January 16, 2016
“This can’t be me. Someone else has metastatic breast cancer. Not I.” Through these past days, these words have occasionally penetrated my consciousness.
“I’m so healthy, go years without having a cold or the flu. Certainly no symptoms. No inkling of anything wrong. How can I have cancer?”
But I do. It really is me.
And so is life. We think of teenagers who drive their cars at dangerous speed, and who cavort carelessly about, and knowingly we smile, nod our heads and say, They’re so innocent, so untried. They have such a sense of invincibility, and we clack our jaws . . .but they will learn . . .
. . .now I see, I have been the same. Oh, I didn’t consciously take out the thought and look at it, didn’t handle it and check its ramifications, didn’t label it invincibility, yet now I stand shocked that it is I whose breast cells went askew, and while I was looking the other way, clacking my tongue at young, innocent ones who think they are invulnerable, those invisible cancer cells squirmed around in my body, began replicating, burst out of their boundaries, and traveled over to a couple of lymph nodes.
Me? You’re talking about me?