Cancer

by Jacob Sirota

The wife answered the phone. “I have cancer,” said the husband. She had just woken up and was confused — she herself already had cancer, had been in treatment for a year.

“What? I have cancer?”

“Yes, I know, I’m saying — I just left the doctor’s office. I have cancer,” the husband clarified. “We both have cancer.” Still half-asleep she asked, “What about Pepe?” Pepe was their pet iguana. “Pepe still has cancer,” the husband said. “You know that.”

The wife got out of bed and showered. As she put on her bathrobe, the phone rang again. It was her mother.

“I have cancer,” her mother said.

“Jesus. It’s like everyone we know has cancer.”

“Who else?” her mother asked. The wife told her mother about the husband’s diagnosis. The mother sighed and offered her condolences. “At least Marky still has his health,” she said. Marky was the dog, a two year-old Golden Retriever. She decided to get him checked out just in case; she called the veterinarian’s office and made an appointment.

The vet examined Marky’s mouth, eyes, and paws.

“Well?” asked the wife.

“Seems fine so far,” said the vet. Then she turned him over on his side. Dark, mushroom-colored lumps bulged out of the hairless part of his stomach. “That looks like cancer to me,” said the vet. They discussed chemo options, which were too expensive. The vet coughed and wheezed incessantly while they spoke, she could barely get through a sentence.

“Are you alright?” the wife asked.

“I have lung cancer,” replied the vet.

The wife was billed for the examination and then drove home. At home, her husband was standing by the door, looking forlorn.

“Pepe is dead,” he said.

“Marky is sick,” she replied.

“Sick with what?”

“Cancer,” she said.

“Go figure,” said her husband.

The wife sighed. She was about to ask where Pepe’s body was — but then the doorbell rang. She went to the door. It was a large group of kids. About twenty-five kids. And one adult.

“All these kids have cancer,” the adult said.

“Do you have cancer?” the wife asked.

“What the fuck do you think?” the adult said. “Yeah. I have cancer.”

Jacob Sirota is a short story writer and fellow at Columbia University’s Brown Institute for Media Innovation. He lives in Manhattan.