No News

There is still no news on my tests. All the tests are now done and the plan is to go see the doctor on the 15th. His policy was that he would call us if he found something bad, so if we hadn't heard from him by the time of the scheduled appointment on the 15th, we were to assume that everything was fine.

Which is okay, but here it is, the 10th, and I'd rather not fret for the next five days waiting for the Ominous Phone Call. Why can't he have a quick look at the results, give a quick message ("I wouldn't go signing any long-term lease agreements", for example) and still have the appointmetn on the 15th? Why make me wait for another five days?

Maybe it costs extra to get a telephone report on the outcome of your tests, and heaven knows it's cost plenty already (so far, my chemo bill adds up to about $34,000, next to none of which my insurance will cover, so I'm sensitive to the idea of things costing extra).

But I do seem to be recovering from the chemo. The neuropathy in my hands is considerably improved, and my legs don't hurt quite as much. My feet are still going crazy, but just feeling some improvement in my hands improves my outlook by demonstrating that yes, Virginia, recovery is possible; I'm not going to be stuck like this forever.

Go tell it to the colon, bub. My digestive tract is once again in open revolt. If I was the Czar, I'd be calling for the Cossacks. If I was the President of Iran, I'd be sending in truncheon-swinging thugs. It starts to get better and I start to enjoy an almost-normal state of digestive function, then for no known reason everything goes crazy again for a week. It's very frustrating.

We went to Fry's today to buy, among other things, a licensed copy of Word 2007. While we were looking around my digestive tract went on the warpath, which required a speedy retreat to the bathrooms. Once done, I opened the stall door and took a terrible blow to the head. Someone had riveted some kind of bracket to the very top of the door, a bracket purposely designed to strike me just over the left eyebrow and cut my head open.

So I staggered out of the Fry's bathroom, bleeding from my forehead and cursing a blue streak (surprise blows to my head greatly improve my facility with swearing, I've discovered). And yet, this was chemo's fault. Yeah, whoever pop-riveted that bracket to the door was a complete moron, but I wouldn't have been in there at all if it hadn't been for the Dacarbazine Trots.

Which, upon reflection, may be more than anyone ever wanted to know about my recovery.