A friend of mine confessed to me yesterday that she might be out of remission--that is, her cancer may be coming back. She was put in remission about two years ago. She fears it's moved to her colon due to the symptoms she's having. She's scared. Her boyfriend doesn't want to face the possibility of her cancer returning, so she tells me. Like any good friend, I give a cheer and say we can beat it!
But she doesn't want to, rather she doesn't want to put herself through the trio she (un)affectionately calls "cut, burn, and poison", which is surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy. The last time she went through it, she described it as torture. She said she just wants to go to a tropical location, with a caretaker, where she can just pass away. She then told me how she wanted her mortal coil to be dealt with, and what she would leave me. I was horrified.
This is the girl who held my hand after I slashed my arm to ribbons, who shared to best conversations with, who was so strong in the face of everything -- except this. She wasn't even sure if there was a war yet, but she was already throwing up the white flag. She wouldn't hear my protests, saying fighting cancer destoryed her life the first vtime and it was just recently she managed to get everything into working order. But I told her it was fight and possibly lose everything, or not fight and lose it anyway. She didn't care.
I've never felt so helpless. Her test results come back tomorrow.