I hate them. I realize that they have a purpose, but still hate the fact that I have to go to them. The visitation part is okay, but the service makes me cringe in a way that resembles watching someone get their testicles slowly crushed by a pair of ball cleats. I know that this is going to seem insensitive in light of my recent ordeal, but it’s something that has always bothered me. Mostly it’s all of the praying that drives me crazy. It seems like so many people haven’t learned that praying doesn’t get you anywhere, but they seem to want to keep trying. I don’t know, it just seems like a waste of air to me, but whatever, I guess it gives them comfort.
As I write this, the man who raised me as a son since I was eight is on his way to the hospital. He hasn’t been able to swallow food or water for days now, and if something isn’t done soon, it can’t get any better. He doesn’t want us kids there right now, maybe he doesn’t want to inconvenience us, but it’s probably because he doesn’t want us to see what the cancer has reduced him to. I don’t think he understands that we don’t care about that.
You see, he grew up in a time when men were judged by their physical, mental and emotional strength, and you didn’t want anyone to ever see you in a lesser state. I’m so glad I don’t have to follow any of those rules, or I’d be failing miserably as a man. If I can’t go out fast, while stopping a stray bullet from hitting an innocent bystander in a driveby, I want all the people I love to be around me.
Since he was first diagnosed with esophageal cancer, some ten years ago, he was given months to live. He was pretty down about it, and had kind of lost that fire he had always had. That was until he went to Kingston. While he was at the cancer centre there, he got talking to a lot of survivors, and they all had one thing in common. They were fighters. They weren’t going to let it beat them. They wanted to live, and were going to do what it took to stay above ground. Continue reading