Oh, so ya like books about terminal disease eh Mega? lol, your post reminded me of a book I read just as I was leaving the witnesses, about 2 (?) years ago. The book is "Mothers Marijuana", and it really moved me spiritually. It is the story of a young man who has a rather storybook existence till he is diagnosed with cancer at 19.
At the time, I was visiting a witness discussion board, made up mostly of people disgruntled by the WT like myself, but perhaps not clued into the fact that it was all a big joke on us. I typed out a chapter, to help mi compadres think (dammit!).
Unfriends
Jack and I immediately recognized that we were different breeds. He was southern, Catholic, conservative, and an excellent salesman. He had short-cropped hair that was carefully groomed. I am Northern, Jewish, slightly to the left of Lenin, and artsy. When we met, I had graduate student-length hair and an earring.
The trouble started after his first Jewish joke. It was the first time Id heard a Jewish joke told by a non-Jew in which the protagonist fit the stereotype (Jews are greedy, manipulative, etc.) perfectly. The joke was something about a dead Jewish man trying to buy his way into heaven despite having a checkered past. All the Jewish jokes Id heard had been told by Jews making fun of the stereotype. He knew I was Jewish. And yet the stereotype was so much a part of his life that he wasnt even embarrassed. He laughed heartily and reached out and tapped my shoulder playfully. He even seemed mildly annoyed when my facial features froze. Our relationship went downhill from there.
I figured Jack enjoyed hunting, golf, and meat that bled when you pushed a fork into it. I suspected he went to church every Sunday more because his wife wanted him to than out of any personal conviction. I knew eh would tolerate fatherhood but never take to it with vigor. He was a mans man. A beer drinker who never thought much about what he saw on the news. I put him in a mental box with Archie Bunker; the kinds at college who enjoyed blasting Van Halen while breaking dorm furniture; Mike Stanavicius, the racist wrestling captain; and Richie Shumlik, who, when I was six, drew a swastika and gave it to me to see how I would react. I taped up the box and put it away, hoping it would be a while before I needed to put someone else in there.
When we spent time together (Angela and his wife were close friends) I overtly feigned interest in him while subtly digging at him with offbeat comments about his education, his hobbies, and his interest. Later, alone with Angela, I wondered aloud how his wife found him interesting.
When Jack gave up his job to take care of their first baby I was shocked. He changed diapers, warmed frozen breast milk, and rocked the baby back to sleep at four A.M. He did laundry, cooked dinner, and vacuumed the living room. He pushed a shopping cart at midday and evaluated the grapefruit while keeping one ear open for his babys cries. It confused me, but I figured he wasnt quite the salesman he said he was and had no other options.
When they found cancer in my body again, word spread like a dusty Western fire through our friendships. I learned later that it was eleven at night when Jack heard the news. His wife had just returned, exhausted, from the evening shift at the hospital. Jack fed his wife her dinner, did the dishes, and tucked her into bed. He got the car seat, packed up his baby, and drove to church. He walked down the dark aisles of the church carrying his sleeping son, got down on his knees, and prayed to his God for me.
