Dear Cancer, Stay Away

Dear cancer,

Addressing you with an endearing title like “dear” seems inappropriate, and you also get the lowercase “c” most deservingly earned.

Let’s not beat around the bush: I hate you.

I’ve got some fair reasons to hate you. You’ve killed and maimed a fair few people I’ve known since I was a child. In the past six years, you tried to kill me twice, and believe me, I take that very personally.

You like playing the role of serial killer and mass murderer. You recently killed three friends. Three people with friends, families, and histories of existing. Mourning demands mental tasks like processing, investigation, and analysis, not unlike a crime scene. It’s a mockery for everyone who loved and cared for these people in their life to do this without any accountability. How do I take my rage out on cancer? I can’t. This is why I have a few things to unload.

Why can’t anyone keep you in line? It’s not for lack of trying. It’s frustrating to consider all of the investments made in time, money, and resources to wipe you out. There are so many research-driven and charitable initiatives aimed at putting you in your place. I once ran into a researcher at my previous workplace sharing a discouraging assessment of a newly-established cancer research center. This was about five years before my initial cancer diagnosis. Despite substantial funding, infrastructure development, breakthroughs, and knowledge accumulation, a cancer cure was “not even close” to existing within the realm of possibility. This revelation left me genuinely disheartened. That was more than a decade ago.

Folks are trying their best. Treatments improve all the time. The difference between my pre-op procedures and a friend having the same pre-op procedure one year earlier meant that I missed out on having a needle inserted in my nipple while conscious: a lack of nipple-needle is always welcome. I hear there’s a clinical trial for a breast cancer vaccine. Nevertheless, your appetite for young adults seems to have increased. It’s not encouraging, but it’s not a reason to surrender hope. Losing hope isn’t in my vocabulary.

Remember when you were the fourth horseman in a horrible year of my life? In 2019, my life was already marked by divorce, assault, and job loss, when you materialized in the form of breast cancer, stage 1. Your timing lacked any sense of decency. You returned for a stage 0 encore during the pandemic, demanding the removal of my entire breast during a period of global isolation. I mean, come on, stage 0 and you still needed to be settled down with amputation! You are genuinely guileless, but I’m still here.

Losing my breast left a lasting impact on how I feel about myself. Any hope of having a baby using my own biological parts is now unattainable because of radiation treatment. While you’re not to blame for my divorce, you sure hindered my re-employment prospects. You’ve become a significant player in my body image struggles, really amplifying the challenges to my overall mental health, all of which is intimately tied to my general well-being. That’s a cakewalk compared to what some of my cancer buddies have faced. I’m sure they don’t wish to have been abandoned by their husbands and pass their days feeling like an obsolete left swipe, either.

Stay away from my remaining breast and my genetically susceptible colon.

Now, I’d like to circle back to my father. What purpose did an 83-year-old man’s kidney serve you? He was already near the end of his life. I’m glad you didn’t claim his life, but why show up in the first place? What’s your interest in the elderly? What’s your interest in the vulnerable? You didn’t kill my father: heart disease and kidney failure beat you to the punch. My father had enough on his plate.

Keep your distance from my mother. I don’t want anything to do with my sister, but stay away from her. Stay away from my nieces, uncle, and cousins. Stay away from my friends.

Let’s talk about the pets. Your ghoulish influence extends to animals: remember when you gave my parents’ cat cancer? What is wrong with you? What, did something go wrong during cytokinesis when you were a baby? Were you concerned that you might not be the favorite? What a child. Go to therapy.

Are you still there, cancer? It’s me, Mara. I don’t get you. The concepts of understanding and empathy seem beyond your grasp. There is no reason behind those oddly-shaped nuclei that might be analogous to your brain. Whatever drives your actions, you definitely do not care about who gets hurt. I don’t believe you personally are listening to prayers, pleas, or suggestions. Do I talk to someone else? Maybe you have an attorney? Could it be a real estate agent? If I’ve had cancer once, maybe it shows that I attended your seminar, and if I have a recurrence… that means I bought into the time share? That would make a lot of sense.

At the end of the day, you’re a name given to mutated cells in the body failing to succeed at typical controlled cellular processes but succeeding to fail at just being a normal cell, and I will absolutely work that into my diss track about you. What’s the elevator pitch for hijacking someone’s own body to work against itself? At times, you appear to stay in your lane in the aftermath of immunotherapy, and sometimes you choose the chaotic approach. What is it that truly stirs your desires? What gets you up and out of bed in the morning? Why did you decide to apply for this job, cancer? What do you hope to gain from this unending experience?

While society often seeks redemption for those who have strayed from the path of righteousness, you’re not human. I have doubts about the possibility of any redemption arc. Can you ever be stopped? In the post-atomic age, I’m hopeful that medical science will eventually unravel the secrets to your eradication. You truly don’t deserve to live. Not much in life is black/white, good/bad, but you’re a rare exception. Nothing you’ve contributed to the world has been good. You’re all bad all the time.

Stay away from my friends and my family, and stay away from me.

Definitely your enemy,
Mara