22 Years of Cancer

Living with cancer for 22 years is fucked. It’s just fucked.

I love my dad. I don’t want him to die, but I know he will. We all die. It happens.

My long-term struggle is with the spectre of death. It’s there in the shadows. Always there. We don’t see it with everyday, healthy lives.

Fucking cancer.

It still curls its tendrils tightly inside him. Growing. Shrinking. Growing some more.

Sick.

So sick. Rotten insides sick. From cancer; from the treatments. He’s sinew and bone.

I see 22 years of sharing his life with cancer written all over his face.

Now his markers are up again and the feeling I’ve known for more of my life than without it, sinks into my stomach. Here we go. Again.

I know we’re supposed to be strong for him. Strong for ourselves. Chin up. Shoulders square. Brave.

Fuck that shit.

Some days suck.

Some days it feels like there’s a fetid wool blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

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