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Howlingly angry.
Cancer pisses me off.
It's allowed. I don't feel guilty. Neither should you. In fact, I encourage it.
Go ahead, be angry.
You have cancer. Your mother has cancer...your father...
Your partner has cancer...your lover...
Your child...
Being angry beats the hell out of feeling hopeless.
Your chemo hurts in ways you never imagined. You're sick of being sick. You're beyond tired, as your body and soul are pushed to the limit...and beyond...and still beyond.
You fear the mirror. You know that what you will see will not be you. That ravaged creature is not you, but you make eye contact and you see...you. And your sunken stomach sinks again and you feel tears and your chest tightens and you gasp and you know it's you but it's not you and you're lost because who is you and where did you go and Gods what has...and why has...and inside you boil and quake and it wells up from places you never knew and never felt before and it's there and it's scary and it's from you and about you and...
You're angry.
Howlingly angry.
It's allowed.
You don't have cancer, yet you visit the hospital, and the treatment center, and the hospice. You're there every step of the way, supporting, loving, helping.
You watch. You listen. Your palms sweat, your bowels churn as you wait for results. You don't have the cancer, but you're savaged by it.
Your mother, your father has cancer. Your partner, your lover has cancer. Your child...
It ravages them; it destroys you.
What can I do? How can I help? Drive, hold hands, cook, dress, hug, cajole, weep, watch, listen, pray, hope, encourage...a million little things that matter. Yet, you sleeplessly wonder what more you can do.
You're angry.
And you're guilty about it.
But you don't need to be. It's allowed.
I ride because I'm angry.
Cancer hurt me. It stole parts of me. My scars run deep. The skin scars, like the one that runs from sternum to pubic bone, are obvious. I can't show you the soul scars...
Cancer surrounds me—my friends and family. Yet, it always feels like there is so little I can do.
And it makes me angry.
But cancer has taught me a few things...about anger.
Impotent anger is destructive. You bleed pain. You melt with fury. And you remain silent. You're fighting an enemy you cannot know. It's right in front of you, but it is invisible, alien. And you try to understand it, but you can't, and that fact makes you even more angry. And you silently seethe. The feelings surge and recede, wave after wave of pain you wrestle to control, lest it control you. You fear the anger, because it's too big, too strong, and you have no way to express it without hurting someone, everyone, yourself. You know that anger destroys.
So you have a drink, take a pill, eat a doughnut, or close yourself in and wait for the tide to ebb and hope it all goes away.
And for a time it does; and you're able to do what you need to do.
And then it comes back...fiercer. And the cycle begins again. And you go deeper, and the gyre sucks you down.
But you're not impotent. You have choices.
Each time you help, you reach out, you touch, and you comfort you are doing something. Each time you hope, you heal. Every time you do what you need to do to be healthy, you overcome.
You're never powerless, no matter how overwhelming it seems. Anger and Fear are so close; and they can be used for good.
Anger is an energy. use it. Channel it to fight the unknowable enemy. Embrace it and transform it and use it.
And heal it.
Be angry.
It's allowed.
I ride because I'm angry. And I choose to do something with that anger. I choose to use it to help heal; and to fight to end cancer.
I hope you will help me to raise money for life-saving cancer research.
We need your support to end cancer. Please consider donating.
