My Shadow Side vs. Cancer

(This post is not for those with weak stomachs! After a particularly difficult night, I'm angry and tired today...Angry that Anthony's cancer causes him pain, disrupts his sleep (and mine), and robs us of quality time together. This is written, definitely from my shadow side... Nevertheless, I told you I would share my journey with you, in the spirit of honesty and truth. Today, anger and frustration has come forth to speak, and so I share, and trust you'll understand.)

OK. Enough is enough.  I’m really angry and I’m sick of this cancer thing. I’m so sick of it that I want to reach inside Anthony and pull it out. Just pull every last piece of it out of him. I want to gather it all up, form it into a ball that fits in my hands and then I want to beat the living hell out of it. 

I can think of lots of things I could do with that ball of cancer. I could throw it on the floor, just slam it down, then stomp on it. Jump up and down on it...like I’m hitting the keys on my keyboard...fast and hard. I imagine it would fight back and resist being squashed, but that’s OK by me. That would just give me more time to figure out how to destroy it.

I could pick it up and throw it against the wall. Just twirl it around and then fling it, hard, against the wall. Throw it with all the force I could muster. I picture it sticking to the wall, little bits of its guts dripping down. Now, it looks like I’m making some progress...it finally looks like I’m hurting it.  Wait...Do I hear it whimpering a little?

Next, I could scoop it up and place it on a cutting board and take out the Chinese chopping knife that Anthony loves so much. I’d push it all together in a mound, then start chopping in one direction, turn it and chop across in the other direction, pushing that knife down with as much force as I could...no matter how hard it resisted. I’d chop it into manageable pieces and turn a deaf ear to its crying and wailing. Why shouldn’t I? It goes about its business boring into Anthony and hurting him as I cry and wail and beg it to stop.

Then, I could pick up all the pieces and throw it into my food processor and hold the top down so none of it could escape and find its way back to Anthony or anyone else. I’d hold a dish towel over it, too...just in case. Then I’d turn on the processor and let the blades pulverize every last bit of it. I imagine its screams crying out over the sound of the running food processor. But, I won’t feel sorry for it. Why should I? Even so, I imagine its sickening pleas getting to me after a while, so I’d be ready with a pair of ear plugs. The good kind...like the ones I use when I go hear Davey play in one of those small venues where the amps are cranked and the music is so loud the walls of the building shake. With the plugs stuffed into my ear canals, I’d sing myself a song, just to be sure I drowned out every last sound.

With all of its power torn apart, I’d look at the bowlful of cancer mess I made and then I’d pour it into a pot and cook it over a high flame and boil it for a long time to make sure every single cell was destroyed, once and for all. I’d cook it down until all the moisture evaporated and the remaining bulk of it was nothing more than a thick paste of harmless mush.

After that, I’d let it cool and form it into a little brick....you know, like an adobe brick...and I’d dry it in the hot sun until it was hard. And then, with one final burst of energy, I’d take a sledge hammer to it and pound it into dust, very fine dust that is as dead as dead can be. And then, I’d bury it, but I wouldn’t adorn its grave with flowers or a cross or a picture or some other token of remembrance. No, I’d just turn and walk away.  I would say goodbye to Anthony’s cancer, forever, and never look back, not even once.