Cancer.

It’s just a terrible word, isn’t it? It’s one of those words that you spit out like gritty sand from an unwashed piece of celery. Or one that you only refer to in hushed whispers. “He’s got cancer.” It becomes tangible. Something you can touch, scrape, throw with force against a wall and kick.

I hate the word cancer.

And I’m tired of it bothering the people I love.

First my grandmother.

Then my other grandmother.

Then my mom.

Then Michael’s dad.

Now the father of my oldest friend.

Every time I hear about it affecting someone else I get enraged. Why? Why them? Why now?

I hate that people die from it.

I hate that people lose pieces of themselves to it.

I hate that it’s a reality that we cannot escape.

My sister and I will have to begin getting mammograms in our early 30s.

Michael will have to be screened at a young age too.

And my friend will have to sit by her father as he goes through chemotherapy.

At least Cancer doesn’t try to hide behind it’s name. It’s not going around as “Pillow” or “Kitten” and trying to fool us all.

Cancer is out there. Loud and clear.

And I’m really pissed off about that.

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