I do. I really, really, really hate neuroblastoma. I hate it so much that I’d willingly go to prison for killing it with my bare hands. I can hear myself screeching at an ear torturing decibel before launching across the room and throttling it to death. I want to torture it like it has tortured my son. Take from it like it has taken my son’s childhood. Scare it like it has scared me. Destroy it like it has destroyed countless children and their families.
I hate you, neuroblastoma. I wish I could just decide to not give you any more power. But you really don’t care what I think, do you? It doesn’t matter if I think shiny, happy thoughts. You come even when we try to beat you back with harsh medicines, painful therapies, or copious amounts of prayer. You just don’t care.
You freaking bully. Why do you come after children? Why are they your target? What have they ever done to you? They just want to ride their bikes and play with friends and do normal kid things. You’ve stolen a big part of my son’s childhood. I have to try to explain to him why he can’t have that back. You jerk. You probably think it’s funny, watching me try to explain to my beautiful son why he can’t go to school or do most “normal” things kids do because of YOU. I’m sick of trying to explain you. I’m sick of watching you take. I’m sick of you messing with us.
I just told my sweet son what you’ve been up to. That you’ve come back a third time to mess with our good friend, Justin. Ben knew something was wrong when he saw my tear-streaked face. He asked me and I told him that you didn’t care that Justin had beaten you TWICE, you came back to get him again, despite his going through the same painful antibodies that Ben is going through. The stuff that is supposed to teach these brave warriors how to fight you. Ben closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He completely understands what you’re up to.
You didn’t give Justin the chance at normalcy that he deserves. He’s been fighting you for so long that he is now tired of fighting you. That’s what you want. That’s why you came back. You are licking your lips in anticipation of putting this poor child through your hell yet again.
I hate you, neuroblastoma. I hope you die a horrible death. I almost said a “slow, horrible death”, but I don’t want you around any longer than necessary. Die quickly. Get it over with. We’re done with you.
It’s too bad that you’re not done with us.