The hilarious, touching memoir from brain cancer survivor Patch Rose.
Excerpt
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 Frosty Fudgy Squares. “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 Sugar Snap Snacks.
“Far away from you,” I said, pushing the cart faster. “Now let 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 scrubbed pink Midwestern face on it. Cherry Flips, Ladyfingers, Fig Bars. I dunked Missy’s donuts, nibbled her nutty bars and greedily licked the cream from her oatmeally pies. Little Missy was my wanton slut, my freak and believe you me, I was hooked. Bad.
Then I got the brain cancer.
“Look,” I told the freckled, grinning girl on the boxes of Astral Kisses, “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.”
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 Nut Crunch, “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 Bites, I thought I saw a blush darken those freckled cheeks. “Ah, come on, mini muffin…”
I snatched up her Sweet Rolls. (Oh, God…Little Missy’s Sweet 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 my cart.
She purred at me. “You won’t regret it, honey buns.”
I felt high, jazzed. I jumped onto the back of the cart and popped a wheelie. Missy laughed. I laughed too, nervously flushed 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, 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 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 to buy some things on her way home.
I looked into her hands. Wheat pasta. Green tea. No-sugar peanut butter.
When I got cancer, my wife started making foods she didn’t like, because it was what I needed to live. In the process, she left behind her own Little Missies. 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 lifelong nickname:
Cookie.
Read more about One Year To Live? A Nobody’s Guide To Surviving Cancer and Patch Rose HERE.
Copyright 2008 Patch Rose. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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