My Liver Cancer Blog

We played the cancer card last night. My husband and I went to see comedian Ramy Youssef, who was trying out new material for an HBO special he will be recording soon. Some of it still needed some polishing, but most of it was very funny — his bit about Muslim reactions to Mamdani becoming Mayor of NYC were hilarious.

When we got to the venue there was a line around the corner and down the block to get in. They were using Yondr pouches in order to have a “phone-free event,” but at the same time you were required to have your tickets on your phone — no printouts allowed.. So you had to bring your phone to a phone-free event, but then get it put in a locked pouch for the performance. As you might imagine, it was taking a while to get everyone through the door. And it was a cold, snowy, windy night. So, we told a security guard that I had cancer, and he took us to the front of the line.

Actually it was more complicated than that. The security guard took me to the small, indoors box office area and then took my husband somewhere so that he could show the tickets on my phone to another person who wrote the seat numbers down on a piece of cardboard (yes, these are the complications of the “phone-free event” concept — you show your tickets on your phone to someone, but then they have to write down your seat numbers for you on a sort of official-looking piece of cardboard, so you can later show the seat numbers to an usher because your phone with the tickets on it is locked in the Yondr pouch). But the security guard didn’t explain why he had taken me to the box office area or where he was taking my husband. So then I was looking at 3 box office staff who looked back at me expectantly. Long silent pause while we looked at each other. “I’m not sure why I’m here,” I finally said. “I think it’s because i have cancer and there’s a long line to get in.” They looked mystified, but also a little horrified, and also like they were trying to have no facial expressions at all. Another long pause. “Sorry to burden you with that,” I said. “But you’re looking at me like you need an explanation.” Thank goodness the security guard came back with my husband at that moment.

I don’t think the cancer card comes with many privileges. Being able to cut in line may be the only one. Oh, and there was that time in the emergency department when my husband scored us sandwiches by telling the nurses I had cancer and that it was very bad for me to go for hours without eating. That’s probably true?

And you know where the cancer card totally doesn’t work? At the cancer hospital. A few weeks ago the area where people wait to get bloodwork done was packed. I think it was a Tuesday after a holiday weekend, which somehow led to more people needing blood testing, and the blood work computer system kept rebooting, which led to more delays. There were about 40 people in front of me when we arrived. There were no chairs left, and lots of tired, sick people having to stand. I don’t know what started it, but suddenly yelling erupted among the waiting patients: “You have cancer?! So what. I have cancer too. Are you 78 years old and have cancer?!,” one woman bellowed. Sudden dead silence. The staff stood up and looked around. Some of the nurses came out from behind their curtained cubicles where they take blood samples. Would it escalate? Would there be fisticuffs between cancer patients? In the end, no. Age won out, and the other patient gave up her chair. I guess the most savvy (or desperate) among us find other cards to play.