Sometimes its cancer.

I don’t wish to be here on Earth any longer than I have to be.

Kenzie Townsend

It was a normal kind of visit. A bit like, going for groceries and getting t-boned by a car. It’s Phoenix Arizona. It’s normal for Phoenix. I sat there and talked to myself.

“Everyone gets cancer eventually.”

“You still get a few good years. Wait.”

“Which one is worse, the slow wait or the all at once one?”

I showed early.

I signed in. Sitting there. Alone. Like, an adult in that limbo of almost cancer and still being normal. Normal. Like, just not having cancer. I don’t think my life is normal. I don’t wish for other people to have experienced half the stuff I’ve done. It’s been a solo flight most of my life.

A kid changes the channel or turns the volume up blasting a show of other kids petting rabbits. The singing and piano playing sounds like an elementary school recital. This is my audio for my t-bone with cancer. Tiny children screaming or crying it’s hard to tell but, rabbits.

They should just hand you a rabbit in the waiting room.

Doctor: Here.

Kenzie: Thanks.

Kid: Can I have one?

Kenzie: You don’t have cancer.

They can pout in their tiny fortress they force their parents to bring to everything. With their Netflix and gaming systems and wheelchair sized stroller. Because kids.

I’ll pet the rabbit. I’ll pet the crap out of the rabbit.

It was hard to tell my Mom.

“I’m shaking.”

“I’m not scared Mom. I did everything I wanted to do.”

“You’ll fight this you’re the strongest person I know. You fight five guys at once. Just—. Pummeled them.”

People die Mum. It’s—. What people do.”