Cancer.


If you survive long enough, you may even forget. Every three months, then 6, then maybe once a year. The ABC tests, as my dad would call them. For 51 weeks you just live, go about your business, then the poking and prodding, peeing in cups. Invasion, once again. A reminder of your vulnerability and mortality; an unpleasant reminder of your fight; if the physical scars weren’t enough.
The worst week of your year, waiting for results. What if? No. Don’t go there. There’s no need to borrow trouble. Yet, its foolish not to at least begin to prepare for all possibilities. You want them to call. Why haven’t they called? Surely they would have called by now.
How long has it been. Oh, Two days. Not forever as it seems. Five days is like a year, the weekend never drags on so long.
Vampires, taking blood and soul, like it’s just a job to them. It is. You give it because they tell you to. What choice do you have? None. It is for your own good after all.
I guess you could give up. Roll the dice. Forgo the annuals, and just live. And you may. You just may one day.
Ignorance is bliss you know?
Tend to your affairs. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst, having stared both directly in the eye.
No one knows who will live or die.
Cancer is a son of a bitch.

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About Janis Alanis

Thinker, BS detector, champion of Reason. Unafraid. Ticked off, and riled up. View all posts by Janis Alanis

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