“I don’t want to be a damn flower.”
The thought raced through my mind before I even knew what my brain was saying to itself the first time I showed up in the oncologist’s office to find out if the giant mass growing in my chest was cancer or not.
The flower itself was beautiful, both in appearance and sentiment.
A white orchid brushed with just the slightest touch of pink, it was a kind memorial to a woman I’ll never know who lost her battle with cancer years before I ever walked through the doors of Hartford Hospital.
And it was the last thing I wanted to see while I checked into the oncologist’s office.
I’m acutely aware of the fact that that probably makes me sound like a massive asshole.
And I’m also acutely aware of the fact that simply using the words “damn” and “asshole” is enough for some people to check out of this post altogether and send me messages reprimanding my use of “unwholesome language.”
But here’s the thing.
Actually, here’s the two things.
First, if using mildly harsh language to talk about my battle with cancer bothers you, then you have my envy. I would love to have a life where legalism was my biggest concern, rather than a relapse of Hodgkin’s that will leave me with a 50/50 chance of seeing my little girls grow up to be the incredible women I know they’re going to be.
Cancer is a nightmare and it deserves the harshest language we can throw at it.