A sample from 'One Year To Live? A Nobody's Guide To Surviving Cancer,' by Patch Rose:
Little Missy
Those who live in small towns know—it can take an hour to shop
for cat food. That's because of all the chatty friends and
neighbors you meet by the turnip greens. And when you write for
the local paper, watch out, boy. Those turnip greens will leave
the store before you do.
So, after ending my tenth neighborly chat and still cat food-less, I
turned quickly down the wrong aisle.
And there she was.
Little Missy.
"Wassup, baby cakes," she cooed from a box of Frosted Fudge
Bars. "Haven't seen you long time."
I took a deep breath and wheeled my cart right past her.
"Where you goin'?" Little Missy breathed, this time from a box of
Boston Creme Rolls.
"Far away from you," I said, pushing the cart faster. "Now leave
me be."
"Come on, cupcake," she called out from a box of cinnamon
swirls. "Come and see me. We can work it out. Ain't Little Missy
been good to you?"
Oh, had Little Missy been good to me. My whole life, I never
smoked. I never drank. I didn't freebase Vicks cough syrup. But
my oh my, did I have a gripping vice. I loved to do Little Missy.
I'd eat anything with Little Missy's pink Midwestern face on it.
Apple Flips, Ladyfingers, Fig Bars. I dunked Missy's donuts,
nibbled her nutty bars and greedily licked the cream from her
oatmeal cream pies. Little Missy was my wanton slut, my freak
and believe you me, I was hooked. Bad.
Then I got brain cancer.
"Look," I told the freckled grinning girl on the boxes of Star
Crunch, "You've been very good to me. Very good at being very
bad."
She gave out a throaty laugh. I pushed my cart further. "Later,
Little Missy," I said.
Brain tumors, you see, love sugar. My Thai Yoda neurologist
made it clear at our first consultation: if I wanted to survive past
six months, I had to say bye-bye to sugar. I fought daily cravings
for Missy's Marshmallow Treats and Strawberry Shortcake. The
withdrawal was killing me, but I was resolute. If I wanted to live,
my torrid love affair with this sweet, hot eight-year-old girl had to
end.
"Honey, honey," Little Missy soothed from a box of Pecan Spin
Wheels. "I've changed, baby. See? Zero grams trans fat! One-third
less sodium! I got it all going on, all for you, sweet thing!"
I stopped short, stared hard into her cornflower blue eyes. "And
how much sugar you got, sugar?"
From a box of Devil Squares, I thought I saw a blush darken
those freckled cheeks. "Ah, come on, mini muffin…"
I snatched up her Swiss Rolls. (Oh, God…Little Missy's Swiss
Rolls!) I flipped Missy over and scanned her backside.
32 grams of sugar.
"Pure poison," I told her. "I'm out." I started to replace the box.
"Baby," she whispered. "Don't I feel good in your arms?"
Oh, did Little Missy feel good in my arms. I brought the box up to
my nose, inhaling her sweet perfume: granulated sugar cane
smothered in fructosy fudge. It was like slipping into a chocolate
jacuzzi. My resolve melted like a Hershey kiss. I looked over each
shoulder, then I slipped Missy into the cart.
"You won't regret it, honey buns," she purred.
I felt high, jazzed. I jumped onto the back of the cart and popped
a wheelie. Missy squealed with delight. I laughed too, nervously
flush with nectary delight.
And there he was.
He was 17 or so, a pretty young thing. He bopped down the aisle,
his jeans held on by nothing but hipbone. His silky long hair
bounced as he jived. He wore sneakers, and a T-shirt that said,
"Eat Peaches."
Peach Boy gave me a "s'up?" head nod. Then, he looked down at
my Little Missy.
"Hi sugar," she cooed up at him. "Wanna try something sweet?"
"Little Hussy!" I hissed. I flung the box to the floor. "Skanky Ho-
Ho!" I stomped away in disgust, leaving Missy and my empty cart
in the middle of the snack aisle.
"You'll be back! she shrieked. "They always come back! Ain't
nobody can quit Little Missy!"
I fled around the corner into the beans and pet food aisle, my
hands clammy and shaking. Behind me, I heard Little Missy's
silky voice rising up from the floor. She was working Peach Boy
hard.
"Forget him, sugar cube. You wanna try my Jelly Roll?"
I snatched four cans of cat food from the shelf and bolted for the
front of the store.
And there she was.
Sylvia, my wife, stood waiting at the checkout. I guess she'd
come in to buy dinner on her way home.
I looked at her purchases. Wheat pasta. Green tea. And no-sugar
peanut butter.
When I got cancer, my wife started making food she didn't like,
because it was what I needed to live. In the process, she left
behind her own Little Missys. White bread. White rice. Potatoes.
She gave them all up to save me.
Sylvia turned, saw me. Her eyes grew bigger than root beer
barrels. Her face lit up like a lemon drop. She waved to me, her
smile warm, sweet and smooth as Caramello.
I knew right then that Little Missy was wrong. I COULD quit her. I
could spend the rest of my days quitting her. My life was sweet
enough.
As I joined Sylvia at the checkout, and checked out her creamy
white, Haagen-Dazs face, I suddenly remembered my wife's
nickname:
Cookie.
