It's my firm intention to whop cancer into submission and I truly

Host: The hospital courtyard shimmered under the soft light of late afternoon. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and antiseptic, that strange combination of beauty and fragility that only hospitals seem to know. A few pigeons fluttered near the fountain, where the water spilled gently from a cracked marble lip. In the corner, under a maple tree, Jack sat in a loose linen shirt, his face pale but his eyes alive, the kind of aliveness that comes when you’ve met something bigger than fear.

Across from him, Jeeny arrived carrying a paper bag, the faint aroma of roasted vegetables and herbal tea rising from it. She set it down on the bench beside him.

The quote he’d been reading glowed faintly on his tablet, words highlighted like prayer:

“It's my firm intention to whop cancer into submission and I truly believe I've given myself the best start possible by radically overhauling my diet and by staying true to my motto, which is: Don't worry, be happy, feel good. The first thing I did when I was diagnosed was to turn vegan.” — Larry Hagman

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I never thought I’d hear Larry Hagman talk about tofu and optimism in the same sentence. The man played J.R. Ewing, for God’s sake. Now he’s out here battling cancer with kale.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it, Jack. Even the strongest roles can’t shield us from the truth of our bodies. At some point, we all have to face what’s killing us — and decide how to live with it.”

Host: The leaves rustled, carrying with them the smell of wet soil and the faint hum of the city beyond the gates. Jack smiled, tired but defiant, his fingers tracing the quote again on the screen.

Jack: “He said he wanted to whop cancer. I like that. It’s not meek. It’s not surrender. It’s a duel.”

Jeeny: “And yet his weapon wasn’t chemotherapy or rage — it was kindness to his body. That’s the paradox of healing, Jack. You fight by softening.”

Jack: “Softness doesn’t win battles.”

Jeeny: “It wins the ones that matter. The ones inside you.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk in a yoga ad.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man afraid to be gentle with himself.”

Host: A pause stretched between them. The fountain’s rhythm filled it, soft and measured. The world outside the hospital moved on — but here, time folded in on itself, the seconds tender and deliberate.

Jack: “You really think diet makes a difference? That plants can do what medicine can’t?”

Jeeny: “Not alone. But healing isn’t one thing, Jack. It’s not pills or prayers or vegetables. It’s all of it — together. It’s a conversation between hope and biology.”

Jack: “You think hope can beat cancer?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think hopelessness helps it.”

Jack: “So what, you eat spinach and smile your way to remission?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes smiling is the only treatment left.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands. The faint tremor betrayed him — a reminder of the chemo still threading through his veins, the fatigue like wet sand in his bones. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, then reached into the paper bag Jeeny had brought.

Inside was a small container of bright green salad — avocado, chickpeas, spinach, sunflower seeds glinting like tiny suns.

Jack: “Vegan, huh? I thought you’d never join the cult.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a cult. It’s a rebellion — against the idea that comfort should taste like destruction.”

Jack: “You sound like a pamphlet.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a skeptic who’s still chewing bacon in his dreams.”

Jack: “You’re not wrong.”

Host: She laughed softly. The sound was like a bell — small, grounding, unpretentious. Jack speared a forkful of salad, hesitated, then took a bite. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as though his body itself was unsure whether to trust this new form of kindness.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. Ever since the diagnosis, everything tastes different. Even water. Like the body knows it’s under surveillance.”

Jeeny: “It’s not just the body, Jack. It’s the awareness. Once you’ve looked death in the eye, even a sip of tea feels like a sermon.”

Jack: “And yet, here we are, talking about lettuce as redemption.”

Jeeny: “Lettuce is life, if you choose to see it that way. Hagman wasn’t just fighting cancer — he was reclaiming authorship over his days. The disease was writing the plot, and he said, ‘Not without my edits.’”

Jack: “So, what you’re saying is, healing isn’t about control — it’s about rewriting the narrative?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. With whatever pen you’ve got — even if it’s just a fork.”

Host: The sun broke through the clouds, scattering gold across the courtyard. The light touched Jack’s face, and for a moment, the years of strain seemed to melt away. His eyes softened, his voice dropped to almost a whisper.

Jack: “I used to think happiness was indulgence — food, comfort, control. Now I realize it’s gratitude. Just… tasting something and knowing you’re still here to taste it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what ‘Don’t worry, be happy, feel good’ really means. It’s not denial. It’s defiance. It’s refusing to let fear steal the small joys.”

Jack: “And the first thing he did was go vegan.”

Jeeny: “Because sometimes the first step toward healing isn’t a treatment — it’s a decision. A line drawn in the sand that says, ‘I’m on my own side now.’”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I don’t have to. You just took the first bite.”

Host: The wind carried the faint scent of the hospital kitchen — coffee, bleach, something fried — but it couldn’t touch the quiet clarity between them. The courtyard felt sacred now, as though the world had momentarily agreed to stop hurting.

Jack finished the salad, slowly, carefully. He set the fork down and leaned back, looking up at the sky.

Jack: “You know what scares me most, Jeeny? It’s not dying. It’s dying before I start living the way I was meant to.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t let fear finish the story.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s just possible.”

Jack: “And possibility’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s always been enough.”

Host: A long silence followed — not awkward, but reverent. The kind that only appears between two people who understand that every second might matter.

The light faded into soft gold. Somewhere inside the hospital, a nurse called a name over the intercom. A child laughed — that unfiltered laughter that only innocence can produce.

Jack smiled.

Jack: “You know, maybe Hagman had it right. Maybe you can’t whop cancer like an enemy. Maybe you can only outlive it by loving your own body louder than the disease does.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t fight by hating what’s broken. You fight by feeding what still works.”

Jack: “Don’t worry. Be happy. Feel good.”

Jeeny: “The simplest theology there is.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, and the courtyard slipped into amber shadow. Jeeny gathered the paper bag, leaving the tablet on the bench. Its screen dimmed but the quote still glowed faintly — like a lantern refusing to die.

Jack looked at it one last time. Then he closed the lid.

He didn’t need the words anymore.

Host: As they walked back toward the hospital doors, their footsteps echoed softly on the wet stone. The world around them felt lighter — not cured, not conquered, but awake.

And for that brief, shimmering moment, health wasn’t a goal or a number.
It was simply this:

A meal. A laugh. A heartbeat. A choice to feel good anyway.