Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

kansurvivors (Telma’s portmanteau), dawn broke in Gwen’s challenged kancermom life. The C community was extraordinarily strong and supportive and unflinching, knitting melanoma newbies into a single gargantuan gargantuanly heroic quilt. Aside from the 1,000 useful things Gwen was taught — to change dressings, what to look for in getting the jump on opportunistic infections, what to hope for & what not to hope for or what to hope and not to hope for too much, the useful trick of rolling down the window and screaming as you drove along the spine of Mulholland — the kansurvivors helped her develop a spiritual practice. For the first time in Gwen’s life, she meditated. She yoga’d and breathworked & self-hypnotated. She alternately begged, bitched and railed at—& became inexplicably devoted to — her Higher Power. A mere month from ground zero (all the kancerfolk revved from zero to hero), she no longer needed to listen to CDs to trance out, she was a quick study and by then could guide her own meditation, levitating and vipassanating without aural aid to a private fantasy island, mystical cave or black sand beach, some safe bespoke exhilarating unicorny place, any airy-faerie (or not) conjuring that might serve as a light to shine its incorporeal voltage down on her daughter’s wayward cells, defusing/disarming/disrupting with its otherworldly assassin energy, blasting all those fucked up cells to Kingdom Come or wherever. At first, it was hard, so hard. Gwen was an unbeliever, not XXXL but L, maybe M, not a Hitchens but a large to medium agnostic, L/M, but you couldn’t go through something like this without investing/believing/trusting in something other than unbelief, you just couldn’t. She’d take Reiki, kancerkid Mom workshops, & wishing on falling stars in the Sedona sky over a vacuum any day. You’d have to be an asshole fool to go with vacuum over prayer. You’d have to be sick.

Then something turned. Suddenly she was an XXXL believer, she couldn’t say how or why but Gwen became of an instant grateful , it was that simple, so simple——grateful Max had lived long enough to spend three years with their daughter, grateful for all her kansurvivor ladies ( and kancer dads and kancerkids), grateful that after Telma’s surgery the docs said her baby wouldn’t have to go through chemo/radiation at all , seemingly ever, that was the first of a trickling stream of miracles that became a torrent: she could keep her beautiful nine-year-old hair. O thank you thank you thank you, an XXXL thank you for nothing for something for everything.

(Those baldhead, puff-cheeked, irradiated Children of the Corn gave her the willies & Gwen hated herself for that.)

(Ooh! Bad , bad kancer karma!)

So she sucked it up and became an athlete . Embraced the whole subversive ha ha crazysexy Kris Karr/Donna Karan let them eat Sheryl Krow kancer posse, embraced the make C your bitch/I will fucking awesome tigermom ACE this for my baby! shining, crappy creepiness of it all.

Made metastatic lemons into lemonade.

You never know how you’ll behave in the face of the unspeakably shitty and Gwen took herself by surprise, flourishing somewhat in the most god-awful impossible suicide moments. Absolutely the best kind of kancermom — feisty and witty and wry, doggedly contagiously optimistic, a pulse and a beacon to all stricken stripes in all stages (or not) of recovery, because a lot of parents were just too passive to be properly posse’d, &/or constitutionally unwired for warriorship, they could never be anything but flipped-out vics. Fearslaves. Gwen & Telma were soon ID’d by kansurvivor kommunity honchos as the dynamic duo, the LOOK WHO’S HOT! ones-to-watch tagteam on the fast-track to fundraiser glory, rising emo-superstars on the horizon of fatal shores.

. .

First as patient then short-term into long(er)-term survivor, Telma was a bloody prodigy, a natural, a once-in-a-generation Justin Bieber of HOPE. Funny and fearless, she buoyed her in-patient flocks, becoming unofficial “Hi!” priestess/ombudsgirl to the cause. She went to DC for stemcell hearings on the Hill & played with Sasha at the White House, so much fun tho she not so secretly wished Malia was there, because Malia was closer to her age and more likely to become a pen-pal, but Malia was somewhere with her grandmuh ma. Why couldn’t she have just brought Grandma back? While Mom had tea with FLOTUS, Telma did younger-girl (younger than Malia) things with Sasha, hoping against hope they’d be asked to stay overnight but they only wound up spending an hour in toto . She bitched about it on the way back to the hotel and Gwen said stop being so greedy . Stop!

And now there was a way younger kansurvivor on the scene (Telma called the girls hervivors ); she needed to take action. Do something BIG. The world needed to be tweeting about her , not the Kanadian Kancerkid arriviste , not Kylie Jenner (dyke-whore) or Mackenzie Foy ( so gay, whore), the world needed to be blogging about her, not Abigail Breslin (has-been) or Hailee Steinfeld (hairy/Jewish Whore) or Chloë Moretz (OMG such a bi-whore!!!!! <3) or Elle (slut/SNOB) or Willow Smith (rich biatch/total racist [ LMFAO!!! ]) or Willow Shields (so pathetic) or Bailee Madison (dwarfy jesusfreak) or the next Hailee Bailee or next Elle or next Willow ( Pink just named her baby that, there was going to be a whole new wave of Willows) or the next Next . Next! And even though Telma had 4 years of non-recurrence and the interloper-ingenue’s recovery had just begun —Telma wished her the best but survival odds were so not in her favor— O Canada! — Telma especially didn’t want the world facebooking about whatshername’s zero to hero so-called courage because 4-year-olds were too young to have (so-called) courage, you just can’t be a kancerhero at 4! Besides, it was her experience that most kancerkids — she always spelled it with a K, to thumb her nose at it, make it fun, that was her trademark, she started a little movement, lots of people were using K now though she’d had the conversation with her mom that probably the Kardashians weren’t wild about it, they thought they owned K-World, & that might be the one thing to keep the K/ancer thing from really katching on, at least not til one of the Kardashians got it in the ovaries or the tits — it was Telma’s experience that most kancerkids were high-maintenance sympathy whores who went ballistic if you didn’t tell them what brave soldiers they were 24/7. The only time they weren’t wusses, snotting up their stuffed, lastminute giftshop animals, was a) when they were on a morphine drip; b) when they were being visited by the pro athlete/reality show star/Bieberish boy singer/ Twilight/Hunger Games actor of their (make a) wishes. (The big Twilighters were never available so they always wound up with co-co-co-costars from the latest sequel.)

Telma was a warrior. It was time to enter the public eye again — she’d been away too long. Mom needed to touch base with that gal who did press for all the big s, the gal who got them into People on Telma’s 2nd anniversary of being kancerfree. Maybe now that it was Year IV & counting Telma could get a perfume, a fragrance , maybe call it hero™ or warriorgrrl™ , Telma wanted someone savvy to pull out all the stops, wanted to do the Ellen Show victory dance with Flotus or Emma Stone or Greyson Chance, steal Greyson away from Jackie Evancho, she wanted more hits than Charlie Bit My Finger , wanted to rock together with Greyson or whoever, maybe Rihanna & Katy & Avril, to the SU2C ( Stand Up To C ) Manifesto to music. .

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