Run

The smells and sounds take you back to when you were someone else. Someone scared who fought this once already. And so you ask yourself: who will I be this time? Older and wiser? Or older and scarier—and more fucking scared? Can I use what I know to get me through, or will what I know break me down?

When you get to the chemo room the smells assault you, it’s instant. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the metallic tang of IV poles, the faint sweetness of plastic tubing—it all slams into you. And your body screams: Run. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to do any part of this. You want to run like you’ve never run before, away from everything you know is coming.

And then you sit in the hateful chair. You look around and see the others—some right where you are, some who’ve been where you are, some heading where you’ve already been. Their faces are tired, their blankets pulled close, their eyes telling truths you don’t want to hear. And it still scares the shit out of you. Run, your mind says. Run like you’ve never run before.

And then the Beep,Beep, Beep, of the grim metronome. You can’t help but think: if it stops, do I stop? The thought coils around your spine. But then you remember—you’ve been here before. You’ve met the beeping before. You’ve beaten the beeping before.

And still—still—
you want to run.
Run like you’ve never run before.

But you don’t.
You stay.
Because running isn’t who you are.

You’re here.
You’re scared as hell.
But you’re still in the fucking chair.

And that? That’s the fight. Stay!