Yesterday I would have preferred to celebrate my parent's 67th wedding anniversary. (Dad died weeks before their 63rd.) Instead, I sat in the waiting room while Mom was getting her 3rd of 14 under-her-eye radiation treatments for cancer. I could barely keep myself from bursting into tears at the sight of teenagers and the elderly alike ravaged by this disease. I hate cancer. I hate what it does to the patient. I hate what it does to the family. I really hate cancer.
But oh, how I love the bravery and courage of patients; even those who think they aren't being brave at all. I love the families and caregivers and friends who rally around their stricken one, taking them to and from appointments, encouraging them, enduring their own distress. I love the warm, gentle and genuinely kind staff who are commissioned with the medical rituals to eradicate cancer from the stricken bodies.
Cancer is a war. We don't always win the corporeal battle but we can never, ever give up our soul to this insidious enemy. Love must always win. Hope must always prevail. And one's life must always go on, even if it's in a realm other than our own.
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