Dear Cancer,
I am so mad some days about why I don’t have an ordinary life. When I was diagnosed, I was only 33 and my babies were not even 9 months old.
You robbed me of so many fragile memories I have of my babies. You robbed me of their first birthday—I had to be at chemo instead of celebrating. Weekends in the hospital, months where I didn’t get to pick them up because of surgical restrictions.
Their tiny hands reaching up, begging Mama. And I cried and said, “No, Mama has big owies.” Then I’m haunted as a survivor, all the trauma I endured. I know each moment can be so easily ripped away. Squeezing my babies tighter.
Cancer, you ruined so much for me and my family and it’s not fair. You stole memories. My youth. My hair. My breasts. Some friends and family members.
Life is never going to be the same. You took and took and took. It’ll never be fair.
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