Fucking Cancer. I hate that word. It's crazy really, to hate a word. I guess I don't hate the word, I hate what it means. I hate that I know that word so intimately. I hate that so many other families have to know it and hate it as well. I hate seeing those beautiful little bald heads because I know what their family is going through. I hate watching those telethons for St. Jude's but I can't pull my eyes away. I hate that I'm sitting here at 12am hating the word cancer.
My son survived. He's a survivor, the toughest of the tough. He survived a bone marrow transplant, he survived so many other things that I have neatly been putting in the back of my mind, hoping one day that those horrible painful memories will someday be erased. I think I do pretty well most days. And then a night like tonight, so innocent in the start. Looking at hairstyles for my little girl, I come across a prayer request for some little girl being sent home after finding a tumor that won't stop growing. She died. Just 2 years old. 24 months, 104 weeks. That little bald head, watching a video of her dancing. It's like seeing a car wreck on the interstate, you know you shouldn't look but you can't help it. Then I think of my tough guy upstairs asleep and I can't stop crying. Survivors' guilt? How can that be? I didn't survive anything.
Fucking cancer. I hope one day I can stop hating that word, but I'm not holding out hope for that.