Life can be quite uncanny at times, so when I found myself at an audition for a PSA to warn the world on the perils of pancreatic cancer, I could only shake my head sobbing, all the way through it.
Bill Hicks died of pancreatic cancer two months after his 32nd birthday many years ago, yet the mere mention of it made it seem like yesterday.
The kid running the session, 25, if he were that, at first, must have thought I was Sarah Bernhardt, till I told him why my emotions ran so high.
Next thing you know he’s interviewing me like a witness to a capital crime, that when you put it that way, is true. Someone so young and gifted, checking out is indeed more than a misdemeanor.
My recall was impressive. I said lightly, “oh, it’s the writer in me…ya know how we absorb everything,” then came clean saying, how much I had loved him, and how his sudden passing changed my life.
“How so?” he asked, genuinely riveted by the coincidence of it all.
“My innocence died along with him, that he could be gone from such a hideous, how did he get it…why him, cancer in what seemed like an instant.”
Then it was my turn to ask the big daddy of questions.
How can one prevent something so sneaky, knowing along with ovarian, is a cancer that is slyer than the rest. You can’t live without your pancreas after all. It’s like a car minus it’s motor.
The session then ended, saved by the bell, because frankly, I don’t think I really wanted to hear the answer since, alas, I don’t think even now, there is one.
Sorry Hicks. So sorry.