Twice in the last week I have been told by friends that cancer is caused by anger, i.e it’s my fault. Sod genetics and smoking, it’s the hissy fits that have brought me down.
I am angry that I’ve got it but only a saint would welcome it with open arms. This attitude reminds me of the Uncle Arthur Bedtime Stories books that my mother used to buy me every Christmas from a bloke who came to the door. Sweet little tales of children who were hit by a bus because they were rude to grandma. They put the fear of God into me, which I guess was the point.
Emotional turmoil can make you eat too little, drink too much and retreat to the sofa with the dog but give you cancer? And isn’t sulking, bottling it up, meant to be worse?
Without doubt, stress attributed to my heart attack five years ago – yep, anything for attention, me. But cancer?
Seriously, leave it out. You’ll make me angry.