Today is the day. Dad begins his chemotherapy. It's an odd feeling of sharp delight.
Bittersweet.
We want this for him, and we hate he has to endure this. We are grateful and filled with hope.
And anger.
I realized and embraced sacred rage through this past year of health challenges. At first, I saw my body as the enemy, but as I channeled my anger into healing, it became more of a screw-you neuropathy/autoimmune sentiment. I'm rebellious; when I'm told I can't do something, I do it more over the top and take photos doing so.
Determination. Spite. Vindication.
Whatever we want to call it, I'm not going down without a fight.
I learned that from my dad.
Dear Cancer,
I loathe you. How dare you invade my family? How dare you feel you can do such a thing? I know you think you’re ahead, but you don't know my dad. You don't know our family. You may have many things, but we have something you’ll never touch, and that's love. You may laugh and call me corny, but love will always be victorious. We fight for love. My dad will fight because he is encompassed by love.
Love is divine.
It is the essence of life.
It is strength, brilliance, and boundless.
You will never touch that love, that soul, that faith. Never. Some say you aren't the enemy, but to me, you are.
You will fail.
So cancer, fuck around and find out.
This sacred rage incites change.
Evolution.
Shift.
Do not mistake this rage as negativity or dread; no, this brings forth a love that rises above it all: a fierce love, tremendous empathy, and warrior fire.
There is a difference between the body and the invader. Trusting the body while the battle rages within is brutal. It's much more than a journey. It's darkness and light. It's a known enemy yet obscure. It's forgiveness; it's sorrow.
Each breath is sacred.
Every laugh, scream, cry, smile is etched into the universe. The enemy or invader can't touch those.
As we stand in my dad’s corner, the showdown commences; we are ready.
We will be victorious because we are LOVE.