Dear cancer

You cruel heartless bastard. The demented roller coaster ride that you have put my mom through is unforgivable. The vicious game of ups and downs you've played over the past nine months has left me numb.

And empty.

And gutted.

First, the initial worry of what was happening. What's going on? Is it in her head?

And all the time we watched her become more and more ill and in pain and weak and. And. Why aren't the doctors ANYTHING?

And the selfish frustration that after the plans and the expense, you timed your arrival to coincide exactly with our family holiday effectively ruining the chance for my boys to have any lasting memories, to know some happiness, with their Gramma.

And then the diagnosis and the relief that at least we know what is happening so we can Do Something. Finally.

And the cocky satisfaction at the success of the first rounds of treatment.

And the doctor admits he wasn't so sure that she was going to make it through that first round. But now things look good. Hopeful.

She's going to be okay. She Is Going To Be Okay.

And then out of nowhere the low white blood cell count and the uncertainty of whether she'd be able to continue as her body failed to recover after each chemical blast of poison.

And the waiting and waiting for each blood test, each week so that fingers crossed the doctors could poison her weak body more.

And the last minute rush for travel arrangements to have one last special holiday. Together. As a family. With Mom.

And then the joyous wonder and immense relief as her white blood cells miraculously began to climb and treatment could recommence. The blasts could continue. The family holiday could wait. Until this whole thing was over.

And then the treatments were over. She Did It. And every reason to be hopeful.

Followed by the Official All Clear. Not two months ago. And the hope that even though she was still suffering, All Would Be Okay.

And then the familiar downward spiral. Again. Maybe it's just a bad case of the flu. Her immune system has taken a hit y'know. One week. Two weeks. Three.

And then it's confirmed, you're back. Or were you really never gone? You've come back as fast and furious as you first arrived.

More waiting to see how much of her body you've taken over. Again.

It's not good. Not as bad as before. But Not Good. Time for a referral for more Invasive Heavy Duty Treatment. It won't be pretty. But we can get rid of you once and for all.

Wait. Scratch that. Things are progressing too quickly. She won't have the strength to make it through THAT. It's time to prepare for the end. Two months. Travel plans arranged.

And then the phone call. Much quicker. "Maybe you can wait until later in the week, but we don't know what will be left of her. And what if, you don't make it in time . . . "

On the plane that night. No sleep. No tears. No feelings at all. What to expect? What to do? What to say? What mustn't I forget to do? To say? Am I ready for this?