Cancer and the Art of War

Cancer and the Art of War

Pondering Cancer and the Art of War

I first saw my cancer though the eyes of my son. Three weeks of coughing had continued to get worse. Alex, needy as always, slept in my arms, refusing to sleep in his crib. I awoke both of us with a gut wrenching, gravely cough‐wheeze. Instead of startling, or crying, I look down and saw in the face of my son a look of deep concern and compassion, deeper than I had ever seen on an adult, with an understanding far beyond his nine months. Seeing that look I asked myself “I wonder if this is worse than I think. How can he know?” A week later they found the mass in my chest. It is the size of a soda can, wrapped around my heart like a glob of concrete fired from a canon.

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