In the Chemo Chair next to mine.
My son’s age.
His mother’s face, oh my god, his mother’s face. Creases deep enough for an an entire fingertip.
I was strong and steady up until then. But something died inside me yesterday, shriveled black and stinking in the presence of the child’s pain.
And his mother’s.
And for the first time I thanked God for my breast cancer. Thanked God it is me and not one of my children.
But a piece of who I am, of my fight, will forever lay on the asbestos tile of that chemo room, at the feet of a child.