I'm not good at saying goodbye. I'm especially not good at saying goodbye permanently.
Unfortunately the last few months have given me too many opportunities. Cancer claimed more people important to me this spring and summer than I care to count and it's taken me a while to regain my certainty that every day, every minute, somebody kicks cancer's ass and wins.
I mean, I did it twenty-eight years ago. I know miracles happen. Survivors are out there and our numbers are growing. They're just not growing fast enough to suit me.
Randy Pausch's death hit me hard, same as it hit millions of other people. He never held out false hope but I couldn't stop myself from believing he'd win in the end. In a way he did: nobody ever fought with more grace and joy than he did. If you ever want to understand what it means to fully live in the moment, look no further than Randy.
Pancreatic cancer is a bitch. My mother was diagnosed with it on March 28, 2001 and on May 6, 2001 she was dead. It's cruel. It's vicious. It doesn't give a damn who you are. It probably sounds crazy but I scan the 'net for updates on Patrick Swayze's fight with pancreatic cancer and actually cheer when the news is good. Somewhere, some time, somebody is going to beat it and I can't wait.
I just hope it's soon.