Cancer

There are few words that produce as strong a reaction from people as the word "cancer."  Yesterday I got a call from my Dad.  He has four tumors in his lung.  Not the transplant lung, the other one.  They showed up on a routine CAT scan -- routine because with a transplant, they have an annual checkup.  These would be scary enough if it were not for a recently diagnosed and removed melanoma from his face.

Thoughout the entire conversation, I don't think either of us said the word "cancer."  We said things like "tumor," "mass," "shadow," "melanoma," certainly none of them pleasant words.  But I think we both intentionally would prefer not to say the "C" word.  It is the Lord Voldemort of words -- that which much not be named.  It is as if we give the word power by speaking it.  As if the very act of pronouncing the syllables is the thing that gives life to it.

There is a sinking feeling I associate with it.  A sense of dread rooted in watching others endure it.  But for now, we go through the tests.  All those who have had family members hear an ominous diagnosis know exactly what I'm talking about.  The collision of emotion and reality here in this place tends to make other issues seem much less significant.  Suddenly the other issues we thought were important pale in comparison.  I find it hard to get excited about much of anything right now.