Preparing for the inevitable

My mother died on 12 September eight years ago. It wasn’t one of those sudden, painless deaths we all wish for.

It was a slow burning six months of lung cancer with a dash of emphysema sprinkled with chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder.

I was there for the duration.  Not something I’d recommend, whichever end you’re at.

With a sad anniversary just gone by, I’ve been on the lookout for uplifting stuff. Happy news. A good way to cheer yourself up is to rifle through social media looking for stories of people who are worse off than you.

Never underestimate the power of schadenfreude. An advert popped up that seemed to have mood-enhancing potential.

“Even with a healthy diet,” it said, “your chances are never zero.” It looked promising. I skipped the bit about diet and focused on the bit about chances.

Nobody wants zero chances, right? The prospect of having many chances is what keeps us alive. More than quinoa ever could, anyway.

Oh wait. There’s more. What they mean is your chances of getting cancer are never zero.  Well, that’s an instant downer right there.

“The best way to fight cancer is to plan for it today,” said Sanlam.

Perfect timing. If you’re in the business of selling fear, there’s no better time than the middle of a pandemic. Pile on the terror, I say. Get them while they’re masked up and vulnerable.

Priests and politicians are also in the fear business, but they do occasionally offer hope. And even though it is almost certainly false, they at least attempt to dress it up nicely.

“Now is the time to plan for cancer,” barked Sanlam, in case the message hadn’t quite sunk in. I looked outside. The sun was shining and the sea was sparkly.

Now, Sanlam? Can’t this wait? The advert narrowed its eyes. The message was clear. Now is not the time for surfing. It is the time to plan for cancer.

I can’t even plan for next weekend, which I know for sure will happen, so it’s not easy for someone like me to plan for a deadly disease I might not even catch.

Right off the bat, Sanlam wants my name and number. There’s a box marked “Call Me Back”. How generous. The very idea of an insurance salesman phoning me unexpectedly is enough to get my cells dividing uncontrollably.

This effort to put the frighteners on the anxious and the fearful even has a name. It’s called the Sanlam Cancer Benefit.

Sounds like one those fun corporate golf days where all the men get drunk, put their car keys in a hat and spend the night with someone else’s wife. Maybe it’s not that kind of benefit.

The advert is unrelenting and I feel my will to live slipping away. “Protect yourself against the financial strain of cancer,” it shouts.

I can barely protect myself against the financial strain of stockpiling beer in case the government goes mad and bans alcohol again. As it is, I overstockpiled in mid-August and now some of it is becoming unstable.

There have been explosions.

Sensing that I was thinking about beer rather than thinking about dying, the advert quickly reminded me that cancer treatment can place “heavy financial strain on you and your family”.

This is nothing new. It’s been going on for years. When the financial strain on me becomes too much, I shift the burden to my family. They help out and, in turn, place considerable strain on me by demanding that I get a proper job and pay them back.

It’s a give and take arrangement that involves a fair amount of shouting and crying, but nothing exceptional as far as South African families go.

“The Sanlam Cancer Benefit helps you cover additional costs like travel to treatment centres, employing a carer for your children and missed work days.”

It’s okay, kids. Daddy’s going to get into this taxi with smoked windows and a sticker on the back window that says “When Days Are Dark” and go off for a bit of cut-rate chemo while this weird stranger looks after you.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be back. As for those missed work days, well, they retrenched my ass as soon as they heard about the cancer, so it doesn’t really matter.

It continues, doggedly working away at my weakened immune system. “‘I eat healthy’ can’t be your only plan. ‘I’m still young’ is not a plan. ‘It won’t happen to me’ is not a plan.”

I remember a time when all of these things seemed like brilliant plans. Apart from the “eat healthy”, which is less of a plan than a case of sloppy grammar.

Unless you’re slumped on a couch drooling into your lap and it’s from decrepitude rather than recreational drugs, we all consider ourselves “still young”.

I certainly do. And we all believe bad stuff won’t happen to us. It’s basic existentialism and helps stop us from killing ourselves. Strangely, it
doesn’t stop us from killing other people, who are also going around believing bad stuff won’t happen to them.

Now we get to the meat of it. If you haven’t swallowed the hook by now, you might be one of those lucky people who don’t care if they live or die.

I am presented with a calculator and urged to get a quote. If I had cancer, I’d want something that offered me quotes from Philip Larkin and Charles Bukowski.

I’m asked to enter my age. The options are “between 18 and 59”. Don’t let that put you off. Lie through whatever teeth you have left. I entered my mental age.

I am asked for my gross monthly income (mine is particularly gross) and my academic qualifications, because cancer is harder on you if you only have a matric.

I’m asked if I have smoked in the last 12 months. Do they mean a million cigarettes or a single badly rolled joint? Then, to the palpitating heart of the matter. How much cover do you need?

All of it, please. The options range between R200,000 and R6 million. I don’t know what this will cover when it comes to cancer.

The R200k? Probably three weeks’ parking at the oncologist’s offices.

I’d like to think the R6 million includes a full Viking funeral with Roger Waters sitting on the beach playing Comfortably Numb while naked guests fire flaming arrows at my tequila-soaked body lashed to my surfboard and cast adrift on a wild gunmetal sea.

Meanwhile, Sanlam has just awarded CEO Paul Hanratty a share-based remuneration package potentially worth up to R500 million.

Sanlam would like to thank its customers for helping Paul to plan for cancer. On the other street corner, Standard Bank is busy working a different angle.

They sidled up to me and whispered, “What would be the best-case scenario if your worst case-scenario came true?”

Ah, I like riddles! Does it have something to do with cancer? No, said Standard Bank, winking wantonly and showing me a flash of thigh.

“With our Disability Cover, you can make sure you and your family …” I blocked my ears and stumbled down a dark alley where Avbob was waiting for me.

“Psst. Wanna enter a poetry competition?” Sure, why not. I have poems to die for.

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