Telling stories

My friend who is being assessed for her breast cancer has just been told her lymph nodes are clear, which is, obviously, fantastic news, and I am genuinely delighted for her.

But there is a little bit of me that thinks “Why me?”. Why does everybody else I know seem to be getting through this, while I am stuck in this permanent state of shit? What did I do to deserve this?

And, of course, I didn’t do anything. I mean, I have partied, I had my children late, I’ve worked hard, I’ve done night shifts. But nothing that hundreds of thousands of other people haven’t done, nothing that my friends haven’t done. Nothing directly causal.

I have decided to blame fiction. I have read too many books. I have a fiction induced fantasy that good people have good things happen to them, and bad people have bad things happen to therm. Whereas, in fact, it’s all just stuff. 

And then I found this article in the Guardian yesterday:

So now I’m wondering whether I should discourage the kids from reading. Maybe it’s a bad thing, after all?


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