Anger directed with precision accuracy . . .

I’m doing a lot of research regarding treatment approaches, management techniques, and underlying theories. There is a common thread between a book I read 16 years ago, “Love, Medicine, and Miracles: Lessons Learned about Self-Healing from a Surgeon's Experience with Exceptional Patients”, and another book I recently purchased, “You Can Heal Your Life”. Both books postulate that the power of healing arises from the human mind and that self-love and determination are more important than choice of therapy. The latter book promotes affirmations to the universe as a key to healing, while my recollection is that the former advocates visualization as a means of overcoming illness. I plan to incorporate both techniques into my battle plan.

However, the authors of both books subscribe to the theory that we “create” every illness in our body for some purpose. This notion is at once both empowering and infuriating. Empowering in that it is easier to accept that we can overcome an illness if we accept that we created it. Infuriating because it suggests that the afflicted are somehow responsible for bringing the illness into their lives. That is complete and utter horseshit. I categorically reject the notion that I invited this thing in as some act of suicidal symbolism.

This illness is not “mine”. I did NOT ask for it the first time, the second time, or the third time. I will never again use the adjective “my” adjacent to the word “cancer”. This is a THOROUGHLY unwelcome intruder that has ABSOLUTELY no business being in my body. How dare this ostentatious monster presume to rob my friends of a friend, my parents of their son, my sisters of their brother, and my children of their father. I’m fucking pissed off and will attack this creep with all the intensity I can muster – and that’s a resource that is not in short supply around here.

There is a switch in my head. Whenever I begin to feel sorry for myself or my loved ones, it gets flipped. And the powerful emotion of sorrow is immediately transformed to one of anger. Directed squarely at this presumptuous, sneaky mo-fo. It has absolutely no fucking idea whose door it just knocked down.