Cancer

They say certain people can be poison, that they can bring you pain and suffering the longer you're with them. I always thought the analogy was stupid. You see, I preferred cancer. For poison, there's usually an antidote, something to counteract the toxins quickly and painlessly to save you. With cancer, it's a slow death from the inside, even if you are getting treatment. In fact, the treatment itself can kill you. Sometimes, the only option is to cut it straight out, and that always leaves a scar.

That's how my father was to me. His words hurt me deep inside, causing almost physical pain. They way he never believed in me wore my down in the way cancer will make a shell of a human being. And when I tried to escape to college, he stuck with me, still calling to tell me how worthless I was.

The treatment hurt too. Classes wore me down and made me perpetually stressed and tired. It was better than being stuck back there with my father. At least that's what I always told myself. Two years of this never really made a difference.

That was, until I met him. Paul was kind, strong, experienced... He took care of me and made me feel special. He made me feel like I was enough, and that was something new and amazing. Never mind that he was in the army; I could deal with tough times for happiness with him. Never mind he used to smoke; he changed that for me, vowing to quit forever. He was perfect, amazing, and I was finally happy.

And so, after months of dating Paul, I decided to cut the cancer out. He asked me to marry him, and I said yes, and we moved to a big city never to look back to that little town where my father lived.

Of course it left scars, as cancer always does. I missed my little sister, and my younger brother. But I was happier. Life was better.

When our first child was born, I wanted to name him Louis. When Paul asked why, I smiled up at him from the hospital bed and told him it was because that was the first place we lived together when I became cancer-free.

And so Louis it was. Louis Paul Scott. He was joy in a human flesh-suit. And such was my life. We raised him to the age of three before I found out I was pregnant again. A girl this time, we hoped. Louis and Lianne, we decided.

But Lianne never came. On one cold November morning, I went into labor at three months. Lianne was born a bloody mess of tissue in our bathtub while Louis cried in the bedroom waiting for Paul to get home.

I got sick after that. Paul said it was because of the miscarriage. He said I was depressed and blamed myself for losing the baby. And I believed that. I hated what happened to our little Lianne. How could I not give her the life she deserved?

I lost weight, even as Paul made sure I ate three meals a day. It was a normal sign of depression, the doctor told us. But when I started coughing through the nights, the idea that it might be something else dawned on us.

Diagnosis: Stage 3 Lung Cancer

You'll be fine, Paul told me. The doctors have hope for you.

But after the second round of scans, that hope dropped to only twenty-two percent, and near the end, it was down to twelve.

Paul would read to me every day, and bring Louis to visit after work, but today, he came alone. Only a few words were clear to me when he made his confession, but the ones that stood out clear as day were as follows.

Still a smoker.

Paul made me happy every day I was with him, but he taught me one thing that I will never stray from, even on my death bed.

All people are cancer. You just have to pick the ones worth suffering for.