“Damn cancer,” I found myself thinking this morning. This happened while sitting in church, where I try to not cuss, even just thinking to myself.
Then I felt my eyes dampen, as they are while typing this.
A former co-worker died yesterday. I’m told it was cancer. I did not know he was sick; maybe he didn’t at the time I last saw him in August. Then I read this morning that popular ESPN anchor Stuart Scott, who had been embroiled for several years in a fight against cancer, died before his 50th birthday.
News like this makes me think again of my mother-in-law. Sure, she was 82 years old, but she was in otherwise remarkable health and still had plenty of plans, until cancer took her. Four months after she died, we found cancer in my bladder. It was successfully removed and we’re regularly monitoring the situation, but the threat looms.
And, of course, there have been many others through the years.
Finally, what brought on my silent curse, the preacher mentioned a friend of his, pastor in another church. “You might remember I’ve mentioned him before.” I nodded. His friend had fought pancreatic cancer and a year ago received good news. Well, the cancer has come back.