As I grew up, the word "cancer" was almost never spoken like naming a disease, turning the dark lord with a paralyzed face towards you and hitting you with a tumor as if one of the people eating death. Doctors may advise not to anger the family by saying that it will only take a few weeks for you to live.
However, the truth seems to have shaken too much in the opposite direction. Doctors told me six times that I had cancer. I was lucky. They were wrong six times.
First, I was in my 40s, and the oncologist who read the breast mammogram said that she would continue to remove the lump instead of performing a routine biopsy because the calcification in the left breast was malignant. Women in our family are not prone to breast cancer, and the oncologist assured us that we caught the tumor before it spread. But of course, when the pathology report came back negative, I was relieved. It was not in vain to be angry about the divot next to my left nipple. The person who found out that Dent had a reason to break up with me was not the one I dated from the beginning.
Second, the second cancer diagnosis was much more serious. I left the world for a few months. The cardiologist said that as a thin and strong female writer, I was clearly prone to fainting. However, I had been a thin and corrupt female writer for most of my life, and last week, not to mention three times, it was hardly communicated. A few days later, when I woke up at 2 a.m. and started dating at the Polish man's house for the first time, I was full of back pain and nausea. Assuming that I was experiencing the negative effects of the hamburger I had eaten earlier, I staggered to the bathroom. In the early morning, I returned to my boyfriend's bed, and he saw me once and insisted on rushing to the emergency room.
There, no one paid much attention until I couldn't breathe. My new boyfriend proved his worth by jumping in alone and screaming to save my damn life. Finally, the obstetrician and gynecologist...