Life is a Game of Shit Purse

As a young boy, my friends and I often played the game of Shit Purse. In case you have not had the same worldly upbringing that I did in the hills of Southern Indiana and are not familiar with the intricacies of this particular outdoor activity, allow me to outline the fundamentals. To begin, you really just need two ingredients: some freshly-produced manure from the nearest farm animal and secondly - yep, you guessed it, a purse - preferably one that you are no longer wanting to use. The preparation phase is pretty straight-forward: insert the manure into the purse. This usually works best if you have a team of two people - one to hold the purse and one to do the shoveling. (Tip: Beginners should choose the role of shoveler). Close the purse and make it look as presentable as possible. Place the purse on a road and hide, waiting for the comedy to begin. There are really four objectives to the game: 1) to have the purse picked up by an unknowing participant, 2) to have that purse make its way into a vehicle, 3) to have the purse tossed back out the window. And, 4) perhaps most importantly --- to witness objectives 1-3 without getting caught.

I’m not sure who invented the game. I’d like to claim credit, but the Shit Purse Master that introduced me to the pastime was my friend, Craig Recker. Craig became my professor and mentor for the game probably around fifth grade. And, boy was he good at the game! First, he had the perfect set-up. He lived on a farm with some cows, a few pigs, and thousands of turkeys. Ingredient #1 was in plenty of supply. Secondly, he had a lot of older sisters. I’m really not sure if they were always willing participants in this game, but anytime we wanted to play, Craig would disappear in their old farm house to some of the upstairs bedrooms for a short period of time and return with a purse in his hand, extending his clenched fist above his head - holding the purse like a trophy. Craig also had a little mini bike, a motorized vehicle that made our delivery of the goods much more efficient and effective.

Our normal drop-off spot was a busy highway that ran in front of Craig’s family farm. This location was great because of the steady traffic in our rural surroundings, but did make it difficult for drivers to detect and decipher the foreign object in the middle of their path while traveling 55 mph. We strategically placed the purse about 300 yards before his driveway to provide our victim a place to turn around in order to get the purse. We would hide on top of a steep hill covered in the grass that overlooked the highway.

Craig did the dirty work. And, I don’t just mean completing the preparation of the package. Craig also served as the delivery person for our special gift. I would serve as lookout - waiting for a time when the passage was clear of traffic and give the signal for Craig to execute operation Shit Purse. Upon my signal, Craig would race down the tall hill to the highway in front of their property. Like a trained CIA operative making a top-secret drop, Craig would barely slow down on the highway and extend his hand to release the purse onto the middle of the highway and then return to the hiding spot with the other conspirators of the game and me.

Then we waited. With each vehicle that approached the purse, we would lift our heads above the grasses in anticipation of a stop. Sometimes we waited for hours, or at least it felt that way, as we watched one car after another ignore our bait. But, then it would happen. The red brake lights of the car zooming past the purse would light up, giving cause to our first celebration. We would watch with exhilaration to see the vehicle quickly slow in speed and turn off the highway into Craig’s driveway, just like we had hoped. Although we wanted to start our pregame fist bumps, we knew that we must remain still in the tall grasses to avoid being detected. We watched the vehicle’s reverse lights turn on and we would see the vehicle travel in reverse on the shoulder of the highway to the location of the purse. And again, we waited in silence, wanting desperately to stand tall above the grasses to get a clear view of the action unfolding, but also fearing that our curiosity could reveal our identity. So, we hid, peering through the top of the tall grasses.

We had become persistent in achieving all four objectives of the game. Although we took great joy in seeing a stranger beside the road inspect the contents of the purse, that usually resulted in the purse being dropped immediately. Sure, it made for a good laugh for us all, but we knew the ultimate goal was for the purse to make its way into the car and then back out of the car. And, there was also an outcome that periodically occurred that also left us feeling cheated. Occasionally, a person would grab the purse and jump back into the car. However, instead of the purse shooting out of the window, it remained inside the car and we helplessly watched the car drive away with our prized trap - leaving the reaction only to our imagination. This also had the undesirable effect of ending that round of Shit Purse purseless, requiring us to snag another purse, and the longer we played this game the more difficult that was becoming.

So, we longed for that perfect outcome - a result that was between a premature purse drop and a purse snatch. Ahh, but when it would happen as desired, it was magnificent! The purse would disappear from our view into the vehicle. With the person tucked into the vehicle, we would grow in confidence in wanting to get a better view of the events unfolding. Sometimes, the vehicle would even start to slowly move forward. And then, like a rotten core of an apple, the purse would come flying out the window and the car would speed away.

We would laugh, celebrate, and laugh more. Not only had we scored in achieving our four objectives, but the purse, still in our possession, was intact and properly prepared for round 2. And, then the game would continue, with us hiding and cheering at the sight of our foul smelling purse being tossed out the window of another stranger’s vehicle. Shit purse was the gift that just kept on giving.

Cancer, I mean cat sores, are my shit purse. It showed up unexpectedly one day and its stench continues to fill all that is around it. It’s a disease that causes my body's cells to divide without stopping and spread into surrounding tissues. It was found in my stomach, but wants to spread to affect all parts of my anatomy. I hate it. Not just because it’s a disease that attacks my body, but it’s a filth that wants to contaminate everything about me and all that surrounds me - my family, my job, my friends, my finances, my thoughts, my personality, my time, my interests, the way people view me, what I like to eat, how I spend my time, and what I do for fun.

It also stinks. Literally. The smell of the chemicals being pumped into my body to kill my cat sores has a distinctive smell that I can’t wash off my body. Everything I eat or drink has the taste of metal. The toxins are the first thing I smell when I awake in the morning and I press my nose in my pillow at night hoping there is just a moment when I stop smelling it so I can sleep. It’s the smell of sickness. The smell of a hospital. The smell of a foreign substance that isn’t supposed to be in my body, but is there nonetheless to do its part. It is the smell of cancer. Something that makes me want to gag.

Much like the people in the cars that stopped for the purse in our childish game, I feel cheated. I don’t recall doing anything to pick up this bag of filth. I’ve never smoked. I regularly exercised. I ate healthy. I had preventive colonoscopies and cancer screenings every two years. I tried to live a good life and treat people with dignity and respect. And, yet, here I sit with a bag of crap in my lap. In hindsight, I realize that the people that became the target in our childhood game of Shit Purse also didn’t deserve what they received. I now realize that those that stopped weren’t bad, greedy people that wanted to pocket a few easy bucks. They were probably kind, thoughtful people that wanted to do what was right and help someone. I imagine now that they stopped to grab a purse in an attempt to return the personal items, money, and more importantly, the identity to a person that they had never met.

But, now, I feel like the victim. And, I want my identity back. I’m angry. And, in truth, I also feel sorry for myself at times--something that feels weak to admit. I had braced myself for pain. I told myself that I just had to be tougher than the cat scores. I can be pretty stubborn, so I thought I could break down physical aches with mental toughness. What I wasn’t ready to battle was the feeling of weakness. My first round of chemo already made me feel brittle. Nauseous. Dizzy. Breakable. Like I’m made of porcelain. I thought I was tough, but look at me. I struggle to sip my soup.

But, I also know better. My friend Craig just didn’t teach me about the game of Shit Purse; he taught me about persistence. Craig lost his father in a tragic car accident when Craig was only 4 or 5 years old. In an instance, the man that ran the family farm, the guy that embraced hard work and helping others, the person that was Craig’s superhero was gone. But, Craig and his mom, and Craig’s siblings never seemed to quit -- even though everyone would have understood their desire to do so. They not only kept the family farm, but also slowly, little by little, grew the family farm into something that made them all proud. Craig even started his own successful trucking business and perhaps most importantly, became a superhero to his very own family.

So, although I hate that I sit with this bag of crap in my lap, I also know that I’m not the one inside the bag. I still hold the bag. Although I may not be able to control what the cat sores do to my body, I can control how I let this bag define me. I know that some of the baggage that comes with cat sores will make its way into the house and much of its ugliness is inescapable. But, I get to choose how I talk about it with others. I may not get to control my destination, but I get to affect those that are with me on this journey. I can still try to stay true to the person that I was and want to be. I can surround myself with people that love me and use my time - however long or short that may me - to let others know how much I love them. And, just maybe, I can make the scent of this disease, because of the support and love of others, into something a little less offensive.

Cat sores may have found its way into my life. And, cat sores may even dictate the length of my life. But, I refuse to let it take control of all that is in my life. I get to control some of that. I get to choose to toss much of what comes with this awful disease out the window.