I have cancer.

There. I typed the words. The rest ought to come easier.

It’s non-Hodgkin lymphoma, described by the National Cancer Institute as “a disease in which malignant (cancer) cells form in the lymph system.”

“Malignant” is bad enough. Then comes that other word, “cancer.” In parentheses. Punch, slash, kick.

There are worse cancers, certainly. And the oncologist said mine appears to be low-grade.

Still. Cancer.

The diagnosis solved a mystery, making it the rudest of blessings.

I’ve dealt with puzzling and increasingly painful symptoms for 19 years, symptoms that a half dozen neurologists after their many shocks, jabs and scans couldn’t explain. They all labeled my symptoms “idiopathic,” which sounds smarter than “they dunno.”

But they meant “they dunno.”

Ever frustrated, I saw a seventh neurologist in January. He spotted a curiosity in blood test results, called it “concerning” and referred me to the oncologist.

The oncologist ordered more blood tests. Then a 24-hour urine test that required – yikes – a jug in our refrigerator. And next a bone marrow biopsy, about as fun as barbed-wire undies.

She then called with the result. My B cells clone themselves too enthusiastically and then attack my nerves. A kind of non-Hodgkin lymphoma.

Damn. Not an answer I like.

But it’s an answer – the end of “they dunno” and the start of a regimen that the oncologist said probably will help.

So, there it is. My rudest and most unwelcome blessing.

Cancer.

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Note from the staff at 30-Second Read World Headquarters

Today’s essay blew past our strictly observed 180 words to 240. The author insisted. He’s the editor and our boss, so we timidly mentioned “irreparable damage to the brand” and then relented. Given the topic, we hope you’ll forgive him for today’s 40-Second Read.

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