I’ve never said the C word.

I’ve imagined what I would say to her if she were a person. What do you say to someone who’s tried to destroy the center of your universe? The C word is reserved for the worst case scenario, the bad, the ugly. But I would use it. Just this one time.

“Cancer, ” I would say. And she would crane her neck to show that she was barely listening, without actually stopping what she was doing, just to prove to me that she had better things to do.

“Cancer. You’re a Cunt.”

She would laugh, unbothered, and I would start sobbing. And the world would turn.

Some flowers wilt. Some die. Some flowers are given the worst conditions. And yet. They bloom, and bloom

and bloom.

The truth is that cancer cannot be personified. It has no identity. It has no family, no personality, no hometown, no astrological sign (trust me, I’ve checked). It cannot be studied like people are studied. It cannot be compared to US.

WE. WE are stronger. We have family, friends, yoga, meditation, deep belly, pee- your -pants- laughter. Cancer will never be one of us. No one of us will ever be defined by cancer. It is inhuman. It is merely a thing (a cunty thing, but a thing nevertheless).

Cancer hasn’t seen what I’ve seen. Cancer hasn’t known the perseverance of a woman who finds a second opinion, third opinion, fourth opinion, and finally, lands a clinical trial. Cancer doesn’t know the joy of seeing a woman bald except for the slightest amount of white peach fuzz who dyes said peach fuzz blonde because, goddammit, it’s hair,  and she’s one classy lady.

Cancer, you’re a real big C U Next Tuesday, but that’s all you are. And you’re nothing compared to the bad ass bitch who raised me. So, there.