This Just In

We got the Official List of Restrictions from the Bone Marrow Transplant team yesterday, and it's a doozy. Upon first reading, it was so long and comprehensive I didn't know whether to be shocked or depressed. Or maybe even angry, though raising my fists to the heavens generally results in me getting my fists thwapped by the ceiling fans. People who raise their fists to the heavens must apparently do so outdoors, or have higher ceilings than I do. Or perhaps they have shorter arms.

Let's start with the idea of arms. Nobody is allowed to sleep with me unless they remain one arm's length away at all times. We have a king-size bed, but my arm is sufficiently long that if I stretch it out, all that is left on the far side of the bed is a narrow strip about eight inches wide. Who do I know that is only eight inches wide? My scruffy dog, that's about it. Maybe Manute Bol.

Let's take a quick trip of some of the restrictions, shall we? No restaurant food. No take-out food. No fast food. No city water. No bottled water unless it is reverse-osmosis. No hot showers, only cold ones. No kissing. No canned food unless the rim of the can AND the can-opener have been sterilized. No fresh vegetables. No fresh fruit. Basically no melons. No microwave ovens. No leftovers. No towels - after showers, I am expected to find pleasure in vigorously rubbing myself with paper towels (I think I'll use Brawny paper towels, just out of cheekiness). No leaving the house without a mask. No exposure to cats at all, so no more playing with Baxter D. Cat in the mornings. Limited exposure to dogs, a hardship that the poor dogs just won't understand at all. Visits from friends and well-wishers cannot exceed 15 minutes in length. No brushing of the teeth (which perhaps explains the one-arm-length rule). No commercially-manufactured ice. Oh, here's a fun one, no activity that involves knives. It's okay if I juggle chain saws, I guess, but picking up a knife and working on a model airplane is a one-way express ticket to systemic infection. I guess that rules out any chance of me turning scrimshaw into a career. No walking around the house barefooted. No shorts. No short-sleeved shirts. (For centuries the Roman army kicked the crap out of its enemies while wearing little more than tunics and sandals, but I can't go from the bed to the refrigerator without donning heavy battle armor.) No licking of doorknobs (okay, I'm good with that one).

A hundred days of this. I have a theory that these transplants cure cancer not by chemical means, but by making your life so dreadfully boring that the cancer cells become restless and move on to more exciting pastures. Compared to me, mimes and origami artists will seem incredibly interesting and exciting.