My leg. Your hand. Your neck. Your arm. Your hip. Your brain. Your blood. Your marrow. Your toe. Your jaw. Your muscle. Your finger. Your lungs.

Your being.

This cancer is something ravaging. Never stopping, and pointed beyond the body, to the soul. It eats away piece by piece. In moments, some would say it’s been conquered. In others, some would say it’s been a losing battle. When I look into your eyes and feel the weight of the surgical waiting room, I think not on what it’s been. Not a fight we are fighting, but a mountain we are climbing. Upon this earth we won’t ever be able to reach the top, for there will always be the moment when the papers come in the mail, and there’s more to be checked for, where we’ll need a hand to hold as we meet a waiting room again. Did I win against cancer? No, I’m not sure I did. Did I lose? Well, not one of us ever could. Did it become a part of our lives, never to be removed? Did it become something that unites a group of people that we’ve never met but know everything about? Yes, it did.

Could we ever walk away? No, never, for it has become the reality we know. Something, to live for.

With your hands and feet and legs and muscles and brains and blood and marrow, we became a part of the same club. We walk, hop, wheel, and limp, united. Strong. Never alone.

And there is nothing that I would trade for the ability to walk in and know, I’m welcome here. Here, I’m understood.

The Little Rascals have nothing on this.

…because love wins.