I saw you at the oncologist’s office. Even before then, for weeks, I’ve seen your brain, the invader and the T-cells fighting it. I’ve felt your fear. In fact, had it myself when I thought my brain was trying to tell me that I had the cancer.
I heard the words, “It’s grown” and knew what they meant. I felt your rage–at the impotence and unfairness of it–and saw your desire to throw those fucking medical files and binders and shiny tools across the sterile room; for it to rise to meet the chaos inside.
I can help. Reach out. There is no judgement here.