It’s not about me today. It’s not about me at all.
I’m going to rant, so bear with me. It may or may not make sense.
I’m all for cancer research, but why is it that most of the money piled into breast cancer? (I’m going to hope that I don’t get breast cancer just for saying that.) There are tons of other cancers out there, ones that are equally horrible and yet, they can’t cure it. Or even attempt to cure it.
I’m talking about melanoma. I fucking hate melanoma. And we can sit here and be judgmental and say, “Well, if people just wore their sunscreen and checked their moles often, they wouldn’t have to worry about this,” and I’ll respond with, “I hate you.”
What if I were to tell you that the someone I know was a former police officer who happened to have a radar gun on his lap for multiple hours a week? And that radar guns use microwave radiation that could potentially cause tumors? And that his tumor happens to be where he kept his radar gun?
Melanoma is the most dangerous form of cancer. It can never be ‘cured.’ You can never be cancer-free when you have melanoma. I describe it as trying to put out a fire with a garden hose. It’s like being the fat kid on the playground who is trying to play catch-up with the other kids but just never can.
And the stress it causes. The stress is almost unbearable. It leads you and your family to be unrealistic and delusional. To hope and pray for miracles that will never come.
And it travels. It travels to any and every organ it can. Even your brain. Eating your body alive from the inside out. And then you seek treatment, only to find that the treatment sought caused the brain to bleed. And the bleeding in the brain caused you to be confused, tired, lethargic.
And you’re scared.
And your three year old tells you that it’s not a boo-boo, but it’s cancer.
And the cancer is not only killing you, but it’s causing you to leave behind a kid and a wife. Which in turn is emotionally killing them.
Never will you walk your daughter down the aisle at her wedding.
Never will you hold your grandchildren.
Never will you see your kid graduate kindergarten.
Never will you brush her teeth, wash her face or tie her shoe.
Never will you kiss her boo boos.
Never will you sing her to sleep.
Never will you do anything.
Because you’re dying.
But it’s not you. It’s not you at all.
My biggest drama of the week was Claire dumping out her glitter everywhere and Luca subsequently having glitter poop.
No one here is dying.
So hug your kids, your spouse, your dog, whoever, tight.
Because it’s not you who is dying. It’s not you at all.