This past January, a web site invited readers to write a letter to their cancers. In retrospect, I wish I could send it a post card. You know: “Having a wonderful time. Glad you are not here. Drop dead, Me”
But here’s the letter:
My doctor says our disease has a tempo. Please refrain from jitterbugging or creating a molecular mosh pit.
Could you go slow like airport security lines, Amtrak trains or a year full of Mondays?
My doctor says I am stable. I often wonder how you picked the bones you did. Were those the lazy bones? How did you bust out, anyhow? I guess the neighborhood watch wasn’t paying attention.
Every three months my doctor sends me for scans. So far so good. But will this be the time you start popping up all over like dandelions in July?
My grade school teachers often said I wasn’t working up to my potential. I hope the same can be said for a long time about you, Cancer. Indolent is the way to be.
I hope you are parked on your cancer couch somewhere eating Doritos and watching “I Love Lucy” reruns. Don’t let this bother you, but someday soon I am going to decode my genome.
Some people knit. I am going to proofread my DNA.
I’m going to figure out what wrong and when I do, I’m going to have the kind of double helix that would make James Watson jealous of its perfection.
Take it easy,
P.S. If you ever thought of leaving permanently, I would be happy to pay for your relocation costs. Cancun is very nice this time of year.