I’m here to remind you just how terrible you are.
I’m struck by a memory — a joyful one. I remember a night filled with laughter, drinks, and dancing well past the bedtime of typical parents. My partner and I were out with friends, and the energy was electric. We shared hilarious stories and maybe crossed a line or two with our jokes. Someone even laughed so hard she had an accident but was too caught up in the moment to care.
Those were the days of genuine joy, when laughter left us with sore cheeks and happy memories. We were just ordinary people enjoying life, blissfully unaware of your looming presence.
Recently, I walked into that same bar to grab takeout, but instead of memories of fun, I was overwhelmed by a wave of nostalgia. I looked around and saw families enjoying their meals, and it hit me — we aren’t those people anymore. Almost two years ago, you, Cancer, chased away our normalcy.
Now, we’re consumed by sadness and anger, navigating hospital visits and treatments instead of enjoying family dinners and outings. The vibrant conversations we once had are now often replaced by tears. My children, all under ten, sense the heaviness in our home. It breaks my heart to explain to them why their father can’t play or engage like he used to. One of my little ones even expressed her wish to have her “old dad” back.
Your impact is profound, Cancer. You’ve drained every last ounce of joy, leaving anger in its wake. I rage against the countless dreams we had — family vacations, camping trips, and those father-daughter dances that now hang in uncertainty.
And let’s not even talk about our intimacy. (Mom, please ignore this part.) I might not excel in the kitchen or cleaning, but I took pride in that aspect of our relationship. We had our share of silly squabbles, yet we loved each other deeply.
Seeing elderly couples walk hand in hand fills me with frustration. Cancer, you’ve robbed us of that potential future together. The doctors have said we may not have the chance to grow old side by side like we always imagined. We used to joke about how we’d annoy each other in our golden years, but now that’s a dream that’s slipping away.
I can’t help but feel furious that the medical staff only see a frail version of my husband, a man who once swam the length of an Olympic pool with ease and lived life to the fullest. They’ll never know the joyful man who was my partner through all of life’s challenges, including the birth of our children.
Cancer, you’re a thief, and I despise you for what you’ve taken. Yet, despite everything, we’ve discovered a community of support that uplifts us. Friends and neighbors rally around us, helping with the kids, and providing meals when we’re too weak to cook. Those acts of kindness keep us grounded through this fight, as our kids continue to experience the joys of childhood.
Even though you’ve stolen so much from us, you can’t take away the cherished memories we hold dear. You won’t erase the moments of laughter shared, the love we’ve built, or the beautiful memories of our family. The only thing I can give you is my middle finger — that’s what you deserve.
In this time of despair, I’m reminded of the importance of hope and community support. If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, check out this informative post. For those looking into insemination kits, BabyMaker is a great resource. You can also visit RMANY for additional insights about pregnancy and home insemination.
To summarize, Cancer is a relentless foe that has stolen our joy and normalcy, leaving behind a trail of anger and sadness. Yet, amidst the darkness, we find strength in community and cherished memories that will not be taken from us.