I didn’t know it was cancer…

I didn’t know it was cancer.

No one talked about it, so I didn’t have the words. I didn’t speak the language. I hadn’t studied the symptoms. I thought it looked different; felt different.

I thought I would know before it was too late.

I noticed changes. Deficiencies. Shadows. But I was told it was to be expected.

I felt pain. Foreboding. Deterioration.

But I was told it was my fault. If I just took better care, followed a certain set of rules, I’d be fine. If I wasn’t fine, it was because I wasn’t doing what I should be doing.

I tried to take care. I tried to follow the rules.

But it spread. Worsened. Began to creep into new places and spaces.

I was asked what the fuck I expected, being what I was.

I didn’t realize I needed help. Real help. Expert help, and protection, and life saving measures.

I was told I needed help all right, but I was probably too arrogant and stupid to listen. That I was probably too far gone.

It started to hurt when I slept. It metastasized. I could feel everything slipping away.

Suddenly he said “I am so sorry, I realize now this is cancer. This is serious. I will take care of you. I will make sure you get exactly what you need so that you can heal.”

He was lying. As soon as I exhaled, and ventured to trust again, and believed that he really hadn’t realized it was cancer, he tried to kill me.

They asked “If it was cancer, why did you only go to the doctor once?”

“If it was cancer, why didn’t you tell someone?”

“If it was cancer, why didn’t you have any bruises?”

“If it was cancer, why would he tell us he was the one who was sick, and you were hurting him?”

I didn’t know it was cancer abuse.

I shouldn’t need an autopsy to prove it.