How to Be a Vicious Monster Without Even Trying

And the simple, easy way not to be

My little sister has cancer. And not just any cancer, but a very rare, very deadly, and for the most part, wholly untreatable one.

She was diagnosed at age nineteen, right in the prime of her youth, just as she was about to step forth into the brave and exciting world of adulthood and independence. Doctors told her there was nothing they could do for her. They told her she had, at best, six months to a year to live.

As you can imagine, the news was utterly devastating — to her, to me, to the rest of my family, and to everyone who’s ever known and loved her. Think about it. Her entire future, all her hopes and dreams, suddenly and capriciously dashed upon the cruel shoals of a cold and indifferent universe.

And it was through absolutely no fault of her own. It wasn’t from lifestyle choices. It wasn’t from her attitude or behavior. It was just plain old, genetic bad luck.

Fast forward twenty years and twenty-three surgeries (including spine, lung, liver, pancreas, and several to the brain), and she’s still alive and kicking. She’s happily married and making the most of every day that the best of medical science (along with her courage and the all-consuming dedication of my parents to her cause) has given her.

But it’s not a cakewalk. She’s constantly ill from the miraculous yet highly toxic chemotherapy drugs keeping her alive. She’s in continual, nearly unbearable pain from being sliced and diced over and over, like a sadistic child’s rag doll.

And through it all, she’s kept an amazingly upbeat and positive attitude. She carries on with courage and conviction, and an unbreakable spirit. (It makes me tear up just typing this, and in thinking how poor my own attitude often is over what amount to trifles in comparison.)

But the irony is, to all outward appearances, there’s nothing wrong with her. She looks just like any other fit, pretty, healthy, thirty-nine year old woman. And that’s where society becomes outright vicious.

The other day, the day before Thanksgiving, she went to a warehouse store to get some last-minute groceries for our traditional family get-together. Understandably, the place was a madhouse, and parking was scarce.

In her car, she carries a handicap decal that she can hang from her rearview mirror in order to use the reserved handicap parking spaces. This decal is her legal, moral, and practical right for all the needless suffering she has and continues to endure. It amounts to society’s small, token gesture — however trivial — to try to unburden her of at least some of her emotional and physical pain, and perhaps make her life a tiny bit easier.

But then, just as she’s painfully, cautiously stepping out of her car, being careful not to fall over as she puts weight on her “bad” leg that’s had half the thigh carved out of it like a Sunday roast to excise a softball-sized tumor, and steadying herself against the sudden onsets of dizziness and vertigo she sometimes experiences thanks to the various parts of her brain that have had scalpels driven through them repeatedly, a voice calls out to her.

“That sure must be nice abusing grandma’s parking pass like that so you don’t have to walk like the rest of us.”

“Excuse me?” she replied, incredulous, as she met the accusing gaze of some smug, middle aged Karen, her face mostly hidden behind a cloth mask.

“I… I have cancer,” my sister continued, starting to tear up. “I’ve had this pass ever since becoming disabled after my primary surgery, when eighty percent of my quad was removed.”

She struggled to contain her welling sadness as she went on. “And even though I’m legally allowed to, I didn’t really start using it until after my spinal surgeries, and even then, only when I’m hurting bad. Like today.”

“Just stop,” the woman cut her off. “I don’t have time for this. Some of us have to go all the way to the other side of the parking lot,” she sneered, “like where you should’ve parked!”

“But… but…” my sister trailed off, overwhelmed by emotion.

“Whatever. I don’t have time for your lies,” the woman declared hastily, before marching off in a huff to attend to her very important business of consumerist mass consumption.

My sister was devastated. She tried to put it out of her mind, tried to carry on with her errand, but she was too overcome. She collapsed near the entrance of the store, sobbing and quivering uncontrollably.

The shoppers all around her went on with their shopping, discretely avoiding such inconvenient unpleasantness. Finally, a kindly store worker took pity on her and brought her a chair and some water, and then sat patiently next to her, trying to console her…

“Okay,” you’re probably thinking. “That’s messed up.”

But what makes this story all the worse, is that it’s not the first time that it’s happened. It’s not even the second or third. It happens all the time.

Imagine every waking moment of every day, feeling simultaneously hungover (without having drank a single drop of alcohol) and in excruciating pain, as though you’d just been trampled in the running of the bulls.

And then imagine, on top of all that, when you work through the pain and the depression and the sheer, crushing senselessness of it all, and you drag yourself from your couch and your heating pad to make yourself presentable for being in public, only to then get sneered at and ridiculed, and called a liar when you try to defend yourself. Just imagine it.

What the fuck is wrong with people? Seriously.

So here’s my advice and my plea: Mind your own fucking business. (And if my swearing offends you, good.) It’s really not that hard.

Nobody knows what anyone else is going through. No one knows what terrible scars and afflictions one may be carrying under their garments, under their skin. And it’s nobody’s business.

Whatever minor benefit that could possibly be gained by calling someone out on a perceived social transgression, it pales compared to the massive harm inflicted if you’re out of line. Whatever judgmental, self-righteous lessons you may hope to impart with your meddling, how can that possibly offset the horror and the trauma that ensues when you’re wrong?

It’s almost like an inverse Pascal’s Wager. I mean, if you’re right, fine. You sure showed that lawbender who’s boss. That’ll learn ’em. Bra-fucking-vo. Here’s your Hero of the Universe merit badge.

But if you’re wrong? Well, then you’ve just earned yourself the Asshole of the Century award. You’ve just imposed needless suffering upon an innocent victim, for absolutely no good reason. Let that sink in.

So next time you feel the need to interject yourself into a complete stranger’s day in order to unleash your indignation, just don’t. Let the urge subside gently back into the rigpa from which it emerged. Or at least, just keep it to yourself.

Err on the side of compassion. Give others the benefit of the doubt. And above all, don’t be a dick!

Colby Hess is a freelance writer and photographer from Seattle, and author of the freethinker children’s book The Stranger of Wigglesworth.

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