She was six years old and thrilled to be a big sister. He was the cutest baby ever, wait, correction; I was the cutest baby ever. For the first few years of my life, I shared a room with my sister. I’m told that I used to often sing myself to sleep. Now, judging by how awful my voice is now, I can’t imagine it was much better back then. What would have caused most big sisters to smother their little brother with a pillow was somehow music to her ears.
My sister has jammed multiple life time’s worth of surviving into her 40 years here. She’s battled her demons long enough that the fight should go to the judges, but there was always another round and another bell. She has a Rocky-like way of answering each bell, when the average person would throw in the towel.
A few months back she found out she had a new opponent, with a long ridiculous name: Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. A dirty fighter who never really lost, but at the same time doesn’t win all that much either. So she threw down the way only she does. You’d swear she’s part pit bull. Things were going well, and they were taking a break from the chemo to see just how big of an ass-whopping she had put on her ugly rival. I don’t know much about these fights, but I was told that was a very good sign.
Then about a week and a half ago she had some pain in her abdomen. The woman with a pain threshold like no one else retreated back to her corner for some help. Tests were run and now those results are back. Damnit to hell, it’s another nasty, dirty, repulsive opponent with another horrifying name: Renal Cell Carcinoma, or Kidney Cancer for short.
Like many of her other past fights, the odds makers can’t be trusted, but those of us in her corner hope she goes mid-evil on her foe and then get some well deserved rest from fighting for her life.