Ironic
Dear Cancer,
I see you, tugging at the doorway, creeping around the corner. But they tell me you're not here yet, may never be. They call what I have precancer.
You have grown in my sacred space, invaded my privacy, and after five years of fighting, my body has not been able to expel the virus that has germinated you. You, like all animate beings, simply want to live. Yet this womb was not meant to grow your life, though you found it barren and empty. And so, we both fight for our lives over this sacred soil. This is my body. This is your breeding ground.
They tell me I am lucky we caught it early. My family, I mean. They tell me pre is a good word, to not be too concerned, and other people have struggled with this. Those words are not helpful. When the nurse called, she told me the news and just waited. There was so much dignity in the waiting, letting me choose my own response to this news of your advent.
And while you are mysterious, you have not been exactly subtle. The irregular bleeding, the pain in my abdomen, the exhaustion, and the digestion issues all make sense now. I can respond where I could not before. I now know what to eat, what it means when my body does strange things for no reason. As my dad says, "At least you know now, and you're not just feeling lousy for no reason."
But, Cancer, I want to live. We cannot coexist. One of us will eventually take the other's life. There can be no mutuality here. You will never learn to stop eating everything whole, to leave something for another day, and I will never stop fighting for my life. In the end, if you win, we both lose. If I win, you lose. Either way, your existence has a timeline, one I hope will be a brief blip on the expanse of mine.
Your timing is odd. For the first time in my life, I have long term plans. I can see where the road leads, and I see green hills, a shire and love and laughter all around me. I see the animals I call my family, a garden, my home. I am making my reality beautiful. You wait to ambush me on my way to the treasured future. The warning bell has sounded. You will not catch me off guard.
Seeing your shadow, I have decided to respond thusly. I will enjoy every moment I am able to. I will allow myself to cry, to feel, and to cherish all the vitality I can muster within my frame. I will listen to the doctors and take any means necessary to be rid of you. I will set my face like flint in this battle.
And I will be thankful for you. Thank you for showing me how much I have to live for. Thank you for affirming my choice to stay and face my tomorrows. Thank you for showing me who I love, how I love, and revealing the love others have for me. And thank you for finally telling me what's wrong with me. I have waited a very long time to learn this truth.
We found precancerous cells.
But this is not the end. It's just the beginning of another chapter, even another story. This is where I start to take my life as part of the dance of life and death. I don't want to die, and it feels good to finally be able to say that. I am not ready to say goodbye. After years of toying with the idea of releasing this mortal coil, it feels good to want to hold onto it.
I see you, tugging at the doorway, creeping around the corner. But they tell me you're not here yet, may never be. They call what I have precancer.
You have grown in my sacred space, invaded my privacy, and after five years of fighting, my body has not been able to expel the virus that has germinated you. You, like all animate beings, simply want to live. Yet this womb was not meant to grow your life, though you found it barren and empty. And so, we both fight for our lives over this sacred soil. This is my body. This is your breeding ground.
They tell me I am lucky we caught it early. My family, I mean. They tell me pre is a good word, to not be too concerned, and other people have struggled with this. Those words are not helpful. When the nurse called, she told me the news and just waited. There was so much dignity in the waiting, letting me choose my own response to this news of your advent.
And while you are mysterious, you have not been exactly subtle. The irregular bleeding, the pain in my abdomen, the exhaustion, and the digestion issues all make sense now. I can respond where I could not before. I now know what to eat, what it means when my body does strange things for no reason. As my dad says, "At least you know now, and you're not just feeling lousy for no reason."
But, Cancer, I want to live. We cannot coexist. One of us will eventually take the other's life. There can be no mutuality here. You will never learn to stop eating everything whole, to leave something for another day, and I will never stop fighting for my life. In the end, if you win, we both lose. If I win, you lose. Either way, your existence has a timeline, one I hope will be a brief blip on the expanse of mine.
Your timing is odd. For the first time in my life, I have long term plans. I can see where the road leads, and I see green hills, a shire and love and laughter all around me. I see the animals I call my family, a garden, my home. I am making my reality beautiful. You wait to ambush me on my way to the treasured future. The warning bell has sounded. You will not catch me off guard.
Seeing your shadow, I have decided to respond thusly. I will enjoy every moment I am able to. I will allow myself to cry, to feel, and to cherish all the vitality I can muster within my frame. I will listen to the doctors and take any means necessary to be rid of you. I will set my face like flint in this battle.
And I will be thankful for you. Thank you for showing me how much I have to live for. Thank you for affirming my choice to stay and face my tomorrows. Thank you for showing me who I love, how I love, and revealing the love others have for me. And thank you for finally telling me what's wrong with me. I have waited a very long time to learn this truth.
We found precancerous cells.
But this is not the end. It's just the beginning of another chapter, even another story. This is where I start to take my life as part of the dance of life and death. I don't want to die, and it feels good to finally be able to say that. I am not ready to say goodbye. After years of toying with the idea of releasing this mortal coil, it feels good to want to hold onto it.
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