They said you were too young to have cancer, They were wrong.
They said the bleeding was your piles, It wasn’t.
They said the anaemia was because of your periods, They were wrong.
They said the belly ache was your irritable bowel, It wasn’t.
You sit in front of me, pale, ill, in a flimsy hospital gown. In an cramped, depressing room on the ward, The paint peeling off the wall. Sun shines through the window, I hear laughter outside. Your husband sits beside you, worried. Rushed in from work by a panicked phone call.
It’s bad news.
The scan shows a tumour, a perforation, shadows on the liver. Major surgery and chemotherapy lie ahead. You’re younger than I,
Two little kids at home. It feels all wrong.
You cry and so do I.
I’m not supposed to cry,
Fuck that and fuck cancer too.
Never too young.
By Mark Cheetham
my contribution to World Cancer Day