One thing I’ve carefully avoided is using the term “my cancer” – even casually.
This is not my cancer. It doesn’t belong to me. It’s not a welcome guest. No one told it that it could move into my body when we were sitting here minding our own business.
It is A cancer. Just like I might take, say, A shit and then flush the toilet.
As a footnote to that, I believe this may be the title to the book I’m writing about the Lymphoma that is packing its bags on its way out of my body.
But then it’ll be a double-entendre, having both the meaning of “you don’t live here bitch, get out” but also “uncomplicated? Pfft. Not my cancer. It has to be an overachiever. Guess that’s what I get for being a workaholic.”
Other than that, I’m not claiming this baggage. It can sit on the luggage carousel forever for all I care.