt my diagnosis and everything it involved was just too much pressure on us. We should break up now before we became more attached. He didn’t sign up for menopause and an ileostomy bag and God knows what other complications, plus a high probability of me dying soon.

I wondered about the whole dying with dignity thing. Oregon had recently made it legal for individuals to choose to end their lives when they were sick and suffering and since I was an American Citizen I reasoned I could move there. But what if you wanted to end your life before you got to the sick and suffering part. Like kind of preemptively end your life? That should be allowed too.

I could go the straight suicide route. I had just filled my prescription for Xanax and it was surely enough to kill me. The problem is I would have to do it immediately before I had another panic attack. The more panic attacks I had the more Xanax I used up, which would not leave me with enough pills to end my life.

Back at home I continued thinking through my Xanax plan. One of the many issues with it was that knowing me I would have a panic attack while trying to swallow all the pills.

A panic attack while trying to kill myself. Ridiculous.

The other complication with my plan was that it would devastate my family, boyfriend and close friends. I didn’t want to hurt them, but I also didn’t want to be forced to live through this nightmare. Suddenly I felt resentful of them. Now, because of them, I was going to have to endure a horrendous surgery with some weird hot chemo poured into my stomach, making my abdomen a poisonous soup. Then I would wake up sweating from hot flashes with a stoma spewing waste into a bag attached to my tummy.

Not fucking fair!

Within minutes the rage I felt turned to sadness, but I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t scream or cry or do anything to get the emotions out. They were all trapped in my chest. I lay in bed for an hour not moving, my 100 pound dog Leroy lay with me, his giant head on my stomach.

I could not leave Leroy that’s for sure. I had dragged him with me all the way from Los Angeles to Toronto and he considered himself my husband. Though he tolerated my boyfriend, he would have preferred to have me all back to himself. During my marriage Leroy had saved me. Though I had rescued him, he had emotionally rescued me and I was forever grateful.

It was time for Leroy’s mid-day walk. I put on his fall sweater – blue hand knit with a giant red crab design – and we went out in the sunny, cool air. We ambled along and he scored half a croissant out of a bush. Having previously lived on the streets of LA, he was adept at sourcing food.

“Do you know how much I love you?” I asked him. I kissed his beautiful brindled head as he licked the last of the buttery croisssant off his lips.

Three women were walking towards us on the opposite sidewalk. They were dressed in black abayas, but the woman in the middle was wearing the most beautiful sparkly one – it looked like silver metallic sparkly stars. I waved to them and they waved back, the one wearing the sparkles flashing me the peace sign.

In that moment I realized that I would go through with the wretched operation and scary tummy chemo soup.

I didn’t want to, but I would.
I hated my lack of options, but I would.
I was mad as hell at God and the Universe, but I would.
I didn’t know if my relationship could survive it, but I would.
I had no idea how life could possibly go on after this all, but I would.

I would because there was a woman wearing a sparkly metallic abaya flashing me the peace sign and for some reason I took that as a sign. I would.

✌️