Cancer, a Magazine, and a MAGA Hat

A Story About Rehumanizing

We progressive Americans find ourselves swimming in dangerous waters. The level of danger varies depending on who we are, but for trans friends and immigrant friends, the danger is literally life and death. Freedoms, the international order, and the structures undergirding our lives are on the chopping block.

My dear readers, this is our current reality. There is no Pollyanna-ing the current moment. I’m terrified. I certainly don’t have any answers, other than to stay connected and focused on collective action and care. But what I am hoping for in this post is to encourage all of us to reflect on our choices with regard to people in our lives who support the current administration.

I strongly recommend exploring the work of Darrell Davis, a musician and activist who has been singlehandedly responsible for numerous KKK leaders stepping out of white supremacy entirely. Davis is a model for me of what truly works in being a change agent. I could never do what he does; I am not that strong. But what I am working on is staying connected with people whose beliefs are utterly repugnant to me. Unfortunately (because it’s crazy hard), I think this is the only way through.

Below you’ll find my story, “Red, White, and Gray,” which appears in the current issue of Hotch Potch Literature and Art (a free read). The piece is about a young progressive artist who’s a hospital volunteer, and what happens when she discovers one of her patients is a MAGA supporter. The sculpture in the photo, by Muriel Horvath, was the prompt for the story. Every writer selects an image by a guest artist, and we publish the stories next to the images in the magazine.

Some friends and I started Hotch Potch during the pandemic, and this is our sixth issue. I encourage you to have a look; this issue has particularly powerful art that served as prompts for the stories. Our writers are superb, too. We’re always looking for new collaborators, so if you like what you see, feel free to reach out, and I can give you more information.

*

The first thing I saw was the red baseball cap. This happens. I’m a hospital volunteer. We get all kinds. But that day, I wasn’t expecting it. That day was November 6th, 2024, and my skin was soft and permeable from sweat and crying and insomnia.

When I first started volunteering two years ago, my sweet corny mama gave me a package wrapped in Listerine-blue tissue paper and a bow, her standard thing. I was embarrassed, like always, because, well, I’m more of an inside kind of girl and Mama shows every last bit. But what she got me, that was the thing … it kinda made me almost cry. When I ripped open that flaky paper, I saw a pair of scrubs, and at first I didn’t get it. The scrubs made me think of Grey’s Anatomy, this old show that got me wanting to be a doctor when I was little, before I got serious about making art. But the scrubs Mama gave me were red-and-white striped. I’m not much for stripes. I looked at her with scrunched eyebrows, and then Mama told me that back in the day, the girls who volunteered at the hospital were called candy stripers and they wore these exact outfits. That’s when my eyes got hot and full.

So when I walked into Lorraine’s room the first time, I saw that red baseball cap and a lady on the bed with a crappy-ass wig, and she flashed me a mouthful of crooked teeth, saying, “Hey hon, my hat matches your outfit!”

She reached over to the little table, picked up the cap, and plopped it on her head. The four upper-case letters on the front were so big I nearly had to squint.

MAGA.

I smiled back because I didn’t know what else to do. “I’m Petunia, but most folks just say Petal.”

She pointed to her hat, and my shirt, and her hat. Maybe she thought I was slow.

“Petal. Wow. Were you parents hippies?”

The nurse who was my supervisor told me she had a brain tumor, but she wasn’t acting much like a cancer patient. I thought about myself and wondered if I looked like a hippy’s kid. My ratty long black hair with the front piece dyed green. My thick black eyeliner and the six silver studs in my left ear. My big wide hips, my sleeve of tatts, my turquoise boots with the pointy toes.

Naaa.

“It’s just me and my mom,” I said, trying to keep things neutral. Inside my belly, things were anything but neutral. This woman had just helped my country get stolen. My cheeks were burning. I had to do my job, but I sure didn’t have to like it. Or her.

I tried focusing on why I was there. “Is there anything I can get you? Jello? Apple juice?”

“Call me Lorraine, hon. What an amazing day. Today, for the first time in four years, I have hope.”

I took a breath. “Is the chemo working?” I crossed my fingers behind my back. Let’s stick to cancer, stick to cancer, please.

“Oh, no, sweetheart, this tumor isn’t going anywhere. I think she’ll outlive us all.” She chuckled, tossed the hat back onto the table. Then, she patted her head. “They told me this last round’ll be the last. If it doesn’t work, I’m going into hospice. Medulloblastoma, that’s her fancy official name. But I just call her Maude.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I went to the windows and pushed the curtains open. “You’ve got a pretty good view.” I could see the hill on the other side of town with the playground in the distance. A bunch of kids in Crayola-colored coats were swinging and sliding.

“What do you do when you’re not volunteering, Petal?”

“I’m in school. Art Academy of Cincinnati.”

She laughed. “Guess you got money.”

I turned from the window to look her in the eye. “I’m on full scholarship. My Mama’s an admin for a chiropractor. I wait tables three nights a week.” Like it’s any of her damn business.

“Sorry. I hear college, and, well, you know … ”

I didn’t know.

“You doing okay with the nausea? I can bring saltines … ”

She adjusted the wig, shoulder-length shiny copper hair that looked as fake as my aunt’s press-on nails. Then she looked at me and smiled again, almost triumphant-like, and I wondered if she could somehow tell I had done phone-banking for the Dems. She shook her head. “Nope. I’m perfect.”

***

“Ask if someone else can deal with her,” said Mama. She sat stretched out in her bathrobe, feet up and towel on her head, long wet hair wrapped up tight. “Fuckin’ MAGA. It’s not enough that their horse wins. They gotta gloat in front of vulnerable volunteers.”

I sat down at the other end of the couch and checked my phone to see if Rithu, my best friend, was back from her first date with Etti, a girl in our sculpture class. Nothing.

“I just gotta ignore it. I mean, she has a brain tumor. And anyway, the election just happened. Maybe after a few days, she’ll kinda forget about it.”

Mama leaned over and grabbed the hand lotion we keep on the rusted metal coffee table and squirted some in her hand. “They never forget. They’re a cult. Jeez, Petal, I really think you should just focus on school. I mean, how is this hospital stuff helping you? Maybe you should quit.”

I shook my head. “I promised Grammy.”

She looked up at me, then touched my leg with her softened hands. “Doll-face, Grammy wanted you to go to art school and make those dreams of yours come true. Just because you helped her at the end doesn’t mean you have to help every Tom, Dick, and Harry. This hospital stuff is sweet, but it’s a distraction. Please think about it. You got so much on your plate. You don’t need to deal with those people.”

I looked down at my phone; no text from Rithu. I thought about Lorraine and Grammy and my schedule. Nope, I wasn’t about to quit now.

***

Thursday afternoon after Life Drawing, I had my next shift. When I walked into Lorraine’s room, my stomach sank deep like an anchor to the bottom of the ocean.

Everything was different. The TV was on, some game show with a wheel, and Lorraine was lying down, her head tilted up just a bit so she could see the screen. The baseball cap was gone, but she had a red blanket with the phrase all spelled out. I don’t need to write it here. You know what it is.

She was awake, but she didn’t look at me. Her dinner tray sat in front of her, almost like it had just arrived. She had eaten a few bites of chicken, but the rice was full, and the cling peaches, and the peas.

I walked over to the bed. “Not hungry?”

She shook her head, eyes still on the screen.

“Can I take it?”

She nodded, still not looking at me. I gently reached for the tray and brought it to the nurse’s station. Jules was there. “Lorraine’s not feeling good today?” I asked.

She shook her head. “She goes through periods. Some of them, she’s totally there, totally in life, like she’s gonna live forever. All that Trump stuff … it makes her excited. She was heavy involved before the tumor got bad. On days like this when she’s depressed, she just watches TV. Doctor’s got her on new meds, but no change yet.”

She’s a heck of a lot easier this way, I thought, and then, instantly thought about Grammy, what she always used to say when I left her room at the hospital. “Petal, you got some overflowing compassion in that heart of yours.” Maybe not.

I headed back to her room. When I got there, Lorraine’s eyes were closed, head tilted to the left, jaw slack. A little string of drool trickled out of her mouth. Without thinking, I took her red blanket, which was kinda crumpled, and I turned it upside down and draped it over her, tucking it gently around her body.

I looked around the room. Maybe there was something else I could do to tidy up or bring her something cozy. I noticed on the table near the window was some mail. Maybe one of her kids had come by. I glanced over at Lorraine, now snoring like a trucker. The corners of my mouth turned up.

I picked up the pile of mail and looked through it. Bills and junk, but also a magazine. Interior Design. My eyebrows went up. I checked and sure enough, her name was on it.

Interior Design. Holy shit.

***

I told Rithu about Lorraine the next day after Art History.

“What do you think she was doing with Interior Design? A MAGA-t with all the merch. She doesn’t look like she has any aesthetic clue,” I said, pulling a package of cashew nuts out of my back pocket as we walked down the hall.

Rithu shook her head. “Why don’t you ask her? I mean, maybe it was a gift or something. Or maybe her ex was the designer. Maybe her ex is actually gay and that’s why she went MAGA,” she giggled and fiddled with one of her braids.

We stopped at the coffee shop and grabbed a table. “My mom thinks I should quit,” I said, digging into my front pocket for change. $1.85. Enough for a small coffee.

“I’ve been telling you that since the first day of school. I mean, you don’t have the luxury of volunteering. I know it’s important because of your grandma, but you have to think about yourself and your career. She wouldn’t want you wasting time with those people. They’re so not worth it.”

We went up to the counter. Maybe I was being stubborn about the hospital. Maybe Mama and Rithu were right. I have to focus my energy on the right stuff.

But as I poured creamer into the mug, I thought about Lorraine and the red baseball cap and that magazine.

***

A couple weeks later when I was scheduled to volunteer, I was coming from school and I had my sketchbook backpack on. Lorraine was in her wheelchair in the TV area when I walked in. There were two guys sitting on the other side of the room. The older one was wearing a nylon jacket with a rip on the side and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a while, and the younger one had floppy curls that made it hard to see his eyes and a turtleneck. They had the exact same jawline and nose, and they didn’t look like they were dying. They also didn’t look anything like Lorraine, and they weren’t talking to her or looking at her.

“Hey Flower Girl! Whatcha got there?” Her voice was turned all the way up, and she gave me that snaggletoothed grin. Definitely not a depression day. I couldn’t help smiling back at her.

“It’s my school stuff. I came right from class.” I crossed the room, heading for the staff lounge where I usually put my coat and stuff.

“Now, wait just a second! Can we have a little show and tell?” The two guys turned to look at her and then at me. My cheeks fired up and I didn’t know what to do.

“This stuff is just exercises for class,” I said, my voice idiotically high-pitched. “It’s really not so interesting.”

She wheeled over and stopped just before the staff lounge. “Meet me in my room,” she said, pointing at me. “And bring your pad.”

I whispered loudly. “You know those guys?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Their sister’s in the room down the hall. She’s brain dead.”

I suddenly wondered if she had any family. And if she did, why weren’t they here?

I followed her down the hall, and my thoughts moved to my sketch book, to what I could actually show her. My brain was drawing blanks left and right.

In her room, Lorraine sat in her wheelchair facing me. I peeled off my backpack and sank into the chair next to the bed, which was between us. “Why do you want to see my stuff?” My heart was thudding. I noticed her baseball hat had fallen to the floor. I picked it up without thinking, and then, realizing what was in my hand, felt a wave of carsickness. I placed the cap on the nightstand on top of the tissue box.

“You think just because I have cancer, I’m not interested in art?”

A little laugh spurted out of me. “No, that’s not it. Most people aren’t into art. At least, most people I know, other than, like, my mom.”

She cleared her throat. “Pass me the tissues, wouldja?”

I lifted the hat, grabbed the box, and handed it over. She pulled out a tissue and spit into it. I turned my head.

“Because I’m MAGA? Is that it?”

I turned my head and looked at the print on the wall. It was a bunny in a field.

“For your information, Miss Fancy Art School, I used to have a business. I did decorating. Mostly doctors’ offices and stuff like that, but sometimes a rich lady client or two. I’ve always loved colors and arranging rooms so they felt good. Maybe that’s funny to someone like you, but it was like art to me.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

I pulled out my sketchpad and knew what I wanted to show her. I flipped to the portrait I had done of Rithu after her mastectomy two years ago. I had never shown it to anyone because Rithu asked me to keep it private, but somehow, in this situation, I thought it would be okay.

I placed it on the bed between us. The piece was made using a combination of pencil and charcoal. Rithu’s standing with her arms open, like she’s about to come in for a hug. She’s naked and smiling with her dark frizzy hair all messy like some kind of overinked bees’ nest. She’s stunning.

Lorraine studied my drawing for a long time, and while she was looking, something happened. It was like all the molecules in the air relaxed and there was oodles more space. The red on the blanket was more like cherries and less like a firetruck. The hair on the wig was softer, like the yarn Grammy used to knit for my cousins. And the birds in the oak tree outside sounded like they were laughing, not complaining.

When she finally raised her head, she just nodded. She looked into my eyes and her face looked like it might shatter into a zillion pieces.

***

Mama was making her pumpkin soup when I got home that night. “Smells yummy,” I said, putting down my backpack and slipping out of my bomber jacket.

“Come taste!” Her hair was in a high ponytail and she had on her piggie slippers, her Art Academy sweatshirt, and fluorescent green scarf. She looked like a muppet.

I pecked her cheek and picked up a spoon next to the pot. “Wow. More cinnamon this time. Love it.”

“How’s the MAGA-t?” She smirked and stirred.

I plunked myself down at the kitchen table. “You mean Lorraine. She had a good day. I showed her some of my stuff.” Mama prepared a plate of crackers and cheese slices, and I took one.

She turned and looked at me. “Doll-face, don’t do that. Those people will stab you in the back when they have the opportunity. What’s gotten into you, anyway?”

I picked up a slice of cheese and broke off the corners to make it into a circle. “I don’t think it’s about that. She used to be a decorator. I just think she was interested.”

Mama put down the spoon and sat in her spot next to me. “Petal, listen up. You can volunteer if you want. You can take care of the people who destroyed this country, the people who want to kill folks like Rithu and Jessie, the people who don’t care if women are dying in back alleys. The people who are responsible for the end of democracy. If you want to do that, go ahead; it’s your life. But I can’t stand by and watch you get personally involved. I don’t want you to get hurt. Do you understand what the stakes are?”

Working on the Harris campaign, there was a lot of talk about the stakes. I didn’t see what that had to do with showing Lorraine my painting.

Mama’s face was dripping with fear. I didn’t want to be the cause of that. “Fine. I’ll keep my distance. Just please don’t worry, okay? Everything’s gonna be all right.”

She looked down, her scarf and ponytail flopping forward. Then she lifted her hand up to her face and covered her eyes. Her whole body began to quiver.

I wanted Mama to take my hand in hers, but she didn’t.

***

That Saturday, I had a morning shift. When I went into Lorraine’s room, the TV was on. Fox News.

“Artist Girl, good to see you,” she said, voice thin and soft. She was lying back, her skin slightly yellow like the construction paper I did my grade-school drawings on that Grammy saved.

“Hi Lorraine,” I said and smiled. “How ya feeling?”

She shook her head. “Highway to hell, and if another person asks me that, I’m gonna shit bricks. Can’t you ask about the weather or something?”

“Sorry.” I came around the side of her bed. “How about a snack? I saw some orange Jello out near the nurses’ station.”

She made a fake gagging noise, laughed a little, then coughed. “When was the last time you were tempted by Jello?”

I sat down and nodded. She was right. “Fine. Anything else I can do for you? I’m here for two hours this morning and there’s not much going on.”

“Can you get me a stack of pancakes and some bacon? Maybe some coffee with real cream?” She laughed at her own joke.

“That sounds amazing,” I said, wondering again if she had people and why they weren’t here doing those things. I would bring Grammy her favorite pierogies, chocolate croissants, even one time a Big Mac.

Maybe she didn’t have people.

“Actually … you know, there’s a cafeteria downstairs, like for the doctors and staff and visitors. I wonder if … ”

“Petal, don’t worry about it. I mean, I’m probably not supposed to have that crap anyway. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“No, like, there’s no reason I can’t do that. Wait here.”

I dashed out, feeling like a rebel. It took a while, but I managed to get downstairs and order exactly what she wanted. It felt like a coup.

I wished I could have videotaped her face when I came in with the tray. I put it down on the rolling table and wheeled it in front of her.

“Help me sit up a little, wouldja?”

I did, and then I poured on some syrup, picked up the fork, and gently lifted a piece to her mouth. Once the piece of pancake was in, her eyes got wide and her whole face got the shines. We did that for a while, just the noise of nurses and patients in the hall and the occasional page on the intercom.

“You know what? I’m gonna tell you something else that I want.”

“Go ahead. Now that you know I’m pretty serious about following through.” I picked up the napkin and gingerly wiped syrup off her cheek.

“I wish I could see her.”

“See … who?”

“Maude. My tumor.”

I sat back. “Haven’t you seen scans or X-rays or whatever?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but you know how those are. They aren’t really what she looks like. It’s like a negative from a photo. I want to see her in living color. I keep asking, but they say there’s no real way of showing me.”

“But why? Why does it matter?”

She took a sip of coffee. Swallowed. Wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “I don’t know, Artist Girl. I just know that what things look like matters. I mean, Maude’s gonna kill me, so I think I have a right to see her. I want to have a picture of her that I can think about when I’m sweating at night, and thinking about dying. I’m the visual type.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’ll talk to your doctor. Maybe there’s some other way of imaging.”

***

Rithu reached over and grabbed a Dorito. “What are you doing for your sculpture project?” She crunched with her mouth open, which annoyed me like always.

“No idea.” I sipped my Diet Coke, hoping the caffeine would kick in soon.

“Get this—I’m gonna design a post-election Lady Liberty. Like, totally pissed off.” She smiled at her idea and took another few chips.

“That’s so great,” I said. “You have the best ideas. I really have no clue what to do.”

“How about the 2024 Pussy Hat that you did for drawing class? That could be cool in 3-D.”

“Naaah. I need something more emotional. Chloe keeps telling me I need to go more personal and less political.” I checked Rithu’s face for a reaction. Her work was always political.

“It’s your education, Petal. They can’t force you to make the kind of art they want you to make. You gotta be your own woman.”

When she said that, my eyes moved up from her eyes to her forehead. My brain did a little scan of hers. Then the idea came.

***

The sculpture project was due, so I didn’t get to the hospital until two weeks later. When I arrived on the floor for my shift, I was a little giddy. I carried a large paper bag with handles and a red ribbon attached.

I walked into Lorraine’s room. A bald man with wire-rimmed glasses lay in her bed. No Lorraine.

“Can you get me another pillow,” he croaked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, suddenly sweating. I turned around and went into the nurse’s station. There were three aides, chit-chatting.

“Hey, can one of you bring the guy in 207 a pillow? And by the way, where’s Lorraine?” I wondered if the silly desperation showed on my face.

“She’s in hospice. They moved her yesterday,” said one.

My blood stopped cold in its tracks.

I turned and headed for the elevator.

The hospice was a few blocks away. The air was brittle. I’d forgotten gloves, and my knuckles stung as my hand tightened around the bag. In my head, I heard Rithu’s voice from the video she made after she saw my piece, something we’ve been doing with each other since high school. “Three words: Lush. Emotional. Organic. There’s, like, so many different ways to understand this. It could be coral, or mushrooms, or an alien dessert. But the title puts us in your world as the artist, which leaves us with space to experience both interpretations. Wow, girl, you totally took your work to the next level.”

I found Lorraine sleeping in her new room. A ray of sun seared through a crack in the curtains, warming a spot on her bed. Her red baseball cap sat on a desk with a Danielle Steele paperback, two pairs of hoop earrings, her wig, and a different issue of Interior Design. The MAGA blanket covered her sleeping form, showing only the top of her head. Tiny new hair follicles covered her scalp. Her mouth was slightly open and she made little sleep sounds.

I took the Maude sculpture out of my bag and set it down on the desk next to her hat. I thought about Rithu’s comments. I grabbed a post-it note on the desk, pulled out a pen from my jacket pocket, wrote the title, “Her Lovely Assasin,” on the napkin, and stuck it under the sculpture.

I touched Lorraine’s blanketed foot and turned; but then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement from the bed.

“You came.” Her voice was small. So small.

Shadows encased her eyes, and she had lost weight in the two weeks since I last saw her. I forced a smile. “How’s things?”

She rocked her head back and forth. “Been better. Been worse.”

She looked around the room, maybe embarrassed by the clutter, but the second she saw the thing I had left she did a double take. “What the heck … ”

My face flushed. What to say? “I guess … you inspired me.”

Her eyes changed into a seven-year old’s, all fascination and delight. A few of the lines on her face softened, and she giggled, brought her hand to her mouth. She looked at me, opened her mouth, then closed it. Shut her eyes. Breathed slowly, in and out.

I looked at my watch shifting my weight. The clock above the doorway ticked. Muffled voices from the hallway floated into the room.

“I told you I wanted to see her,” she said hoarsely.

“Yeah.”

Then we were both quiet.

She looked at the sculpture, then back at me. “You did it, Artist Girl. Thanks.”

I looked down at my turquoise boots, wondering what would happen next. Then, a thought popped into my head.

“Why did you stop being a decorator?

She took a shallow breath. “I got my certification revoked. They made me stop. I never wanted to stop.”

I stared. “Why? What happened?”

“Business liability insurance,” she said, voice weak. “I was on the street after my divorce, and by the time I had enough to be able to pay, it was too late. Stupid. I don’t think about those days much anymore. But just between us, I miss it. I miss making a space gorgeous.”

She closed her eyes, snored lightly, and rolled onto her side. I looked at the sculpture and back at Lorraine. Then I left her room for the last time.