Hate Mail

Dear Rhabdoid Cancer:

I hate you. There is nothing in the entire history of this world (or any other, if there are others) worse than you. There is no limit to the bad things I want to do to you.

You kill babies. You killed Vivi, and Aiden, and Diesel, and Bubba, and Ben, and Jonathan, and Mackenzie, and our new friend (in Heaven) Harry. These sweet, kind, loving, beautiful, innocent little babies are not alive because of you. Sure, I can remind myself that they are Heaven and are at peace rather than hurting, but I don't forgive you for killing them. You've hurt other babies, too, like Gabriel and Owen and Declan, who, no thanks to you, are doing well. But you caused them hurt and suffering for no good reason. But I hate you most for the babies you have murdered.

You've done horrible things to those babies' families. Their brothers and sisters have had to learn about death because of you. Their parents have to live with grief. Every day, thanks to YOU, I wake up missing the sweetest, best person I ever met. Every day, I am jealous and angry about other families who haven't had the misfortune of meeting you (or any of your other cancer comrades). I am a better person thanks to knowing my Vivienne, but I don't forgive you for forcing me to rise to the challenge of losing her.

I hate you, and I wish in turn that I could kill you. I would stop at nothing to eradicate you completely from the face of this earth, forever. But because you are sneaky and sly, and you strike so hard but so rarely, you've neutralized many of the tools I have to fight you. Too few people have seen your ugly face, so too many people are saddened by the story of a child you've killed but move on with their lives. There are many dedicated doctors, researchers and geneticists fighting you, but you don't fight fair. You kill babies, before we even have a chance to try to stop you.

Every time, like today, that I grow to know another child that you are attacking or have killed, I hate you more. Why don't you turn on selfish, violent, cruel, evil adults instead of innocent, sweet, tiny, kind babies? I would not mind so much if I heard that Rhabdoid Cancer had claimed Charles Manson or Dick Cheney, the board of directors of Halliburton or even Kanye West. But when I hear of another tiny child who was happy and playing one day and suffering your curse the next day, I instantly become a pathetic combination of sad and hateful.

So, you are a disease, brought on by bad luck and a faulty copy of DNA. You aren't a person, and I can't get through to you with a guilt trip or a tirade of hate. But if I could, you would be toast. I have more than enough of both to throw at you. I would make you look at pictures of the smiling, happy babies you've murdered, and sit and talk with their parents and siblings and other family members. And I would hurt you until you regretted your effect on every single one of those lives.

But since I can't do that, I am going to fight against you the only way I can - by a malicious campaign against you designed to let every single person I can reach know how utterly, terribly, un-remorsefully, selfishly, cruelly horrible you are. I know too many of those people will momentarily feel sad and then move on to their beach vacations, concerts, new fall TV shows and whatever else interests normal, happy people whose lives you haven't attempted to destroy. But if I can turn one extra person against you, and convince them to donate time, money, voice or otherwise to beat you out of existence, I will feel a little bit better.

I hate you, Rhabdoid Cancer. I despise you. And I will die before I lay down my guns and give up fighting against you. I am stubborn, always, and you have picked the wrong woman to mess with, this time.

Your sworn enemy,

Mary Martin, mother of Vivienne Martin, an Angel in Heaven