I never wear purple.

It was today, exactly twenty years ago. But that day almost seems insignificant when I think about the years before it or the years after it.

A century ago, when someone got sick, it wasn't unusual for them to die from the sickness, whatever it was- measles, tetanus, the cold. And relatively quickly too. Maybe a few months of illness and then POOF.  All gone.  And as terribly disrupting and traumatic as it may have been to experience the loss of that loved one, there was a bit of a difference from what we commonly experience with illness in our modern world.

In this world, we experience the big "C" all the time.  Caaaaaaancer. The terrifying word that dooms someone to prolonged suffering, but gives them winks of hope at every corner. Maybe the resilience of their body along with the doctors, the researchers a million miles away and their own will to live are going to take back their health for them and they will WIN.

But sometimes that takes a while.  Sometimes it takes months. Sometimes years.

Sometimes you win. Sometimes you don't.

You never really know how it's all gonna go down when you first hear that the battle is on.

So you fight. And fight. And fight. And pray. And fight. And rest. And fight. And get weak. And fight. And you howl and punch the wall. And fight. And lean against the wall for support. And pray. And fight. And sit down. And look up. And you don't know where to go from there.

This is the struggle I was raised on.  This is the struggle I remember today.