Well.  Here is what I have to have to say to Mademoiselle Cancer:  Piss the Fuck Off.

I’m not sure it would be more satisfying if a cancer lesion had actual ability to comprehend my heated middle finger at attention profanity laden temper tantrum.  Yet, I still find myself with these little inner conversations to the parasitic fucking rogue cells.  What, I ask, have I ever done to you.  What, pray explain, offense have I given that would render your assault on my bones just?  Is there an agreement, an arrangement as it were, that we can come to which would result in your abandonment of my person?   I disagree entirely with your settlement philosophy of lands and spaces that did not welcome you.  I engage in chemical politic to persuade you to a different path, or to contain you.  I practice containment politics, maybe.  If you will not go, if you find yourself, now birthed unable to discern how to un-be…. then, can you not remain idle and content on, say, one bone, or one vertabrae.  Will you take my word that one bone is as the other.  That exploration is unnecessary.   If you must set out, can you do so slowly.  Slowly and predictably to the terrain to which you are accustomed.  Say, a rib to a pelvis.  Bone to bone.  I negotiate with femara, nexavar and Evista.  I’ll give you the bones if you give me the organs.  We’ve managed thusly so far.

You have jumped this week.  Well, exactaly when you jumped I don’t know, but we figured out you did it this week.  You’re harrassing my hip and I am resentful.  I need that hip.  You scare me.   You are like a goddamn full length zipped up parka on a 98 degree August day that I can’t take off. You are suffocating me and thrashing about inside the parka won’t do a bit of good.   Today it won’t.

Tomorrow, I’m walking inside a fucking air conditioned WaWa, buying a bag of ice, standing in front of their coolers with the doors opened, and adjusting my fucking attitude.