I. Hate. Cancer. I want to rip its throat out. I want to grab it by its wretched little ears, body slam it, then run it over with an Abrams tank. I want to rain Hellfire missiles down upon it until it waves a white flag and surrenders. But I can’t. No one can. And just when you think you’ve run it off, never to be heard from again, it has the audacity to pop its head from around the corner and jump out at you with a nightstick and thwack you right square between the eyes.

Renowned author and all-around-good-guy, Vince Flynn, died Wednesday following a two-year battle with the thing I hate most on this planet. It’s claimed my step-mother; it’s claimed my step-father; it’s afflicted or claimed more family and friends than I can count; and now it’s claiming the kindest, most generous man I’ve ever known, one who’s been more of a father to me than my own father ever was. It’s a rotten, cheating, son-of-a-bitch. And it tried to claim me, too.

Those who know someone who has fought a battle with the Big C know that the disease does not affect only the person with whom it’s picked a fight. It impacts the entire family. It affects all of your friends. They are in the trenches with you. It’s not a personal affliction like a cold, or the winter crud. It grabs everyone around it by the balls and shakes the living daylights out of us, morphing, learning, getting around every counterattack we lob at it. It’s smart. Too smart. We’re always playing catch-up. And every single ache and pain–and I’m talking for the rest of our lives–is automatically CANCER! Even if it’s not.