Ashamed of Myself

I am scum.

No, I am lower than scum. I am the bacteria that forms scum. I am germy and icky and deserve to be scrubbed away with the harshest bleachy scum cleaner available on the market.

You know that guy you work with that is so over-the-top friendly that it gets a little annoying? You hear him on the phone and you cringe at the squeaky, cheesiness of his voice? He energetically wishes you a good morning each day while you grimace into your coffee and reply through clenched teeth? You know, the jovial guy who is always cheerful and wouldn't hurt a fly, and has just the perfect touch of humor in all he says and feels such ease with people that he seems almost practiced or that he rehearsed his conversations that morning before leaving home?

Well I have been complaining about this guy since he started here. I have been, shall we say, not-so-nice to him. I have been irritated by the fact he has called in sick to work more times than he's actually shown up. I have made fun of his phone etiquette to a fellow co-worker.

Today, I found out he is being treated for liver cancer.

I am scum.

He is going to try to come to work this week. And then what? Do I suddenly become his friendly cubicle neighbor? Do I change my behavior because, let's face it, the man might be dying? Is it too late to change? Has he noticed my lack of interest in his weekend plans and will find me fake and pitiful when I ask him what he's been up to lately?

And to make things worse, I have an appointment for an ultrasound today to check for cancerous cells and cysts. I am probably healthy as a horse, and yet have been known to wish disease upon myself when I am at my lowest. He obviously cherishes life and makes the most of each moment.

I am scum.

If I could take on all he is going through in order for him to continue living his full and happy life, I would do it in a heartbeat.