Why I Want to Kill Cancer:

Why I Want to Kill Cancer:

In Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Pardoner’s Tale,” three arrogant young men set out to kill Death.  They have lost too many friends to Death and want to seek revenge.  The young men, however, become sidetracked by greed and deceit. They turn on each other, abandoning their search for Death.  I wish I could kill cancer.  I would not be distracted by greed or deceit.  The fiend would writhe as I strangled it. I would show no mercy to an evil killer who has taken people I love, murdering them in a slow and prolonged torture. 

My sweet mother was never officially diagnosed with cancer. By the time the growths developed, she was elderly and suffered from multiple health problems.  Even the doctors agreed that any radical treatment would be futile for her; however, they saw the growing tumors.  Cancer had no mercy.  The demon invaded her body, searing and scarring her very being. My beautiful mother withered away to almost nothing.  She had been elderly but hale.  Once the demon overtook her, she became too fragile, destroyed from within by an enemy she couldn’t fight.    As the end neared, I lay on the sofa by her bed, listening to her call for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to take her, to have mercy. On the anniversary of my father’s death, my beloved mother told me that I had to let her go. She died only a few days later, and I wondered for months if I could have saved her.  Alas, I couldn’t.  Nothing could. She was fighting an enemy more powerful than either of us and ten times more vicious.  Maybe some people survive this vicious illness but not many.

Now, I hate cancer anew because of what it did to my sweet cousin Trudy.  Trudy died this Christmas. She was so like my mother, a really sweet angel. As a nurse, she played an important role in helping me with my mother. She always looked out for others, caring about their feelings and well-being. No one was more beautiful or more vibrant. Less than two years ago, she was diagnosed with Multiple Mylenoma.  After undergoing chemotherapy, she was healthy for several months, but her aggressive cancer soon returned. This time, chemotherapy took her hair, her healthy weight, and exhausted her.  The treatments were almost as deadly as the illness, but they couldn’t stem the cancer.  The demon had invaded her body, filling her with deadly fluid and wrapping around her organs like a coiling snake.  Like my mother, she cried out in pain. Like my mother, she sought solace in faith.  No one was sweeter, kinder, or more loved. When she died, people came from around the world to tell her goodbye. Many traversed states and continents. Few people were so loved, and once again, I find myself hating cancer.  The thief has robbed my loved ones and me of one so dear. 

I hate cancer.  I wish it dead. It has taken too many. Let us raise an army against it.  

In Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Pardoner’s Tale,” three arrogant young men set out to kill Death.  They have lost too many friends to Death and want to seek revenge.  The young men, however, become sidetracked by greed and deceit. They turn on each other, abandoning their search for Death.  I wish I could kill cancer.  I would not be distracted by greed or deceit.  The fiend would writhe as I strangled it. I would show no mercy to an evil killer who has taken people I love, murdering them in a slow and prolonged torture. 

My sweet mother was never officially diagnosed with cancer. By the time the growths developed, she was elderly and suffered from multiple health problems.  Even the doctors agreed that any radical treatment would be futile for her; however, they saw the growing tumors.  Cancer had no mercy.  The demon invaded her body, searing and scarring her very being. My beautiful mother withered away to almost nothing.  She had been elderly but hale.  Once the demon overtook her, she became too fragile, destroyed from within by an enemy she couldn’t fight.    As the end neared, I lay on the sofa by her bed, listening to her call for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to take her, to have mercy. On the anniversary of my father’s death, my beloved mother told me that I had to let her go. She died only a few days later, and I wondered for months if I could have saved her.  Alas, I couldn’t.  Nothing could. She was fighting an enemy more powerful than either of us and ten times more vicious.  Maybe some people survive this vicious illness but not many.

Now, I hate cancer anew because of what it did to my sweet cousin Trudy.  Trudy died this Christmas. She was so like my mother, a really sweet angel. As a nurse, she played an important role in helping me with my mother. She always looked out for others, caring about their feelings and well-being. No one was more beautiful or more vibrant. Less than two years ago, she was diagnosed with Multiple Mylenoma.  After undergoing chemotherapy, she was healthy for several months, but her aggressive cancer soon returned. This time, chemotherapy took her hair, her healthy weight, and exhausted her.  The treatments were almost as deadly as the illness, but they couldn’t stem the cancer.  The demon had invaded her body, filling her with deadly fluid and wrapping around her organs like a coiling snake.  Like my mother, she cried out in pain. Like my mother, she sought solace in faith.  No one was sweeter, kinder, or more loved. When she died, people came from around the world to tell her goodbye. Many traversed states and continents. Few people were so loved, and once again, I find myself hating cancer.  The thief has robbed my loved ones and me of one so dear. 

I hate cancer.  I wish it dead. It has taken too many. Let us raise an army against it.