Even though I am thankful for the things I've learned and the ways I've grown because of cancer, I hate it.
I hate that it silently creeps in and rips normal routine out of families' lives.
I hate that it tears into the hearts of our children. I hate that it causes life-defining moments for them. I hate that it makes little ones consider the mortality of their parents.
I hate that it has the power to create panic that knows no bounds.
I hate that it is everywhere.
I hate that it still has the power to punch me in the stomach. Hard.
I hate that it causes questions over EVERY little ache or pain. Every one.
I hate that I have the knowledge now of what it feels like to hear unimaginable words.
I (unlike the rest of the world, apparently) hate the pink ribbon. I know what it means. I know it is good. I often wear one. I still hate it.
It is good that I can be of help to others who are battling cancer. It is good that I can accompany my dear niece and her strong and courageous husband on their appointment with the oncologist. And I am so glad they asked me to come.
But I hate the reason I am there.
Even being at the 'cancer center' with them punches me in the stomach. Inside, my head is screaming "why are you here? OH! YOU'RE HERE BECAUSE YOU HAVE CANCER!" And then, my rational side takes over. "NO! I HAD cancer. 'HAD' is PAST TENSE."
All this screaming and discourse going on in my brain while I am listening to the oncologist explain next steps to Jon and Dustine. I want to protect them from the terrible words they are hearing. I hate cancer.
In a post I wrote on my birthday last September, I said that I am thankful for the difficulties of cancer because I am thrilled with the blessings. I wrote that I would not change the past.
I am thrilled with the blessings. I stand amazed at what God has done in me and through me because of the trials of cancer.
But I still hate it.