Talk Vomit

By Jennifer Schomburg Kanke

People want me around for the endings of things I’ve never seen. In high school, my boyfriend invited me over to watch the final episode of Dallas with him and his mother. Before we started dating, it had been their Friday night thing. My knowledge of Southfork didn’t extend much beyond “I shot J.R.” t-shirts at the mall and jokes about things being all a dream. I still sat down on Mrs. King’s living room floor with a bowl of Jiffy Pop and tried to keep up the best I could. Often, that’s all we can do.

During grad school a friend invited me over to watch the end of Seinfeld. I had seen an episode here and there but had avoided it in general because people said I reminded them of Elaine. Still, I found myself sitting on the couch in Lisa’s living room, eating burned microwave popcorn and laughing when she laughed, following her lead.

What is this drive for togetherness? This need to share the grief, even with someone who missed the pilot, sweeps, and everything in-between?

When Crazy Ex-Girlfriend was about to end, a friend asked if we should have a watch party. I just wanted to sit surrounded by my grief for my parasocial friends without the added pressure of being a good hostess or guest, without worrying that my reactions were the right reactions. “Sure,” I said, and then relied on Newton’s first law, hoping that a party at rest would stay at rest. I never touched base with her about it again and eventually we all watched the finale in the comfort of our own homes and with our own popcorn (Pop Secret cooked in avocado oil, Kerry Gold butter and ghee on top).

A little over a month later, I was diagnosed with stage 2 ovarian cancer, had a radical hysterectomy, and began chemotherapy. Everyone, including me, wondered if this would be my last episode, and at first it seemed I would have no peace. People who’d never seen a single episode wanted to plan grand watch parties, write retrospectives, tell me what a good show I’d been. They petitioned the network with thoughts and prayers, told me what a beautiful fighter I was. But if this was my final episode, I wanted to be selective about my audience (which wasn’t a bad idea even if it wasn’t my final episode). I did long updates on Facebook because I believe what Muriel Rukeyser said about women telling the truth and splitting the world open, but I also got very good at responding “thank you” (and nothing more) when people I hadn’t talked to in twenty years messaged me to ask if there was anything they could do. There wasn’t, unless they could stop the side effects of Taxol on my nervous system. It took a while because of Newton’s second law; cancer is a very large force and it makes a very big push. Eventually people turned the channel to something else and I got to watch the way I wanted to, primarily on my own with just a select live studio audience. 

It feels disloyal to say this, because my friends were lovely and supportive, did all the things they thought they were supposed to do. Most people want to have a watch party. Most people want to talk right away about if the prison call really is the king of calls or if J.R. shot the mirror or himself. Not me though, not me.

I wasn’t cancelled after all. I was Mindy Project moving to Hulu, Lucifer going to Netflix, Tuca and Bertie on Adult Swim. I finished my last treatment at the end of September 2019 and so far, so good. 

But I worry I’m Julie and the Phantoms, promised another season, then, when the fans are all ready for spoilers and new songs, they get a notice of cancellation instead. #SaveJulieandthePhantoms got a little bit of traction on Twitter, trending for two days before something else came along and everyone just moved on.