February, March, April, May...
Four months was all it took to watch her get swept away. Through the fear and the white walls and the sea views and the long road from her door to the familiar clinical scent and back to the bed that replaced the comfort she knew for thirty years. Three husbands, a life of adventure, with the perfect mix of sass and class. Growing in her bones, growing in her chest, making her brittle. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Chemotherapy. Cancer. Radiation. Cancer. The illness that made her cry. Cancer. Pray. Cancer. Laugh. Cancer. Fear. Cancer. Stage IV adenocarcenoma. Cancer. Less than five percent survival rate. Cancer. Three weeks left. Cancer. Hospice. Cancer. I miss you. Cancer. What can I do to help, Nana. Cancer. I just want to make the pain go away. Cancer. DNR. Cancer. I Love you so much. Cancer. Mom, you have to come home. Cancer. I wish I knew how to save you. Cancer. Look into medical schools. Cancer. I'll always be with you. Cancer. I'll be back tomorrow. Cancer. I've only seen my father cry three times. Cancer. What am I gonna do? Cancer. Cancer. Fucking Cancer.
