More Than Just a Number (a.k.a. Cancer Kills People)
Living gratefully today, I appreciate my husband Darcy and son Sam, as well as early morning quiet.
I have known many people who have died of cancer, but most were just acquaintances or someone else’s relative. Two of my dad's sisters died of cancer, my aunts Rita and Rosella, who I never had the chance to know well. They died at 57 and 63. Ironically, Rosella, who was Mary Jo's godmother, also died of breast cancer.
I have thrown out statistics at various times in my writing, to emphasize my point or to raise awareness.
My sister Mary Jo, who died a week ago from metastatic breast cancer (MBC) is now one of the 40,000 that will be counted as casualties of MBC in 2019. That number looks and feels so much different with my sister’s smiling face looking back at me in a photo from her healthy days.
Cancer is a horrible disease. It wracks and ravages bodies and it breaks hearts. It creates pain and suffering. It cuts lives short. I hate cancer and what it does.
My sister is so much more than a number. Every cancer fatality is a person who lived and loved richly. Who leaves many behind to grieve their loss and the gaping hole created.
The reality of cancer is brutal. I recall another time when that reality hit home hard. Jenna was a 7th grader when she arrived at my school, on crutches and sporting a bandanna on her bald head. She was recovering from surgery and finishing up chemo to treat the Ewing’s Sarcoma in her leg.
Jenna’s cancer went into remission and she graced the halls of our school with a bright smile and a special energy. She was a real contributor wherever she went. She graduated and went off to her first semester of college, but the cancer had returned. Jenna died on November 24, 2008 at the age of 18.
I have a vivid memory of attending her visitation, a cancer patient myself. Wearing my wig and a fresh scar on my right breast, I had just finished my 4th round of chemo, and was weeks away from my bilateral mastectomy. It was an odd and unsettling feeling that came over me as I waited in that line. I felt cancer's impact. I felt it deeply and indelibly. I still do.
Today would have been Mary Jo and her husband Clay's 35th wedding anniversary.
Cancer sucks. Mary Jo died. Jenna died.
I am still here. It begs the question posed by poet Mary Oliver: “What is it you plan to do with your
one wild and precious life?”
Embrace it. Live it. Cherish it. Just for today. In so doing, I honor Mary Jo, Jenna, and every other cancer fatality.
I have known many people who have died of cancer, but most were just acquaintances or someone else’s relative. Two of my dad's sisters died of cancer, my aunts Rita and Rosella, who I never had the chance to know well. They died at 57 and 63. Ironically, Rosella, who was Mary Jo's godmother, also died of breast cancer.
I have thrown out statistics at various times in my writing, to emphasize my point or to raise awareness.
My sister Mary Jo, who died a week ago from metastatic breast cancer (MBC) is now one of the 40,000 that will be counted as casualties of MBC in 2019. That number looks and feels so much different with my sister’s smiling face looking back at me in a photo from her healthy days.
Cancer is a horrible disease. It wracks and ravages bodies and it breaks hearts. It creates pain and suffering. It cuts lives short. I hate cancer and what it does.
My sister is so much more than a number. Every cancer fatality is a person who lived and loved richly. Who leaves many behind to grieve their loss and the gaping hole created.
The reality of cancer is brutal. I recall another time when that reality hit home hard. Jenna was a 7th grader when she arrived at my school, on crutches and sporting a bandanna on her bald head. She was recovering from surgery and finishing up chemo to treat the Ewing’s Sarcoma in her leg.
Jenna’s cancer went into remission and she graced the halls of our school with a bright smile and a special energy. She was a real contributor wherever she went. She graduated and went off to her first semester of college, but the cancer had returned. Jenna died on November 24, 2008 at the age of 18.
I have a vivid memory of attending her visitation, a cancer patient myself. Wearing my wig and a fresh scar on my right breast, I had just finished my 4th round of chemo, and was weeks away from my bilateral mastectomy. It was an odd and unsettling feeling that came over me as I waited in that line. I felt cancer's impact. I felt it deeply and indelibly. I still do.
Today would have been Mary Jo and her husband Clay's 35th wedding anniversary.
Cancer sucks. Mary Jo died. Jenna died.
I am still here. It begs the question posed by poet Mary Oliver: “What is it you plan to do with your
one wild and precious life?”
Embrace it. Live it. Cherish it. Just for today. In so doing, I honor Mary Jo, Jenna, and every other cancer fatality.
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