Six Days Is All She Wrote…

Should I borrow from Sting to start out the blog?  Of course, that song was “Seven Days” and it was the end of a relationship he was singing about.

Alright, a massive break up…

Dear Cancer,

Your days are in the single digits now.  I may be going under the knife, but you are going to be the dead victim of an attack a la the movie “Hostel.”  I will not miss you when you are gone.  You will leave your mark on me: body, mind, and spirit.  I, however, am going to kick your ass!

I do not love you, and in fact want you gone so badly that I am happy to lose parts of myself if it means you get out of my life.  My future is so much brighter with you gone, from the simple things to the complicated and deeply meaningful.

You are a bastard.  You have sapped my energy, weakened my immune system, frightened my children and wrought havoc in the start of my relationship.

Enjoy it while it lasts…for what little time it lasts.  I’m through with you.

Love,

Me

Hmmmmm…well, if I were comfortable enough to write the F word all over the place it would really tell you how I feel.  Becky’s feelings are:

Tumor, meet Dexter… Dexter, tumor is a serial killer.  Game on!

(Although personally I prefer to not think so directly about the cutting instruments used by Dexter, the sentiment makes perfect sense to me.)

The bottom line is, none of this ordeal is funny.  I am scared fully sh*tless, and sad, and filled with trepidation that keeps me up at night.  Despite that, I am stubborn enough that I am going to laugh at this damn illness – even when I have to dig deep to find the comedy.

So, tomorrow evening we will be doing a tasteful, artistic, Plaster of Paris model of my breasts…  Next up, where to hang it in this house?

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