Did you get the name of the cruise ship that just ran my dinghy over?
When I heard "cancer" as the results from the 9 core biopsies I'd had the previous week (yes, my boob had been turned into Swiss cheese), the expression "feeling like I'd been hit by a Mack truck" didn't even come close to capturing the moment.

That one, relatively short, innocuous word: CANCER.  In itself, the word doesn't sound so bad.  Not like other words.  Bulbous. Gristle.  Lugubrious.  Obstreperous. Unctuous. Phlegm. Crotch. These words sound gross or intimidating; they don't roll off the tongue.  The concept of cancer and what it means...don't you think it should have a meaner, yuckier sound to it?

Anyway, back to the Mack truck.  Yeah, a Mack truck smack-down would have been an easy bounce-back.

You know those 16-story cruise ships that dominate the seas, pulling into city ports
constructed centuries before their worlds could even dream of a boat that big? Dwarfing the seaside landings and buildings, blocking the sun, casting a shadow through the streets, dominating the skyline. Big enough to house zip lines, football-length malls, full-size ice skating rinks, casinos, multitudes of drinkeries and eateries--and all the food, drink, and human capital needed to satisfy upwards of 6,000 party-going passengers. THAT'S what I felt had run ME over.

My little dinghy squished and swamped by something so inconceivably big I couldn't breathe.  Something that ran me over and didn't even know I was there.

A few days after the diagnosis, I was swept into the cancer treatment machine...