The worst thing about cancer is
everything. It’s a deceiving little monster. It disappears and hides in the
shadows until it decides that it wants to reappear and ruin people’s lives. I don’t
know where cancer came from but I do know that it needs to be destroyed. I am
one person. I can’t do it myself and to be completely honest, I don’t have the
brains to do it myself (my brother, on the other hand, definitely does). Cancer
took one of my grandfathers and now it’s after the other—and winning. My father
says that he lived a good, long life and I’m not one to argue with that. But
why do the good have to be taken from us like this? As the tears pour down my
face and my fingers bounce of the keys of my laptop, I can’t help but notice
how mad I am at myself. I’m always so worried about such trivial things in my life while my brave, strong grandfather is
fighting for his life. How is that fair to him? How selfish am I to think that
my petty problems could be more important than his? And how embarrassingly self-centered
of me that I don’t stop and think about him every now and then.
I have one more opportunity to see
him for the rest of both of our lives. I’m going to make it count.
When my dad’s father died, I was
five years old. I didn’t understand any of it then. Now I understand it all…and
it scares me. I’m so scared.
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