I don't know about you, but cancer has got me a little scared.
Yet another person I know just died from cancer. She was 40. I worked with her at the book store when I was in college the first (second, third – depends on how you count) time. She was a pretty thing, smart, spoiled. I lost track of her after she moved to Milwaukee, but I saw her picture in Madison Magazine last year or so, as she was ever the mover and shaker.
It's quite a shocker. In my inferiority-complex way, I never think of the elite as being quite as normal and feeling and vulnerable to the mundane as the rest of my social circle. It's rude of me, really. But there she was, the trophy wife who couldn't buy or beautify herself out of her illness. I'm upset with myself, and feeling terrible for her and her family – she who will never see her daughter grow up or her husband grow old; her husband and daughter, mother and siblings, and the rest of her relatives and friends who watched her struggle with cancer for nine years.
I've thought about her over the years, wondering what she was up to, where or if she worked. Surely she was doing something glamorous; she had doors open to her simply by virtue of her birth, surname, and good looks. But fighting cancer is never glamorous.
It took us a while to like each other. But we did. I wish I'd seen her again before she died.