Across town, a modest house sits empty. The grass a little taller than it should be. The driveway empty for longer than it has ever been. The mailbox overflowing between trips to retrieve it. It sits, and it waits, for her return. A thin layer of dust covers the counters, and possibly, a phone rings in the back, still on because it might be needed when she returns. If she returns. The house waits. And the house shall continue to wait, as the doctor gives no indication of time. Cancer can not be cured with a 'take two of these and call me in the morning.' By all accounts, her progression is nothing short of a miracle. Although when asked how much longer, her doctor says, "We will be having this same discussion a year from now." Leaving not much hope for a speedy recovery.
When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. But the problem with that saying is the idea that a lemon is bad. Its not. Its a fucking fruit! Give me a break. I mean, oh, its a little sour but it's still edible and smells great. What do you do when life hands you Cancer? Huh? Answer that question.
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