Cancer Lesson #79: I thought I had something to say.
I started blogging about cancer because I thought I had something to say. Or maybe I just had something I needed to express.
Looking back, I see myself as willfully naive, almost arrogant, about sharing my experience. And I’m no longer sure anything I can say has any value.
You see, in February, my friend Pat died of ovarian cancer, nine days before her birthday and almost exactly four years after being diagnosed. Some birthday present, eh?
Today I talked to a friend whose daughter-in-law also recently died of ovarian cancer, a death that was not peaceful or painless. And it struck me as it always does, why her and not me?
How is it that some of us get to live at least a little longer, while others — who have endured much more — seem to die too soon?
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t feel guilty because I’m still here, only incredibly fortunate and grateful. But I can’t help but wonder, “Why me?”
Nor is this post is a plea for compliments about my blog. Instead, it is an explanation for my absence.
Since my friend died — actually since it became clear there would be no happy ending to her story — I lost interest in posting to both my blogs. Anything I could write seems impossibly superfluous.
My words can’t bring Pat or my friend’s daughter-in-law back. These sentences won’t cure anyone, so why write them?
Why, in fact, write anything when infographics express more than anything I could say?