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Grace moved from England to Montreal as a war bride in 1945 where she raised her 4 children. Melanie was the youngest daughter of 5. Melanie's oldest sister died during the Blitz of London. Melanie was given a diary when she was 8 years old. Every night before bed she wrote in her diary and she turned to it as if it were her best friend. Melanie describes in detail what life was like for her. When she was 17 years old she boarded a plane with her mother to return to Lullington Road in Dagenham England to visit her Gran and Grandad. This is where she met Tony, the boy next door. A boy Grace did not approve of. Melanie, quickly fell in love with Tony and by age 19 they were married. Tony and Melanie moved to Canada to start a family. They had a son and twin daughters. Melanie was diagnosed with breast cancer that spread to her brain and she passed away in 1999. She left behind a son of 16 and twin daughters aged 13. I am Melanie's youngest daughter. She had written nightly diary entries until she died. During the pandemic I began to read the diaries and the trauma of such profound loss spilled out of the pages and into my lap. Life's bitter grasp of grief that had been clenched around my throat after her passing began to loosen and I discovered who my mother was. I discovered the love story between my parents and the reason why my father never recovered when she died. How was he truly to live without her? During the pandemic I held the weight of her diaries on my lap like a thousand pounds of brick and decided it was time to heal from the trauma that had ruled my life! I created a blog and through the pandemic I was reunited with my mother who left me behind nearly 25 years ago.

Grace moved from England to Montreal as a war bride in 1945 where she raised her 4 children. Melanie was the youngest daughter of 5. Melanie's oldest sister died during the Blitz of London. Melanie was given a diary when she was 8 years old. Every night before bed she wrote in her diary and she turned to it as if it were her best friend. Melanie describes in detail what life was like for her. When she was 17 years old she boarded a plane with her mother to return to Lullington Road in Dagenham England to visit her Gran and Grandad. This is where she met Tony, the boy next door. A boy Grace did not approve of. Melanie, quickly fell in love with Tony and by age 19 they were married. Tony and Melanie moved to Canada to start a family. They had a son and twin daughters. Melanie was diagnosed with breast cancer that spread to her brain and she passed away in 1999. She left behind a son of 16 and twin daughters aged 13. I am Melanie's youngest daughter. She had written nightly diary entries until she died. During the pandemic I began to read the diaries and the trauma of such profound loss spilled out of the pages and into my lap. Life's bitter grasp of grief that had been clenched around my throat after her passing began to loosen and I discovered who my mother was. I discovered the love story between my parents and the reason why my father never recovered when she died. How was he truly to live without her? During the pandemic I held the weight of her diaries on my lap like a thousand pounds of brick and decided it was time to heal from the trauma that had ruled my life! I created a blog and through the pandemic I was reunited with my mother who left me behind nearly 25 years ago.

You see the title. You're thinking, it's about 2020. That's been the worst year for everyone. No, not me. My worst year was 2019. One sunny day in 2018, I got off the school bus. I walked through the double doors of my middle school. It was my normal routine. I would go to English class, I would sit next to my friends, it would be...normal. I was walking up the stairs when one of my friends ran up next to me. I'd known her since kindergarten, we'd grown distant ever since we got to a new school. She tapped my shoulder, she said to me, "Hey, did you hear? Maddie got diagnosed with cancer." Maddie was one of my best friend's little sisters. I'd known her since she was 6, maybe even younger. This news was a punch in my gut. Not even that. It was like getting hit by a train. As all children do, I still had hope. That's what keeps us going. Hope. It's why kids can recover more easily from disease and injury than adults can. We believe. My naïve mind was not able to comprehend that, a little more than a year later, I would be at her funeral. I saw her go from a bubbly child who loved to play soccer and practice gymnastics to a kid who rarely left her room. I went to their house for a project once. I remember seeing this girl sitting at the kitchen island doing her homework. I remember thinking, what happened? I believe this was also the moment in which any meager belief I had in God finally disappeared. How could any higher being do this to a child? Give a child rhabdomyosarcoma? An extremely rare disease, I saw it destroy her. We had to leave school early for the funeral. We, being our small class of 5. We left our seats in Spanish, we walked down the stairs, we left the building with our bags around our shoulders, and got in our parents' cars. I vowed to myself not to cry. I hadn't seen her in awhile. We hadn't been best friends in the first place. The church was only a mile or so down the road from our school. Purple balloons floated above the sign. Purple was her favorite color. I was wearing my dress with a white top and a black skirt. I couldn't fit into it now if I tried. We walked inside. A long line around the space, winding around the pews. And at the front, an open coffin. Gods, I even cry now thinking about it. I saw so many people I recognized, some whom I hadn't even realized knew her. I saw my school principal. I saw my teachers from elementary school. A few assorted people from school whom I hadn't realized would leave for this. The line grew shorter, I got closer to the front of the church. And then I was at the front. Staring down at her pale face. Holding a teddy bear. And I broke my promise. I didn't deserve to be crying, either. I hadn't lost a sister, a daughter, a cousin, a grandchild. I wish emotions worked that way. My star sign is the crab. I've always been too emotional for my own good. I kneeled down in front of the coffin. And when I had finished my words to her, I continued in the line. I hugged her dad. I hugged her mom. I hugged my best friend. And I kneeled down to hug her little sister. And as if my emotions hadn't already gotten the better of me, I had to sit back down and listen to the eulogy. Her father had given it. Her mom had tried, but couldn't go on. He talked about seeing her golden ponytail flying in the wind as she played soccer. That broke me down even more. Maybe it was selfish of me to wish it would end already. It almost definitely was. She was only eleven. She was in fifth grade. And her life was cut decades short. Maybe that was the beginning, the first seedling planted of my greatest fear: death itself. Life is too short. Spend time with your family and your friends. We don't have time to waste. Ever since that moment, I've wondered. When will my time come? I can't bear to die young. I certainly can't bear to die alone, or in a hospital bed with a breathing tube and an Ecmo machine. I will never forget my first funeral. My first time knowing someone one minute, and seeing them dead the next. I cherish life, at least, I try to. I say "I love you" to my parents whenever they leave the house, or whenever I hang up the phone on them, because I can't handle them dying without those being my last words to them. The worst year of my life was the year that a part of me died, along with Maddie.

Dark clouds roll in on a warm sunny day. All life goes quiet. The light that once was is suffocated. The atmosphere changes into a heavy and cold one. A flash of light and loud cracks take the place of peace. One drop, a few, and then millions of heavy raindrops puncture the earth below. Soon an aggressive wind pulls in dark clouds. A siren screams on an old T.V. and everyone escapes to shelter. A summer evening like this one struck when I was a kid. Despite all this chaos, I still snuck away unnoticed. I found myself in an open field, stunned and terrified. All alone and yet very surrounded. This is one of the few ways I can almost describe what it felt like to be diagnosed with cancer. The mood changed in an instant. Snapping from a sunny, warm, and sweet day to a cold, heavy, and bitterly salty storm of one. Out of what seemed like nowhere this diagnosis showed its ugly self. At the time I was seventeen and healthy with no family history of cancer. yet there I stood. Once all the noise dissipated, I could see all the signs that were showing me what was to come. The day's I was excessively tired and countless nights I felt brittle and paper-thin. The abundance of missed school days due to being sick. Even a large lump showed up on my neck. It choked me and gave me multiple medical tests with the word “inconclusive”. Despite it all, I graduated and was excited to live. Independence and freedom were in my view and life felt like it was just beginning. This feeling didn't last long. One summer day I came home from work full of life, but something felt wrong. Like staring into dark woods and all the birds go quiet. Something is there and looming over you, but it's unclear what it is. My parents had a look on their faces I hope to never see again. My last test finally had results, even if no one wanted to hear them. I don't remember much after hearing “you have cancer” but I do remember the rain. I remember feeling like a scared kid stuck in a storm followed by a cold shock and loud thunderous anger. The first day of chemotherapy was surreal yet normal. Like a sci-fi indie film. A 5-hour drive to the hospital, blood tests, scans, injections, and then treatment. They sat me in a private room for my first treatment. There was a point I was left completely alone, just waiting. Waiting for that first sting. For that first chemical drip into my bloodstream. Not knowing what to expect, the silence of it all was suffocating. When I was freed from this silence, I was greeted with a large needle stuck into a heavy and hard plastic bump called a port placed under my skin and on my chest. One of the oddest things was the smell and the taste of chemo. As an injection, that's not what people expect. Yet it's a flavor I will never forget and never fully describe. Anything I had eaten before, during, or after became stained with a horrible, bitter taste with an unnatural, nauseating smell that still haunts me. Although these side effects were miserable they were not the worst of it. Nothing could compare to the pain engulfing my body. Bone-breaking, skin burning, stomach-wrenching sensations got worse with every injection. If you can imagine what it's like to rot and decay, that is how it felt to be alive. Living became a challenge and all the things people said to me became overwhelming. Judgment came from all corners. Harassed for being bald and everything else under the sun my mind began to melt. I became paranoid with the words being said and the chemicals in my body. I cut myself off from everything. I was furious at people, cancer, and life. Anger and determination motivated me. I decided to push. And push I did. I worked for as long as I could, looked into colleges, and even worked out. Making myself appear as fine as possible. I was running as fast as I could, but it was a race no one wins. I grew more and more fatigued and weaker by the day. Soon my immune system really started to fail. I had to slow down. I had to finally give myself a break. Let my body rest and breathe. In learning to be ok with rest, I also had to let myself feel miserable, but allow myself to stay there. Time crawled and yet flew by. My last day of treatment finally arrived. Relief swept over me releasing many tears. Months passed and my port was removed. A weight had been lifted and I could breathe again. Years have now passed. I am still recovering, mentally, and physically. I have come to accept that I may never get back to where I was. That's typical with any storm. Just like how the land is left with marks of cracked trees and muddy rivers, I now too have scars that decorate me. Some scars are on the surface and some are hidden below many layers. They show me. They show what I have lived through and symbolize the strength I have. The scars I show are like the flowers that grow in after a storm or the new tree that grows in place of the broken one. They show that even after the heaviest of storms we can always grow back.

I push back from the laptop, my fingers trembling when I fumble with the edge of the drawer, pulling it open. I twist the cap off of the medicine bottle, shaking out two pain pills and popping them into my mouth. Another headache, my vision spotty from it. This morning there was a doctor's appointment, one where I laid out my symptoms and the doctor assured me they will only get worse. He gave me a sales pitch on chemo, along with a fresh script for pain meds. The chemo I passed on, but the meds I accepted. I'm breaking. I can see it in the rigid grip of my stance, the clench of jaw, the tremble of my entire frame. I can feel it in the air, the rough pain that emits, and this is so much deeper, so much stronger, than my own mortality. In that news, there had been no emotion. In this, I am a raw current. I don't know when it happened, or how, but grief is a song I am well versed in. I'm dying. It's a grim start to any story, but I think the news should be delivered in the same manner as a ripped band-aid. Short and blunt, a stab that burns for a moment, then is gone, the moment over. My doctor tip-toed around the news, showing me test results and citing blood cell counts, CEA numbers, and an MRI that showed a tumor the size of a small lemon. He drew out what could have been accomplished in two short sentences. You're terminal. You have three months left. I should be sad. I should be emotional, my fingers shaking as they press cell phone buttons and make depressingly bleak phone calls to all of my friends and family. Only, I don't have friends. And my family… I have no family. I have only this countdown, a dark ominous chant of days, sunrises and sunsets before my body gives up and my mind shuts down. It's not really a terrible diagnosis—not for me. I've been waiting four years for something like this to happen, a guillotine to fall, an escape door to appear. I'd be almost cheerful about it, if it weren't for the book. The story. The truth, which I've avoided for the last four years. I step into my office and flip on the light. Moving forward, I reach out, my hand trailing over the corkboard wall, hovering over the tacked up photos, the pages of abandoned ideas, jotted notes of a hundred sleepless nights, sparks of inspiration—some that led nowhere, some that now sit on bookshelves all over the world. My husband made me this board. His hands held the wood frame in place, cut the cork, and nailed the pieces into place. He kept me out of the office all day to do it, my insistence at entering thwarted by the lock, my knocks on the door ignored. I remember sitting back in this same chair, my hands on my belly, and seeing the final product. I had stared up at the blank board and thought of all the stories I would build on it, the words already itching for their place. It had become everything I thought it would. I stop at the page I've read countless times, its paper worn more than the others, the edges not obscured with clippings or neighboring photos. It's the synopsis for a novel. Right now, it's just one paragraph in length, the type of copy that might one day be embossed on the back cover of the book. I've written fifteen novels, but this one terrifies me. I fear that I won't have the right words, the right arc, that I will aim too high, hit too hard, and still not properly affect the reader. I fear that I'll tell everything, and still no one will understand. It's a book I had planned to write decades from now, once my skills had grown, my writing sharpened, talents perfected. It is a book I planned to spend years on, everything else pushed aside, my world closing in on the one thing that mattered, nothing else moving until it was finished, until it was perfect. Now, I don't have decades. I don't have years. I don't have the level of skill. I don't have anything. There is no time for perfection; it doesn't matter. I pull at the tack that holds it in place, and set the page carefully on the center of my clean desk. Three months. The deadline is the tightest I've ever faced. There will be no frantic calls to my agent, no negotiation for more time. Three months to write a story that deserves years. Is it even possible?

The way Love Goes March 1, 2016 That's the way "love goes". When others tried to tear us down, we held on more. When life threw us a curve (and this was a big one-cancer), loves simply cared more. When others-family, friends, or strangers, tried to take away what love built, it made/makes us more determined and stronger. Luke 27 “But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, 28 bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. God allowed cancer almost 19 years ago to become a part of our everyday life. Larry fought to live everyday. He had been at the grave several times. We were told on several occasions- 6 weeks, 6 months. Get your affairs in order. I never expected you to come back to your office visit. A most loving Heavenly Father has allowed us to share his life a little while longer. He was going through chemo when most didn't know, except the ones who loved him most. He had surgery when he chose not to tell anyone, except the ones who have always been there. He forgot things. He remembered what mattered, how he loved the Lord with all his heart, mind and soul. He loved his blessings who are his children (Beverly, Jodie and Chad) and me, and we loved him as did others. I could not have been any place else, except by the one I chose to love for all my life. We clung to one another and the love that never wavered through it all. We made a vow to one another nearly 45 years ago. We rededicated those exact vows on our 25th wedding anniversary with our children and two grandchildren (at the time), not just a commitment to one another, but to them. From that day forward, we would more than ever, honor our covenant with one another and especially to our Heavenly Father who loved/s us more than we did each other. I would not have been satisfied any other place on earth except beside the man of my dreams and God's blessing. Larry was never depressed because of cancer. He never asked (to me) why? He did wonder and had been concerned a few times about what cancer would be like, but he knew, (before cancer), where his eternal home would be. I have learned more about life and the meaning of love with him than I could have ever imagined or hoped for. I feel bad for those who did not know him as we did. We are the blessed ones for having had him and his love for us. I am especially blessed because I got to spend my days and nights with him. A Journey Through Grace By An Ordinary Woman - Cheryl

Terminal In Faith January 14, 2014 Sorrow looks back Worry looks around Faith looks up (On a church board-Vancleave) Many times sorrow goes with regrets. We should have, could have, meant to moments that we intended to spend more time with, be kinder to, listen more someone we cared about. Worry doesn't do anything to change the circumstances, just changed you. Health, attitude and wasted time best spent doing something productive, like praying. Faith is a release from all of this. It doesn't mean life will be perfectly situated the way we want it. We are not perfect. It simply means, faith will carry us through while a merciful and loving God full of grace will perfect us through the difficult times. He will always do what is best in each situation. I know full well how hard it is to say "Lord your will and your way be done. Walk me through it and carry me when I need it." I know, because I prayed it and two weeks later he allowed my husband to be diagnosed with terminal cancer. My family was broken, my heart was saddened and my faith sustained me. I went through the steps of sorrow and worry and then my sweet husband said, “why worry, it won't change a thing. We will never say goodbye. Someday "see you later". His faith strengthened my faith. That is what sustains us now, our faith. We don't know why things happen the way they do but we know the almighty God who holds and sustains us as by faith we look up. We pray for you the peace and faith that only through the saving grace of the Father as in obedience the Son took your place and mine. My family is mended we learned what was important, love for the Father and each other. (Yes terminal cancer but he is still here , 16 years later) we are all terminal, it's where are you going to spend your eternity that really matters. Update: Our sweet, loving man passed from this world to his heavenly reward and perfect healing on October 17, 2016. Surrounded by the love of his family. Taken by his angels to his Heavenly Father, who loved him more than we did. By faith. A Journey Through Grace By An Ordinary Woman--Cheryl

The moment I was brought into this world, I was instantly branded developmentally-stunted, narcissistic and lazy. Apart from being a lethargic preemie (who forced doctors to take him out weeks early), my other crime was being born in the 80's. While newer evidence from psychology (mercifully) defends my generation as suffering from the dual struggles of discovering identity while enduring growing pains of the most rapidly-changing socioeconomic environment in human history, impulsive prejudice built up against Millennials towers over us like Mount Olympus (which, ironically, few detractors would ever climb such pre-conceptual heights to find out whether we fit their expectations). To our elders, strangers (elder strangers or was it strange elders?), we would instinctually be graced as “Generation Me”. Deep in my bones, I knew I wasn't this kind of person. Much of the joy in my youth, for instance, came from volunteering at the hospital or performing songs to soothe weary audiences of their troubles. Partying was a worthless social obligation (starting with boredom and ending with anxiety for the time I wasted). Whether my young mind knew it or not, I was determined to be something other than the selfish, entitled brats Gen Me were destined (by society) to be. It's probably why, at 24, I faced a quarter-life crisis. Days before my 25th birthday, I was unstoppable. Fresh off of earning my black belt in Shorin Ryu karate (a feat some believed beyond me), I raced to the wall in my room, placing the half-English, half-Japanese certificate above my ARCT in piano performance and my medical science degree. I gazed up at my trinity gleefully, only for my pride to vaporize instantly. I had accomplished nothing. Emptiness welled up inside me as I questioned the truth behind those certified proclamations. For all the blood, sweat, tears, time and effort I had poured into those milestones, my patient friend, Walter, from my hospital days (who always blessed me as a ‘good man' whenever we parted) was still dead. My musical performances were little more than transient pleasures. But shaking me most was that a tech at school (I had just finished my 3rd year of pharmacy) died suddenly from cancer. Surrounded by medical practitioners - and all we could offer were our sincerest condolences. Her death was the last straw: fueling me to choose cancer to cure since there's not a single person whose life hasn't been touched by the disease. Unfortunately, continuing to champion destructive treatments (yes, even Nobel Prize-winning immune therapies) in this civil war against our distorted cells (or selves, as it were) will still claim 1/4 of all Canadian cancer patients. With the impending arrival of the largest cancer patient population in history (due to aging baby boomers), 1.2 million baby boomers will die while the luckier 3.5 million boomer survivors will be forever cursed by a myriad of progressive chronic diseases. Three guesses whose generation bears this other impossible burden. Einstein once wrote: “A new type of thinking is essential if mankind is to survive and move towards higher levels”. To me, the answer was easy: non-destructive cures. If cancer isn't threatened, it won't desperately evolve against treatment. Sadly, humans have been killing cancer for centuries. Researching otherwise would be like growing a third head (a second being normal by contrast). Witnessing my (supposedly superior) assessor degrade patients with outdated data for her ego proved that my field also wasn't a solution. This left me one avenue to convey my theories somewhat seriously. Sci-Fi. The sting of incredible backlash still ails me to this day. My parents called me crazy. My colleagues shied away from my radical logic. Even my girlfriend dumped me, thinking I'd choose writing over pharmacy. All they saw was another selfish dreamer enticed by fame and fortune. All I could dream about were a hundred thousand terminal Canadian cancer patients pleading for euthanasia each year. What else could I have done? I shut out my heartache: setting out alone to show people that non-destructive cancer cures can solve this imminent medical genocide. At times I wonder whether publishing Destructive Salvation was worth it. I struggled through rejection, isolation and dark times when I believed my passing might be better on my parents. But in my waking nightmares, I uncovered strength within me: pushing me through crippling anxiety and fatigue I once thought unconquerable. Regardless of my gains or losses, my fire burns brighter than ever to make non-destructive cancer cures a reality. Whether my novel makes a difference is not just up to me anymore, (though I have faith good people will agree with me and want to help). In the meantime, my promise to all cancer patients past, present and future still stands: I'll never stop fighting to cure this disease properly. Not a bad calling for defying one's (preordained) destiny.

The tumble of the school bus swayed her body back and forth. It dipped and bumped but nothing mattered because she was on her way home. After hours of grueling school work, the day was finally over and she could go and relax. As a matter of fact, the girl with the blue hair had just got off. A marker of the remaining three stops left the journey. As Drake blasted through her ears, she thought of her group project due at the end of the week. How am I going to tell Daniel that he needs to pick up the pace on the introduction slide? Will Abby make the flashcards to read off of or will I have to complete that as well. A nearby shout caused her to lose her train of thought. The boy with the blue backpack stepped off the bus and walked down the street. The next stop was the final destination. She had all of her belongings gathered, ready to leave the bus as soon as possible. A backpack was all she had today. Tennis wasn't until tomorrow. She stood from her seat and walked down the aisle. Waving goodbye to the bus driver she stepped onto the sidewalk. The pavement carried her all the way to the corner of the street. A turn right and a few ways down was her house. As she unlocked the door, the warmth of the house surrounded her. It wrapped around her like a welcoming embrace. Dropping her school bags on the floor she turned on the fireplace and proceeded to call her mother. The dialing tone rang out and her mother finally picked up. “Hi Beta,” her mother's voice cracked. Sadness dripped from her voice and hurt the girl's heart. “Mom what's wrong what happened.” “It's your grandma.” “What! What happened?” “She has breast cancer,” At that moment the tender warmth of the house felt as if it were strangling her. She didn't say anything. Not one word came out of her. “I don't know what to do baby. I don't know what to say beta. I'm coming home. I'm on my way.” With her rushed response the line went dead. Her life had turned to fog. Memories of her grandmother feeding her as a child rushed through her head. Her first day of kindergarten was shared with her grandmother. Her first word, first tooth, first crawl. It was all with her grandmother. She adored her grandmother and looked up to her with all her heart. You could even call her a second mother. The girl's grandmother was number one. Tears flowed down her cheeks just as her sadness billowed out of her. She laughed. How cynical could God be? To poison a wonderful thing in her life. First her father, now her grandmother. Soon He would take everyone and leave her with nothing. The girl sobbed. She prayed it would be better. She prayed that God would heal her grandmother. Even though she blamed him, she knew He had the power to heal her grandmother and even that sliver of hope had her on her knees. She resented everyone and everything on planet earth. Why must her life be this way. She felt ill. Like the whole world had turned into a fever dream. She was there but far away. The girl gasped her chair and sobbed. Her anguish could be heard from the gates of heaven. God's resting place. She cried because she didn't want it to happen to her. She cried because she didn't know what else to do. She cried because a normal day had turned into such a mess. But just as how good things happen at random, bad things happen as well. Many months had passed on. Rounds of chemotherapy were given to the girl's grandmother, but there was still no hope. Her grandmother died on the 28th of July, 2019. Her spirit would drift into heaven and lay in the hearts of many. With a legacy of love, care and nothing but good. The girl learned to cherish every moment you have because one day, it will all go away.

Besides my left breast I have no emotional nor physical pain since last Sunday -st paddies Day. I wrote a painful but sad story that forced me to let go of the sonn of a bitch. It was So nsfw I decided to move on. So last night I put on some simpsonwave and drifted to sleep and was dead for the whole night until a rude wake up call. We went to the pub and j was able to enjoy myself and the waitress showed me some cold necklaces that were full of her parents ashes and that peak my interest. Some I was talking about rebirth. Though the necklace idea is brilliant (let's just say my pearls are not going anywhere as for as I am concerned. ). Ass for the male whore I am glad I ended it.

I am in serious pain. Since a few days ago my left side breast was hurting like an mfer reason unknown. I al I know that I have intense pain. I woke up today again with a painful boob and I had to feel it and I think I found a fucking mass that hurts like a bastard. The final f you was one as I was ready to take a shower and as I pasted my mother's clothes I hit my boob and I yelped and swore. I have given it a name.... lumpy. Told my mom and we will rat out the offending breast to the quack.

Everything can be experienced except death. Oscar Wilde In the department of oncology, a young woman was hospitalized. Liza is an artist by profession. She was 33 years old, suffering from a 3-stage leukemia. When she entered the hospital, categorically refused therapy, I saw for the first time that the patient refused medication, for me it was an anomaly, the most sad doctor did not even react to it. She denied everything, recognized only pain and death. The next day Liza and I had a conversation with a theta-a-tet. I really wanted to convince her that every second of life is sweet, even if the pain eats you, to persuade her to make it unforgettable every minute that leaves irrevocably. - Lisa, is it true that people of creativity find beauty in everything? -Yes. -Please tell me this by example. -Are you going away? -You are not ... I just want to know what creativity is capable of and make sure that beauty will save not only the world, but life. -Many things you ask. -What do you need for this? -Inspiration. -What prevents? -Pain. -Make her a muse. In the evening, she called me and asked if I could find a palette and a canvas. Day after day, her condition worsened, but the works she created were animated. She really turned the pain into a muse. She drew life at death, happiness in pain, spring in winter, a rainbow in the cloudy sky, spring flowers in autumn puddles. She died ... because they could not find a compatible donor for bone marrow transplantation ... and time was so short ... the hours took away the days, the days of the month ... and the cruel death is ...

Dear you, you know yourself. There is something I have been holding in for a few years now & I think it's time I let it out. You destroyed me, you destroyed the person I was & the person I would become. You broke down my walls & invaded my life so quietly that I couldn't fight back, you killed me over & over again & when I thought you were finished you come back. I remember the first time you came around as if it were yesterday. You pushed me down, unable to stand & hold my head up. You took away my childhood, you took away my teenage years. I think it's time I name you, CANCER. You stole my world, you took my little brother & now you're back for my niece. I remember back then how I prayed & cried for the tables to turn. I begged you to let him be but YOU DIDN'T LISTEN but to hell with you if you think you're having anyone else in my family. I'm not going to ask you to take me this time, I'm past that point. Now I want to kill you. I want to cut you out & burn you. My life is already limited so I won't beg you & I know that even if I ask you'll only do what you want not caring how it affects others. I wish I could kick you, I wish I could murder you actually but I know that can't happen because you're sort of invincible but I know something that you are probably realizing now. My niece has a strong mother & she won't let you have her. So go jump in front of a truck. This family will not let you have her. I may not be as strong as I want to be & me venting out to you, something that isn't even, worthy of a body, doesn't change anything. The tears may form in my eyes & as much as I try to stop them from falling they still stream down but that won't change my decision, you can't have her but you can give him back. I think I need to regain my composure then again why should I have any towards you, destroyer of my world? My hatred for you runs deeper than the time I have on earth. You just never seem to be satisfied, you just take then leave, not caring about the pain you cause. I wish you were tangible enough for me to punch you, then again I don't like fights but for you, I'd make an exception. I'd break my promise to the brother you took from me just for you. I promised him I'd never get into a fight because he hated fights & until this day I've kept that promise but oh for you, I think he would make an exception. I want you dead just as you've done to him but I hope you never rise again. Over the years I've imagined all the things I would say to you if I ever got the chance but right now I'm lost for words because that all-knowing, numbing feeling that I've gotten used to is taking me over again. I wish you could feel it, but then again maybe you were the creator of it. I wonder if you came for me how I'd feel. I guess I would cry & ask why but at the end of the day at least I'd get a glimpse of my brother right? But just know I'm not ready to go yet. I've seemed to have gotten soft on you, probably because my emotions ditched me at the moment, I would leave this & come back but I don't want to deal with you after this. I'll find some way to take you down, in my mind I've done it a thousand times & if that's the only way I can, then I'll do it a thousand & one more until you're truly gone. Do you know how long I've been blaming myself for not being able to protect him, not being able to cure him of you? 11 long years & to this day it still feels like it all started yesterday. But as I cross this shaky, old bridge, I look forward, down, back & up because they belong to me. Up because it reminds me of where he is; down because I keep falling; forward because someday I might reach somewhere & back because it holds my memories, my pain, my lessons & my hope. It all belongs to me & you can't have it because this is the end & if I have to come back to you again I will but it won't be pretty, I'll be emotionless by then. I love her as well & that's why you can't have her because on this swaying bridge that you can't walk on you'll always be at the end.

Do you know what it's like to hear the word CANCER? This is my second round of hearing that word., Once was 25 years ago, and again last year. I heard stage 4 this time and when asking the doctor what it meant she turned her back on me. When she did that I knew it was time for a second opinion, and that's what I did.(To tell you what this Doctor did, there isn't enough space). Didn't have stage 4, but what I was told was just as bad. New doctors that explained exactly what was going on, and what the plan was that would save my life. Chemo started-phase one went well, phase two not so good. Chemo stopped new plan put into place and its working. 'There have been days when I sat and cried, trying to figure out WHY? Days that I cried how can I afford this, how can I pay for my medicine(over $3000) just to stay alive until surgery could be performed. Many days of screaming and yelling at my poor hubby telling him "stop changing things, I'm not dead ", stop treating me like I'm not in the same room. Pure hell as I look back now. The worst part was when I started loosing my hair-what a shock (actually thought it was the dogs shedding)-nope it was me. It was devastating and as I look back it was the worst thing I have ever been through. I had a support team that was unbelievable in getting me through that stage. My best friend had her hair shaved down to her scalp so that I wouldn't be embarrassed. Her doing that made me cry and made me realize that she was there for the duration. (There were others that spread vicious lies about me and my condition). Why would someone who claimed they were friends do something like that? . At this point in my treatment I couldn't go outside without a hat whereas I didn't want anyone to see me like this. After each treatment I would get sick and then three days later would be fine until the next round. For my own piece of mind I would go to our campsite for rest and relaxation, cry, and try to keep a stiff upper lip. My support team was there the whole time. They made me laugh, and helped keep my spirits up. If they didn't see me outside, they knocked on the door to be sure I was okay, had me over for dinners and went out for ice cream afterwards, along with lots of fires at night. These were the people that kept me going along with my hubby.(My hubby also got sick during this time with his sugar levels way out of balance, so along with my treatment, he had his own.Thankfully his is under control now). When you hear the words "Cancer" your whole life changes, You have to adjust to all the doctor appointments, the chemo treatments, along with staying positive. You sit and realize that changes have to be made. Stress is not an option for you at all. You don't need it in your life. I had to make a lot of changes, as there was a lot of stress in my life at that time. Hubby and I sat down and discussed all of our options, what would we do, how could we do it, and who should know what was going on. The hardest part of this was telling my daughter. From there we set up our support team and things started to go easier. The support team consisted of some close friends who are still on the team, and I couldn't ask for a better group. The next thing we did was get rid of the problems that was causing the stress. We moved our camper to a new place, got rid of the people in our lives that were causing the stress. That was the best part of all of this. You could say that we "threw out the trash". What a relief it was to have the stress gone. We have surrounded ourselves with kind and loving people, people who care and help if it is needed. What I am saying is this: when you hear that word "Cancer" , stop and think for a minute. Get your priorities in place. Sit down make a plan. Stick to that plan. Make sure that you have the right Doctors around you that will work with you, tell you what is wrong and what they plan to do, along with what you want done.. This way you wont have to go through what we did. Surround yourself with a team of people that will help when needed, give you support when you have a bad day, and believe me you will have them. Remember to have a sense of humor (you're going to need it). Laugh as much as you can, do what you want to, get a hobby or keep on doing the one that you have to keep your mind off of what is going on. My crafting helped me during this time., Take a nap if you need one, they are a good way to take a break,. Above all FIGHT like you have never fought before, you will be in the biggest fight of your life. I'm still fighting and looking forward to a better life, spending time with family and friends, Doing the things that I have always wanted to do: travel, crafting, taking photo's, yard sales and many other things, Remember stay happy, smile, laugh, love, and be surrounded by people that love and care for you.