July, 1992:
Me and my grandma, my Babushka, were walking, holding hands. I was small, oblivious: I didn’t know I was about to see a miracle.
It was hot and home was far. My mouth was dry. “I want water,” I said. “I need water!”
Babushka didn’t have water. “You want water?” she said.
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“Yes.”
“Well I only have a thermos with tea.” She knew I loved tea. “Do you want tea instead?"
“Uh-huh.”
“Then make me a cup with your hand,” she said. “I need somewhere to pour it.”
Babushka tucked down my thumb and curled my fingers around it. “Now hold still,” she knelt down and picked up the thermos, “hold very still,” she poured the tea into my tiny fist. I waited, timing it, then frantically motioned for her to stop just before the invisible liquid spilled over my hand. Babushka stopped pouring. I drank. It felt so good.
“It’s not too hot?” she said.
“No it’s cold,” I said.
“Oh it’s iced tea?”
I nodded.
“Oh-kay then, drink up,” she said, “I love you.”
April, 2007:
“I love you,” I said. My mouth was dry.
My grandma couldn’t talk. The tubes. She just blinked and squeezed my fingers.
I leaned into her. “I love you very much.”
She blinked again.
The sliding door whooshed open and my family walked in. “We love you, Mama,” said my dad. My mom was crying without sound. I could feel her tears. The sliding door whooshed again. The oncologist walked in and looked down, her lips pursed, her hands folded over a clipboard.
“We’ll be right back, Ma,” said my dad. “Right-back.”
Outside the ICU, the doctor told us her condition worsened overnight. “Her condition worsened overnight,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Silence. Nobody spoke.
I turned around and looked through the glass.
This is horrible, horrible copy ^
May, 2007:
After Babushka died, things were quiet for a few weeks. Quiet, quiet. Then I walked by an ad. It was downtown, glued to a poll. The copy was in all caps:
| CANCER SOLUTIONS DISCOVERED
| 97% SUCCESS RATE
oh so you quietly cured cancer?
fuck u.
I ripped it down and crumpled it up and threw it in a trash can with the other garbage. Seth Godin said crafting a story that tricks people into making short-term decisions they regret in the long run is the worst kind of marketing sin.
Yes:
Ads make promises.
Promises bring people hope.
Don’t fuck with a person’s hope.
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