I Shall be Victorious

When they say “fighting breast cancer,” they’re not kidding; it’s an all out cellular war waged against yourself, all because of those few rogue cells that you can’t identify and that couldn’t be reasoned with even if you did. In this situation, everyone is the enemy.

With every battle the injuries to my troops increase and the stuff we use to fight our unseen enemy with builds up in the dark recesses of my body, amplifying the potency of every onslaught against myself. In my imagination, as I sit in the recliner allowing my “cure” to be slow dripped into me, heavily armed microscopic men run for cover, trying to get away from the greatly injurious stuff that attacks all cells equally, regardless of race, creed, color or cancer; but it is of no use - they’re hit, each time worse than the last. In my mind, I can hear their helpless screams as their eyes burn, their lungs seize and their flesh melts away.

It becomes a battle just to be able to walk across a room without walking into anything - never mind walking in any semblance of a straight line - and major concentration and war time tactics are employed when walking any distance exceeding 20 feet to keep from falling over.

For now, though, we rejoice, because we have taken the last major hit and shall hence forth fight smaller, less potent battles against that which shall make me better; so while the injury from this last fight is still raw, and while the remainder of my hair pushes itself away from this poisoned and inhospitable terrain, we smile, because even through the worst of it, I didn’t puke.