Why the f--- do I have cancer.
Again.
My Mom happened to call as my rage was escalating. She asked what I was angry at.
I paused because I didn't know the answer to the question at first. Then I knew, "The Universe." Because to what else can I direct my anger?
It is not 1917, and my own well water did not give me typhoid fever like my great grandmother. I could not be mad at the well or Salmonella typhi.
It is not 1925, and I was not killed in a wagon accident like my great grandfather. I could not be mad at the wagon or the horse.
It is not 1941, and I was not Polish, impoverished, hungry and resisting occupation like my paternal relatives. I could not be mad at Hitler.
It is not 1955, and I was not suffocated when an doctor covered my face with a breathing mask with no oxygen supply connected like my other great grandmother. I could not be mad at the doctor.
It is not 1992, and a surgeon did not place a faulty mesh in my aorta causing rupture much sooner than if the aneurysm had been left alone as happened to my great uncle. I could not be mad at the mesh.
It is not 2010, and I did not live courageously with myotonic dystrophy then lose my footing and fall down the stairs, fracturing my spine like my cousin. I could not be mad at the stairs.
It is 2012, and I have cancer again. Cancer carefully knit together by my own cells. I could not be mad at my own cells. Because then, where would I be?
So I was mad at the Universe.
And I pounded 17 rusty nails into a board I found discarded in our backyard. Nail after nail after nail. The tinny smacks of each strike echoed off the adjacent apartment building. I began to hear my own coarse breath as I tired. Nail after nail.
When I could hammer no more, I noticed Luna and Olive watching me from two feet away, out of my peripheral vision when I was pounding the nails. I put down the hammer. Still crouched down, they ran up to me and wildly licked my bald head, tails wagging.
I wasn't angry anymore.
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