A silent, mysterious predator, She lies in wait.
An ever tightening coil of despair that closes in with age, and the cries of another one down.
Cries that echo all the evil things you’ve ever done and not done, as She eats the person next to you alive.
Then turns to you.
Cancer is a Bitch.
She makes you wish for a past you never valued, because the promise of a loved one’s future is now gone.
Then hate yourself for knowing if tomorrow came again, it would probably look the same as it did yesterday.
And there She has you, paralysed in a pool of poisonous regret.
Tracing back to the precise moment She showed up. Only to realise it was probably a moment just like the one you’re having now.
Right there with her ugly, unhatched spawn.
Where’s Sigourney Weaver when you need her?
(Barely two months out from her 70th celebration, my mother’s twin was diagnosed with a massive, malignant brain tumour. The prognosis is not good. There were few signs, apart from what the doctors thought was a debilitating depression. Turns out there was a reason, after all.)
If you knew how you were going to die, would you change anything?