The depths of my cold, black heart.

So I'm hanging out in the waiting area of the radiation center to get my treatment the other day (more on that later) and start reading this article hanging on the wall about this dude who had fought cancer for some 14 years or something, but who lived to tell the tale I'm happy to say. The article was written in this man's voice and he discussed how, while getting a treatment one day he saw a woman come in on her last day of treatment with a huge bouquet of flowers for the staff. He went on to say how wonderful all his care-givers were over the years and he just felt that, when his last day arrived, that he wanted to do something really special for them because they weren't just doing their jobs, they were like angels in his life. Flowers just didn't seem adequate and so he ended up making some great donation to the cancer center (though the article didn't really say what that was.)

So here is where I discovered the depths of my cold, black heart. Because the entire time I'm reading this story, beside thinking how happy I was for this man that he had survived, the only other thing I could think about was what MY last day would be like. And, frankly, all I've ever thought would happen would be that I would run in for my last treatment, meet with the doctor (I'm assuming, to get the 4-1-1 on follow-up steps) and then run out of there with a hearty "No offense, but I hope I never see you people again! See ya!"

Now, maybe if I had to struggle for my life for as many years as this guy did I might feel differently. But for now? My heart. It is cold and black.