Do you mind if I call you that? I know your real name is Tamoxifen, but that seems kind of formal. And the numbers on you say 2233. Maybe I could call you 22 for short?
So 22, it sounds like we’re going to be together for a while, like maybe ten years, so I figured it’d be nice if we could get to know each other a bit.
I’m a mom with three kids and a lot more to do with my life. You’re a highly esteemed chemical concoction designed to stop me from getting cancer again. I understand your specialty is cutting off the food supply to estrogen-hungry cancer cells, but if you find any other yucky things floating around, would you do me a favor and kill those as well?
If you happen to stumble upon any stray cells for shiny hair and high metabolism (do those even exist?), put in a good word for me. I’d like to encourage them to multiply. Quickly.
Someone told me we’re about the same age. Okay, I’m a little older… and that you studied (or were studied) at the Carbone Cancer at the University of Wisconsin. I went to Wisconsin, too! Someone also told me that much of your funding came from donations to the Susan G. Komen foundation. I honestly haven’t checked all the facts, but it’s pretty humbling to know that someone I don’t even know gave money so that you would be around when I needed you. The thought kind of chokes me… like a great big act of kindness.
I know we’re pretty early on in this relationship and the doctor says it’ll be a month or two before we really get to know each other, but I’m hoping all that talk of hot flashes and tingly fingers is just talk. But seriously, whatever it takes to keep the cancer away is good with me. You just do your job and I’ll do my best not to complain.
Well, that’s about it. I hope you have a good day. I’ll see you tonight, just before bed. I’ll bring a big enough glass of water for the both of us.
Fondly and with blessings,
Your new friend,