The Silent Killer

   When I was young, I didn’t know what cancer was.

   “What is that thing that people call cancer, mommy,” I would inquire. My mother would explain, “It’s when people are really sick and don’t feel good.”

   Now that I am approaching eighteen years of age, I have a very manifest understanding of what this monster known as cancer is. It prowls around, looking for victims. It knows no age and recognizes no boundaries. It claims casualties and never truly dies itself.

   My family tree has been branded by this savage. My great grandmother and grandfather Martin both passed away from lung cancer. Although I never actually met or knew them, I still feel a lump in my throat when I think of their victimization by cancer. The fortitude of our heritage was intruded upon by the ugly beast.

   Of course, most lung cancer cases are brought upon by the victim. I write this with no blame in my words to be placed upon the cancer patients themselves, while smoking is not a habit that I support.

   A question that I often ask myself is, “Would there be as much cancer if cigarettes were not advertised as liberally?” Though it may be a hard thought to face, it is true. Younger generations are using the encouragement from cigarette companies as justification for starting these addictions early on, only granting cancer a head start. If there were not billboards and magazines encouraging the use of cigarettes and other forms of tobacco, cancer would not be so prevalent in today’s society.

   Though there is an obvious cause of lung cancer, most cancers inch into the lives of their hostages using the element of surprise as a tool to claim yet another life.

   Somewhere at this very moment, a girl at the age of six is picking out her first, and possibly her last, wig. She will fawn over models on magazine covers, longing for their hair. She will embrace her teddy bear and whisper “I love you” to her mom, just in case it is her last chance.

   A man at the age of forty-two will lie in a hospital room, staring at the ceiling. He will question if the average human life expectancy of eighty-four is a myth. His children will hug him around the neck as hard as they can, praying for just one more day.

   So, this article goes out to our warriors. They are equipped with hospital gowns and heroism. They fight on the front lines, striving for victory from the beds that they have become all too familiar with. They wear tubes in their nostrils and tenacity in their blood.

   So often, we view our healthy selves as the ones who are here to inspire the patients in hospitals across the world. On the contrary, those held down by cancerous chains are the motivation for us. Anyone from birth to one-hundred years old that can stare such an illness in the eyes and continue crusading has earned my respect.

   I would like to express my gratitude to all cancer survivors, patients and martyrs. You have shown me what it means to appreciate life.

   This article is written in honor of a friend of mine, Luke Brock, who has defeated cancer at the age of sixteen. Cancer may have swung the first punch, but you put that sickness in the ground.    Good fight!

   If you or someone you know has had experience with this illness, I would love to hear about it via email. Thank you for reading. God bless.