It met every Wednesday in the basement of a stone-walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross.
We all sat in a circle right in the middle of the cross, where the two boards would have met, where the heart of Jesus would have been.
I noticed this because Patrick, the Support Group Leader and only person over eighteen in the room,
talked about the heart of Jesus every freaking meeting, all about how we, as young cancer survivors,
were sitting right in Christ’s very sacred heart and whatever.
So here’s how it went in God’s heart: The six or seven or ten of us walked/wheeled in,
grazed at a decrepit selection of cookies and lemonade, sat down in the Circle of Trust,
and listened to Patrick recount for the thousandth time his depressingly miserable life story
how he had cancer in his balls and they thought he was going to die but he didn’t die and now here he is,
a full-grown adult in a church basement in the 137th nicest city in America,
divorced, addicted to video games, mostly friendless, eking out a meager living by exploiting his cancertastic past,
slowly working his way toward a master’s degree that will not improve his career prospects,
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