A nagging pain developed in my right side recently. A dull, unexplainable ache in the breast area. One of those places that I check often but hope to find nothing. My last mammogram was fine, thank God, but this ache became annoying enough that I scheduled an exam. Because my mother had breast cancer at age 83, my doctor sent me straight for repeat tests. I dread it every year but I go because I hate cancer more. I hate it because it snuffed out the life of my daddy, just retired with a new granddaughter he adored (my firstborn) and plans to travel, explore and enjoy life with my mother. He died only months after the diagnosis. I held his hand as he passed from this life to the next. How I hated seeing this gentle, quiet man suffer. I hated the disease even more.
I hate cancer because it ripped my precious friend, Diane, from me. Joined at the heart, we did everything together from decorating and redecorating houses to singing to shopping to traveling to laughing so hard we cried. I climbed into the hospital bed with her right before she died and we celebrated the too-few years God had allowed us to share. She promised she’d send me ideas when I get into a hard spot creatively. I believe she does. I miss her. I despise that wicked disease.
