When S called on Monday – the very day some sociopath bombed the Boston Marathon – to tell me the cancer had spread to her brain, I didn’t feel anything. Not numbness. Not upset. Not defeat. Nothing.
I’ve decided that’s because this news of a brain tumor is a horse pill. It is one supersized pill too far. No matter how I try to swallow it, I can’t. I just keep spitting it out. It doesn’t matter what hopeful or devastating statistics it’s hidden in, it’s not going down. So I refuse.
There’s no doubt a pinky-nail-sized tumor exists. Yes, I see you cancer. But even though you are 1.5 inches deep into cerebral business in which you do not belong, I refuse to accept you.
Be it denial or instant acceptance, either way I’m fine with rejecting this brain tumor of a horse pill. I know that one day I will have to choke it down if the cancer wins, but for now and as long as I can, I refuse.
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