The Big C

We were hit with some pathetic news today.  That is, a relative has had a resurgence of cancer which has been supposedly succesfully treated in the past.

It makes you feel so incredibly useless.  I feel like I want to be able to do something about it, but in all reality I can do diddly squat to help.

Given that I've had my own brush with cancer I do know full well that cure can be achieved.  Lance Armstrong is the real testament to this: in 1996 he had an aggressive form of testicular cancer, but he came back and won seven Tours de France from 1999 to 2005.  The most influential book I read during my three months in hospital was "It's Not About the Bike: My journey back to life" which describes his illness and recovery.  It took me all of about three days to read the thing (I wasn't well at all at the time: even watching TV was proving a biut much at the time) but as things went I could hardly put it down.

So there are plenty of success stories.  However, the day before yesterday at the cricket it was Jane McGrath Day.  She was taken from us all too early.

It really gets you thinking about the existence of a god.  If there is a god, why is such pain and suffering foisted upon people.  If there isn't, then what's the point of it all, particularly when you are taken so early?

Alas, I feel almost as useless at coming to a conclusion on that as about being able to do anything about the affliction with the Big C itself.