I’m not a smoker. But I’d imagine that, as the average twenty-year-old smoker drags on his or her brand of choice, he’s not thinking of the good time he could be having in about 50 years: laying in a hospital bed, losing his hair, being inundated with various chemicals and drugs to sear away the cancer that usurps his lungs.
My grandmother is 70 years old, and she has lung cancer.
When I first heard, almost a month ago (?!), Aaron and I had just chosen a final wedding date. For a fleeting moment, I considered moving my wedding date up a few months, but thought better of it. After all, wouldn’t that be a vote of inconfidence in her ability to pull through? So I called her up in the hospital and told her that at least her hair will have grown back by May.
I seem to be the least worried of everyone, except my Memaw. I wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t be more concerned, considering her age and all. Mom says Memaw has good days and bad days. Tuesday was a bad day, and she was asleep when Mom came to visit. Thursday, however, was a good day, since Memaw was downstairs playing bingo when Mom called to check on her. 🙂
I refuse to be angry at Memaw, though. Sure, this cancer could be pinned down to her decades of smoking — but what will it help to blame the victim? I’d rather just go to the women’s cancer specialty shop and buy her a head scarf or three for her birthday.