It’s Probably Nothing

It’s Probably Nothing
It’s probably not back. But if it is, it’ll kill me. Every six months, I travel to the Bay Area for tests to see if my triple-negative breast cancer is back. It’s nerve-wracking. I’ve already decided I won't do chemo again; not because I hated chemo — it saved my life and I’m grateful for it. I won’t do chemo again because the statistical probability that it would be helpful a second time, well, it’s just too low to make sense. And it would put my family through hell, just like it did the first time — only worse. I’ve told only one person outside of my immediate family about this decision: my librarian friend, Linda. I don’t remember what prompted the conversation, but she gave me an articulate tongue lashing about it. I guess if you surround yourself with books for decades, you pick up verbal acumen that comes in handy in these situations. As she yammered on about pursuing the fight, yadda, yadda, yadda, I remember thinking that the structure of her argument and her elevated vocabulary was worthy of a trial lawyer. Afterward, I decided not to mention my choice to anyone else. And really, there’s no sense in borrowing worry about something that probably won't happen anyway. As I said, it’s probably not back. I’m right across the street from my five-year mark when my risk level will plummet. And in the broader perspective, what are the chances of getting hit with cancer twice? But what are the chances of having two houses burn to the ground or three cars run into buildings I own? All of those have happened recently. It’s been a rough few years. Of course, I realize that my decision about chemo might change if I’m facing the Grim Reaper in a more concrete way than I am now. At this moment, it’s an image with fuzz all
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