The Fault In Our Stars

CHAPTER ONE
Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house,
spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently,
and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.
Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer.
But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying.
(Cancer is also a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really.)
But my mom believed I required treatment, so she took me to see my Regular Doctor Jim,
who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression,
and that therefore my meds should be adjusted and also I should attend a weekly Support Group.
This Support Group featured a rotating cast of characters in various states of tumor-driven unwellness.
Why did the cast rotate? A side effect of dying. The Support Group, of course, was depressing as hell.
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