Lymphoma, Stage Four

Today,  I am sitting on the hardwood  floor, in our lounge room. My body feels pretty normal. My neck aches a little,  my tummy is full of dinner, my mouth tastes nicely, of the drink I just gulped. I am weary from a day of work, and the transition of coming home to my beautiful, energetic, noisy children. Benjamin is cycling home in the darkness. I am always happier when everyone is safely home. My biggest fear is one of my loved ones dying.

Oh,  and I have lymphoma, stage four. What does this  even  mean? I'm just me. Mortal, but that is in  the one-day-far-away category, isn't  it? The doctor, bizarrely, told me there are a lot of little lymphomae, tripping around  my lymph system, like jiggling jelly-fish in a warm sea. Some of them have twisted all together, left of my belly-button, and I can feel them. An 8cm x 5cm mobile mass, says the computerised tomography report. I can feel lumps in my neck and groin, and  can  imagine these funny little lymphomae, dancing around within me.

People keep talking about me being strong  (I'm not, really), and "battling" cancer. I can't help but feel rather attached to all these  cells, despite their potentially lethal nature,for they are part of me. The way I am perceiving them is that I want them to be infused with healing, and love, and warmth, and hope, and light,  and holy spirit, and peace. I want them to slow down this frenetic reproducing, and calmly go back to being happy little lymphomae.

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