Why not me?

 As an annoyingly wise friend once reminded me,

as I was lamenting my life’s struggles as rare and unique,

“Babe, we’re just all bozos on the bus”

Dammit if she isn’t right. Again.  

I’ll be the first to admit, since the moment I mumbled “thank you”

to the very nice woman who just told me I had cancer, and dropped the phone,

I forgot my bozo-ness.

I thought my cancer made me rare and unique.

That in the universal newscast, this was the lead.

A scroll across the bottom of everyone’s screen,

Didn’t you see it?

Turns out, I am just another bozo on the cancer bus.

And while I would much rather prefer a healthy vintage Vespa,

my bus Is pretty nice. The Booby Brigade fill the seats.

There’s wicked sweet music playing

(through damn good speakers for a bus.)

It’s being driven by the heart and brains of Piper and the wonders of science.

And rumor has it, I get to get off after a relatively short ride.

And the route does not show a cliff anywhere in sight.

I get to feed my grandchildren potato chips for breakfast

while I tell them how I kicked cancer’s ass in a bar fight.

Not all buses are like mine.

Some buses have just one seat. Some rides are damn long.

And while my ride will be bumpy (oh, I am lucky and optimistic, but this is no time for naiveté)

some rides have stumps, boulders and potholes every inch of the ride.

And the drivers did the best they could with the maps they had.

So bring me the bumps, and I shall do my best to handle them with grace.

In honor of all those with rides harder than mine. Or easier than mine.

In honor of rides that never end, or end far, far too quickly.

In honor of the people that waited patiently for someone to get off the bus,

only to see the damn bus is empty.

I do not and will not expect my story to be the universal headline. It’s mine.

Right now, it’s our top story.

But yours is yours.

And your story might still be in your heart and head. Your story might be big and raw.

And for a week, I did not want to hear those. Nope, I was the lead.

But I am not. We are all the lead. And none of us are.

We are all a story, in some way. Past. Present. First person. Or second. Or third.

Stories don't end when the bus has stopped.

I'm telling you mine. And if you want to tell me yours,

I’ll listen.

I will kick cancer’s pimply ass for all those who couldn’t.

And if you want me to draw boobs on your bus window, I’ll do that, too.

PS: Fuck cancer.