Unfair
I don’t get sick. Go figure. I’m fat and out of shape and everything the health thugs love to hate, but I don’t get sick. David has gone through two nasty colds in the last month, but me? Not so much as a sniffle.
I get occasional headaches, and now and then a case of the one-day blahs. That’s really about it.
A good friend of mine was just diagnosed with uterine cancer. It’s bitterly unfair. She is a generous and loving person with a husband and child who depend on her, and a wide circle of friends who love and value her for her unselfish benevolence. She takes good care of herself, always has.
This is not supposed to happen to women like her. It’s supposed to be women like me. Damn, if I could take it from her, I would. But here I sit, disgustingly healthy save for a still-healing knee, and there’s nothing I can do.
If that weren’t enough to reinforce a sense of helplessness before the world’s ugly caprices, a number of my coworkers were immediately present today when this happened. I was due to meet with a couple of them a bit later on in the afternoon; I was quite prepared to postpone, but they overcame shock and dropped by anyway.
I stuck to my knitting. What else could I do? Asking for details is ghoulish, and I didn’t want details anyway. They were outwardly completely collected (which is a feat I’m not sure I could emulate); asking after their mental state might only have brought back what they were trying to get away from. So I stuck to my knitting. I hope it helped.
The proper response to all this is supposed to be gratitude. There but for the grace. Count blessings. Well, I’m not grateful, damn it. I’m upset, because I don’t like these things happening around me, and I’m scared, because how long can my lucky streak last, and what horror is going to break it?