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Dear Cancer

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You are not going to win; not this time.

You stole my best friend from me at the tender age of twenty-six but you will NOT steal my mother-in-law.

You have weakened her, but you will not conquer her. You are no match for her vitality and her spirit. Come Monday, you will find that the fear your presence has brought into her heart has coalesced into something different, something stronger and infinitely more powerful than you are.

Resolve.

Come Monday the battle, and the countdown to your defeat, will begin. You will be vanquished, not just by a series of powerful chemical cocktails, but by intangible things that your black, workmanlike destruction is not capable of understanding or touching.

Because ultimately you and your filth and foul are no match for a woman of beauty and strength; a woman of courage and exuberance, who has survived the Nazis and routed opponents half her age on the tennis court.

Mark my words: you are no match for her.

You are no match for this family.

You are no match for love.

You are NOT going to win; not this time. 

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