Crossing the Atlantic

I was 42 when my mother passed away. I was in an emergency room, by her side, holding her hand and stroking her arm as cancer took her. Her sister and mother on the opposite side of the bed, a few friends scattered about – we watched as breast cancer claimed another victim.

Although it wasn’t breast cancer by then. Yes, the cells were similar, but it had metastasized. It had moved elsewhere, taken on a new form.

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