February 7, 2002

The room is dark, a desk divides us. He sits, looking down upon me. “You have to stop crying and focus,” he exhorts. I feel the tissue against my face. Where it should be soft, a comfort, it is rough against my already-chaffed skin. Too many tears have fallen. I can’t cry and focus at the same time? I am confused. I can think of nothing but his admonishment, and I cease to hear his words. I know I must capture this information, but I can’t. I shouldn’t be crying?

Doesn’t he know I’m going to die?


Slash. Poison. Burn.

 I don’t know anyone who thinks that we’re doing enough to eradicate cancer. I don’t know anyone who even thinks we’re going about it the right way. Billions of dollars in awareness campaigns, research funding, support services…and we often appear to be no closer to a cure, let alone  than we were 50 years ago. Have treatments improved? Yes. Do we better address the multitude of cancer side-effects? Sure. But a cure?


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