Jan. 22, 2014:  A comment by a reader stated that, although he was sorry that I had cancer, writing about it seemed like there was a "poor me" attitude about it employed for sympathy.

When was the last time you read a column by someone taking chemo to beat cancer? Hell, the treatment can kill you as fast as the disease can. No lightweights take chemo; it's not a beautiful day at a bikini-covered Hollywood beach.

To date, I've had 26 transfusions, which is more than Rocky needed in the ring to stem eye cuts in all three fights. True, like Job, I have asked, "Why me?" and, on and off, have shaken my fist at the heavens over my circumstances. In fact, I have challenged the Creator more than once to step into the parking lot, like Jacob at the Jabbok River, in an effort to straighten out his management skills.

It boils down to this--I lay claim for my current battle with "Satan's curse"! Smoking a pack a day of Marlboros for 52 years was a self-withering bullet aimed at this wide body. I, unaccompanied, pulled the trigger.

But "Don't Cry for Me Argentina." I made my hospital bed, each tightly tucked corner with every filter smoked. Cry for the others afflicted with the "beast" to whom Beelzebub has guaranteed his revenge.

When I was "healthy," I would try not to notice those stricken with the "Bastid." The word "cancer" sparks fear even among today's bravest.

In my limited view and with my limited medical knowledge, the victims seemed to try to blend into the shadows, the faint light exposing only their stumped-shouldered, battle-tested figures, bracing their gates with walkers, canes, or oxygen tubes attached to wheelchairs--burdened with limbs struggling with neuropathy, their yellow and gray pallor unveiling the many doses of the "cocktail" on the canvases of their faces.

They seemed to be all clad in colorless bandanas, floppy hats, and badly made wigs to mask the defoliation of hair once combed in proud health. I recorded the victims in my mind as departing souls on the "death train," saying under my breath a meaningless prayer for their struggle and then quickly moving on.

We humans like to plan ahead. We amuse ourselves by forecasting five, ten, even as far as fifteen years in the future. Some see themselves becoming heads of great companies, others as doctors, lawyers, and candlestick makers, or defending the nation's honor. It's all free choice.

The folks in drab floppy hats forecast their lives by their chemo schedule with hopes of hearing the miracle word "remission." The most dreaded alternative word would be "maintenance." Translated:  Your "old kit bag" has been packed for you; your train ticket is waiting at the window when you decide to put the gloves down.

The young and healthy see their future through a dimension of perfection--the perfect home, the perfect job, the perfect relationship, a never-ending stream of good fortune.

The "fighters" plan their day with overcoming the simple obstacles of daily comings and goings such as curbs, shopping, or going to the bathroom.

The stress on relationships for those fighters is difficult. Any affectionate attraction or its potential receives the lifted cold shoulder of indifference as it passes by on its continued search for human connection.

For the healthy, the world is vast, making available many roads of exploration or options. For the fighters, the universe has shrunk to the head of a pin with the miracle word "remission" being the light at the end of the tunnel.

When you see a fighter, you might think of saying, "My prayers are with you, I wish you success." It just might help both of you!