Fear-driven anti-cancer culture. You’re either part of the solution or you have a problem.

I have to say, as a scholar of words and their effects on people, being told you have cancer is almost as shocking as being told you won the lotto. Except that your chances of winning the cancer lotto is better than winning the Powerball. There is something wrong with these odds.

Cancer is what, I believe it was Richard Weaver, considered a “weasel word” (I could be off. It has been a while since American Rhetoric.). These types of words are inherently laden and heavy with meaning. In this case cancer (usually) = death. Except when it isn’t, like in my case. But, it sort of does, because even though I am 100 % cancer free NOW, my chances of recurrence is greater than most of the population. Add my melanoma at 18, and my chances of recurrence increase even more. This fing son-of-a-bitch has been chasing me since I was 17. Almost 30 years isn’t such a bad run, until you realize there really isn’t a cure. Cancer doesn’t just go away. It hides, like a pussy street fighter, and hits a sister in the tit when she is already on the down. Add the management of reaction of family and friends to one’s own neuroses, and you’ve got the makings of one sleep-robbing experience. Because in the US, at least in some of the older folks generation, you don’t have cancer, you have (shhhh!) C-A-N-C-E-R shmancer, poo poo poo, (as if to spit the evil word out of one’s mouth). Hey, no other disease gets whispered, I guess…

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