Go Home Cancer

Go home cancer. I am done with you. 

It’s 1:38 in the morning. I pushed away the pillow that is usually tucked between me and my husband. I scooted over to his side and pressed my forehead against his back. Closing my eyes against his warm skin, listening to him breathe, smiling at a sudden small snore. I try to remember what life was like before. I try to feel something, trying to will back my emotions and beat back the unyielding presence of this stupid disease.

And that’s when I realize how done I am. 

There is a strange place between surrender and acceptance. Between feeling and not feeling. Between grasping at control and understanding that real power comes from acknowledging how little control you actually have. 

I am not sad. I’m not hopeless. I’m not giving those sacred pieces of me to cancer tonight. I know a terrible, awful thing happened to me. I am acutely aware of what that did to me and the people who love me. But I also know the better, bigger parts of life. I know love, I know patience, I know grace, and I know strength. I know I don’t have it all figured out, but I trust that I’m making my way back. I have faith that I am reclaiming my life. Breath by breath, I am coming back to life.

So go away cancer. There is no room left for you here. I am closing the gap, pressing my head and heart against the life I choose instead. 

Give ‘Em Hell

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