Dec 2019
i am so sick and tired of the cancer game, that is merely what it is; a game. this game is four quarters long (on the other hand we could say it was four years). you watch from the bench as your team and cancer each score goals, each winning at different times in the game. but cancer is strong and a hell of a lot better at fighting. you sit on the bench, kicking and screaming, as you watch cancer tear your team to shreds. cancer doesn’t give up.
1st quarter; your team is winning, but still unable to walk without a walker.
2nd quarter; cancer is kicking *** and you keep begging to be put in, you want to help fight; it’s not your turn yet. cancer is winning.
3rd quarter is a race against time, the teams are tied, but you know what is going to happen, but no one wants to say it; you’ve already lost the game.
4th quarter; the game might as well be over. everyone has stopped cheering. they’ve lost all hope, but you continue to scream because you won’t be able to come back from this season.
10 minutes left; 3 months. the team has pretty much stopped playing; treatment is stopped. you still think your team will win, because they’ve pulled through before, right?
5 minutes left; 1 month. you hold tight to your team, you cannot stop holding tight. you know the ending, but no one will say it, still. you cherish every blank stare and gibberish speech. you take in exactly how she says your name and the way she holds her spoon. the game is coming to an end.
10 seconds left; 1 week. it’s getting harder, the field is dark and slippery, you cannot see what is right in front of you.
5 seconds left; 3 days. you hold your teammate as she sobs on the bench. you make do.
3 seconds left; 2 days. a time where you should be celebrating. you continue to look deeper within for some sort of answer from God, but you’re so full of doubt and despair that you cannot seem to find Him within the mess.
1 second left; 1 day. you call your mom to tell her about the game and how you cannot see a thing, but she is watching closer than you. you ask how the player is doing and she tells you it’s almost over. you find yourself praying for the end to come sooner, now maybe; but you can’t seem to imagine life without the game.
0 seconds left; the end. you stop, but the world around you keeps going. you’re broken inside, but you can barely keep it hidden. you walk out with a smile, that everyone can see through. you’re not going to be okay for a while. your nonni, she’s gone.
you go to the recognition ceremony and hold your cousin’s hand while others talk about the greatest player of all time, but you cannot seem to find the strength inside you to stand up and share how you found God again and how your nonni is to thank, because oh how awful it sounds to thank someone for having cancer and breaking you. you cling to your seat for days, wishing that things would change, but they don’t
you will have more seasons; better ones and worse ones too, you will get through them too.
1st quarter; your team is winning, but still unable to walk without a walker.
2nd quarter; cancer is kicking *** and you keep begging to be put in, you want to help fight; it’s not your turn yet. cancer is winning.
3rd quarter is a race against time, the teams are tied, but you know what is going to happen, but no one wants to say it; you’ve already lost the game.
4th quarter; the game might as well be over. everyone has stopped cheering. they’ve lost all hope, but you continue to scream because you won’t be able to come back from this season.
10 minutes left; 3 months. the team has pretty much stopped playing; treatment is stopped. you still think your team will win, because they’ve pulled through before, right?
5 minutes left; 1 month. you hold tight to your team, you cannot stop holding tight. you know the ending, but no one will say it, still. you cherish every blank stare and gibberish speech. you take in exactly how she says your name and the way she holds her spoon. the game is coming to an end.
10 seconds left; 1 week. it’s getting harder, the field is dark and slippery, you cannot see what is right in front of you.
5 seconds left; 3 days. you hold your teammate as she sobs on the bench. you make do.
3 seconds left; 2 days. a time where you should be celebrating. you continue to look deeper within for some sort of answer from God, but you’re so full of doubt and despair that you cannot seem to find Him within the mess.
1 second left; 1 day. you call your mom to tell her about the game and how you cannot see a thing, but she is watching closer than you. you ask how the player is doing and she tells you it’s almost over. you find yourself praying for the end to come sooner, now maybe; but you can’t seem to imagine life without the game.
0 seconds left; the end. you stop, but the world around you keeps going. you’re broken inside, but you can barely keep it hidden. you walk out with a smile, that everyone can see through. you’re not going to be okay for a while. your nonni, she’s gone.
you go to the recognition ceremony and hold your cousin’s hand while others talk about the greatest player of all time, but you cannot seem to find the strength inside you to stand up and share how you found God again and how your nonni is to thank, because oh how awful it sounds to thank someone for having cancer and breaking you. you cling to your seat for days, wishing that things would change, but they don’t
you will have more seasons; better ones and worse ones too, you will get through them too.
cancer *****
