7-Down

I'm back from my seventh chemo treatment. I guess it was successful in that it made me feel like I'd been lightly beaten with clubs, ruined my appetite, and turned my urine a bright, sinister red color, the color of the Kool-Aid man's lifeblood. They also adjusted the copay for Neulasta, so now on top of being a pain in the bone marrow, it makes my bank account squeal. Yowzah! Still, I guess my life is worth at least that much money. (It sounds like the premise for a TV game show in a country with a large population and high unemployment - How Much Is Your Life Worth? Where host Dink Martinsyde offers you increasingly large sums of money to kill yourself in various ways, such as eating egg salad sandwiches continuously until your body rejects mayonnaise and you perish in a greasy emulsion. "Is your life worth SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS?" "Hell no!" "Well then, rub garlic toast on your scalp until you wear a hole through your skull!" Sort of like Most Extreme Elimination only without the Safety Fluid.)

Nodal sclerosing Hodgkin's, by the way, in case anyone's wondering. My "signature" in the lymphoma community would be something like "Hodgkins NS4E". But I checked my last remaining node in my groin last night (which sounds like a seventh grader's coded reference to self-stimulation (he said stimulation, a-huh-huh-huh)) and found it much reduced in size and much softer than before. I think it's about to go the way of the do-do and the carrier pigeon, and I couldn't be happier. I'm still a little scandalized by the hulking copay, but I'll get over that on my own. Cancer is something I can't get over on my own.

Chop This

I didn't have a use for the show Chopped on the Food Network. I don't think culinary competition shows really work in any substantial sense to begin with, and I think there are already way too many culinary competition shows as it is. But as dubious as I was about Chopped in the beginning, I have to say, it's set new lows for foodie pretentiousness. "What we have here is an egg-rolled chimichurri apricot sauce with wino loins lightly pan-fried in a combination of butter and plutonium, with serried slaw and squid hearts basted with titmouse entrails and whale blubber..."

Knock it off already, Pierre, it's a fricking sandwich.

A Lesson

I'm at the halfway point in my chemotherapy, and I've learned one thing. If you can possibly not work while doing chemo, don't! This chemo-and-work stuff is for the birds and I only do it out of economic necessity. If I didn't need the money, I'd stay home.

It isn't that chemo leaves one feeling too bad to work, though it does leave one feeling bad. The main problem is that chemo is highly inconvenient. I don't want to gross anyone out, but the blunt fact of chemo (or my chemo, anyway) is that it's dangerous to be more than a minute or two away from a bathroom at any given time. The moment the urge to go the bathroom hits, you'd best beat feet and get to the bathroom because you've got about sixty seconds before the mere urge turns into a quite uncontrollable expulsion.

I used to travel to work pretty light, with everything I wanted in my pockets (phone, iPod and keys, and that's about it). Now I travel with a fairly large canvas bag that contains my chemo road kit. Pills of various sorts, some prescription and some not. Hard candy for when I get sick of the "chemo aftertaste." A sweater for when I get too cold. Suitable lunch products, usually soup and a can of soda. Gatorade. And down in the very bottom of the bag, spare clothes for when one can't get to a bathroom in time and there is An Official Problem.

Usually when that happens I just go home, because changing clothes alone isn't enough. But at least a fresh change of clothes permits one to assume a guise of public respectability long enough to get to the car.

Yes, chemo is very inconvenient. Lunch becomes problematic, because you have to settle, every day, the question "Is thinking about food going to make me sick?" If you drive anywhere, you had best know where the convenience stores are on the route because you may need their bathrooms. There are certain days where leaving the house for any reason at all is a bad idea. And the hell of it is that even on the days when I know it's going to be difficult (the Friday after chemo being the worst) I still have to go to work.

I'm not complaining - not really. I'm just saying that if you don't have to work during your chemo, do yourself a favor and don't try. I've been doing it for three months and it just isn't worth it. The stress alone is more than I can stand some days. But I guess that's the true definition of a wage slave, when you need the money so bad you have to work through the messy sticky horror that is chemotherapy.

But it beats dying. Doesn't it?

Whoops

I was supposed to go to the pulmonologist (?) on the 23rd to have a breathing test done. There's nothing particularly wrong with my breathing, except for how heavy is sounds over the phone when I call at two in the morning.

No, seriously, there's nothing wrong with my breathing, but one of my chemo drugs can cause breathing problems in a certain percentage of patients. So my oncologist, diligent to the end, scheduled me a breathing test for the 23rd. So yesterday I drove to the office and presented myself to the receptionist, eager to get my breathing test out of the way so I could go back to work, or go to the dentist, or just go back home, or something.

The receptionist said "You're a little early, inasmuch as the 23rd is next Monday."

Crap! These appointments, they run together on me!

Doctor's Orders

I am under strict doctor's orders not to trim any trees.

I've been trying to bring order out of chaos, or at least beat back the enormous overgrowth of brush on our property. I feel that I share that with George W. Bush, who also spent a lot of time "cutting brush". Anyway, I managed to get myself fairly scratched up and bruised up while cutting the most recent load of brush.

Since I started chemo I bruise easily, and I bruise oddly. My normal bruises are just that, normal-looking ovoids, but bruises while one is in chemo have a strange spidery aspect. They look like the ships the Shadows flew in Babylon 5, only irregular and misshapen. Anyway, while the esteemed Dr. Adoo was feeling for nodes and listening to my lungs, he noticed the mess that is my forearms, and sternly ordered me to avoid such hijinks in the future.

Never one to take the doctor's orders lightly, I have vowed to avoid any kind of manual labor at all and will spend the next three months assembling 1/72nd scale model airplanes in front of the TV.

He, like I, was unable to feel any swollen nodes. He's pleased with my progress, and as I said elsewhere, anything that pleases my oncologist is liable to tickle the sh** out of me. And now, back to my model airplanes!

Monstervision

Who here remembers that underrated comic genius, Joe Bob Briggs? He used to have a show on one of those early cable super-channels called Monstervision, where he acted as the host for the crappy monster movie du jour. It was sort of like Mystery Science Theater 3000 in overall feel, in that his role was to mock the movie as much as it was to host it. (Once Joe Bob ran for President on what he called the "condom ticket". His stump speech was pretty simple: "I may not be much fun right now, but if you don't use me, you're liable to be in for a nasty surprise later.")

At the end of each movie he had the "Drive-In Totals", where he counted up occurences of various things. Numbers of dead bodies, numbers of gratuitously-displayed dead insects, instances of defenestration, whatever. At the end of each list he would note various acts of -fu, there -fu was meant to demonstrate possession of masterly skill in whatever was being referenced. There was chain saw-fu, chair-fu, Dustbuster-fu, and presumably such things as spaghetti-fu, infrared guidance-fu, and distillery-fu.

With the gone-but-not-forgotten Joe Bob Briggs as my model, I now wish to compile the Drive-In Totals for my most recent chemotherapy, which was so recent that my urine still had the bright red color of Adriamycin.

Bags of fluids: four
Enormous syringes: one
Large syringes: three
Lesser syringes: three
Neulasta syringes: zero
Trips to men's room with IV stand in tow: one
Gratuitous naps: two
Port-fu
Magazine-fu

Debling

Guy Fieri always talks on the Food Network about how he has to "de-bling" to do certain cooking tasks. I wish I could de-bling in the sense of throwing him the hell off the TV so I can watch a cooking show without having to put up with him. Gawd.

I think that show "Drive-ins, Diners and Dives" is one of the most annoying things I've ever seen on the Food Network. How many times do we have to repeat the scene of Guy shoving something down his well-muscled throat and mumbling "That's super-tender" or "that's money" or "that's off the hook" before projectile vomiting sets in? Arrrgh. I'm so sick of him the mere sight of bleached spiked hair, pinkie rings, or sunglasses worn on the back of the head are enough to send me scuttling for the exits.

There is a certain population that thinks that Rachael Ray is the most irritating thing since jock itch. Well, she doesn't have anything on Guy Fieri, and that's money. And is it just me, or does he sound just like Emeril when he shouts? What if he really is Emeril? What if Emeril decided to retool his career by dressing and acting like an overbearing guitarist for a shit garage band? We'd have to say "BAM! Bad career move, Emeril! BAM!" And that is money.

Portnoia

I'm paranoid about my port.

I should explain. I had an access port to my heart installed before I started chemotherapy, partly because it makes access to my bloodsteam easy and convenient, and partly because some of the chemo drugs are so toxic they would destroy ordinary veins that they were injected into. What the port amounts to is a rubber bulb implanted just below the skin on my right pectoral muscle. It feels about like an enormous nipple mounted about three inches above and one inch inboard of the genuine article. From this rubber bulb extends a piece of plastic tubing that goes about halfway up my neck before entering my jugular vein and then proceeding down again and terminating just shy of the heart valve.

What it amounts to, really, is a sort of faucet tapped right into my heart, for good and bad. If allows quick access for chemo, and it allows the chemo drugs to mix with 100 mile per hour bloodflow that prevents the drugs from burning out my veins. But I'm also paranoid. I don't mind the dogs crawling all over me, but not on my upper right quadrant, where the port is. I don't even like to scratch itches in that part of my body. I usually have a fairly relaxed attitude toward my body - I'm the sort of person that finds arterial bleeding "kind of interesting" because how often does one get to see blood squirt? But my port could bleed me out in a matter of a few minutes if something went haywire, and I can never really get that thought entirely out of my head.

It doesn't help that as I lose weight it becomes more and more noticeable. The plastic tubing is clearly visible under my skin, and the port itself seems to grow as my subcutaneous fat slowly disappears. The surgeon that put it in claimed that many people never have any problems with their ports at all and often leave them in for years. I'll accept that the vast majority of ports never cause any problems, but I'm so anxious about mine that I really doubt I'll consent to leaving it in any longer than absolutely necessary.

I guess it's a sign of my increasing ability to withstand chemo in general that subsidiary issues like my port suddenly become Big Damn Deals. And no, I don't feel any better these days. Chemo still sucks. But I'm losing the memory of what it feels like to feel halfway decent and to have a digestive tract that works. I'm finding chemo somewhat easier to deal with physically simply because I'm coming to accept it as normal. I still get depressed sometimes, and I still want to know what I did to deserve all of this, but since I can't remember what it feels like to feel good, I accept feeling bad as inevitable. The dreadful Bookstore Incident doesn't even humiliate me any more; it was just another day in that wonderful paradise that we call chemo.

Nasal Hair

All of my nose hair has fallen out. Sounds pretty funny, doesn't it? Might even sound convenient. But without nose hair, my nose constantly oozes. Constantly. And without nose hair to trap warm air, my nostrils are constantly ice cold, like I'm camping out in the middle of some icy Finnish forest. I'm tempted to tape a piece of flannel to my nose just to keep it warm. I thought about trying to shove absorbent thingamabobs up my nose, but the only things that seemed close to the right size were cigarette filters, and even though I haven't smoked in almost two years, it still seems unwise to tempt fate by putting anything to do with cigarettes up my nose.

In the immortal word of Professor Lupin, "Riddikulus!"

That Time of Year

It's that time of year again, the time when the evening air is heavy with the scent of orange blossoms. I love the scent of orange blossoms and I'm prone to thinking that it is perhaps the perfect aroma. It seems that the aroma of orange blossoms never fails to make me feel a little better no matter what sort of bleak nonsense is going on in my life. Colon dying as a result of chemotherapy? Well, here, have some orange blossom. It helps.

It really does. There are certain scents that I really like. I used to be quite the Polo man, for example, in my twenties. I didn't wear Polo every day, but usually every Friday I'd splash some on, and I'm still quite fond of the smell. Later I decided that I liked Lagerfeld Photo more than Polo, but these days, I'm not so sure - they're both pretty nice, even though they're probably both quite passe. Mind you, I'm not the sort of man who has any business wearing Polo or Lagerfeld any more. I'm neither young nor vigorous, and these days I have more use for a good hand sanitizer than I do a good cologne.

Maybe if they made Polo-scented hand sanitizer I would be in business! As it is, you can tell when I'm close at hand by the scent of Purell on the breeze.

There are several women's perfumes that I like, but I'm really hopeless at remembering their names. I remember Chanel Number Five only because Channel Five used to be an independent TV station in Phoenix that aired, among other things, Action Theater, World Beyond, and The Wallace & Ladmo Show. Perry Ellis is one that I like, but I can't actually remember what it's called. It's "Perry Ellis's Something-Or-The-Other" but I can't remember what. Perry Ellis's Pancreas, I don't know. I also like Red, but I think it's Someone-Or-The-Other's Red, isn't it? I don't remember. Otto von Bismarck's Red, maybe.

But it's sad. As I sit here and think about colognes and perfumes, I can't remember how anything smells except for the weird metallic taste/smell that one of my chemo drugs gives me. I can't even remember what orange blossoms smell like. I just remember that I like it. Being sick is such fun sometimes!

But hey, at least I can't remember what burning rubber smells like either! It's not all bad!

I Brake For Exhaustion

I had to work on my car today. It started making a horrible grinding sound in its right rear quarter when braking, a problem that is pretty easy to diagnose as worn-out disk brake pads. Why the rears went first is beyond me, since the majority of braking effort on most cars is on the front pads and they tend to go first, but who know. Maybe Hyundais balance the braking effort differently.

Car work has always been something that's been relatively easy for me. Maybe not efficient, but it's rare that I've ever been physically bested by a car. I pulled the engine out of my old Pinto and had it back in within a single day, which isn't that great a feat in and of itself but it stands as a kind of indication of what I could do when I put my mind to it.

But not any more! Gee whiz, just getting the right rear tire off was almost more than I could do. I don't know if it's the chemo or the cancer that so saps my endurance, but I really don't have the ability to do much physical work these days. I managed to get the tire off, replace the brake pads and get the tire back on, but good heaven, I feel like I've been wrassling bulls all day. It's not a question of wind. I don't get winded, I just run out of whatever it is that makes one's muscles contract. Go-juice, motion-lotion, try, grit, vim, Vin Fizz, push-water, whatever. So I sit and stare and think "This moment of weakness brought to you by Adriamycin."*

It drives me crazy. But I have the answer for next time: take the car to the dang shop like I should have this time!

*Chemo drugs have ominous names. Bleomycin? Vinblastine?? Dacarbazine??? Yikes!

Almost Halfway

Today was my fifth chemo, or the first of Cycle III, as the oncologist puts it. Almost halfway is how I like to put it; it makes it seem less daunting.

The bad news is that my white blood cell count was a little on the low side so I got a pre-emptive injection of Neulasta. The drug clearly works and does what it's designed to do, but I'm one of the people who suffer bone pain as a side-effect and I'm a little annoyed at my bone marrow for once again failing to get the job done without reinforcement in the form of recombinant DNA. Rats. Once again I feel like general crap with aching legs.

The good news is that I can only feel one swollen node these days, and it continues to shrink. All the ones in my chest and neck are gone, and I've only got the original node, the Mode Lode if you will, in my left groin. And it is but a mere shadow of its former self, so that's good.

Funny to think that if plans had worked out, I would have been flying to Israel on Saturday with my mom and nephew. She's going to Israel for religious reasons and my nephew and I were going along just for the hell of it, but obviously I won't be going this time. My oncologist put the official kaibosh on that - noting my depressed immune system, a nonstop flight from Atlanta to Tel Aviv may not be the best thing in the world for me, and I'm sure feeling like warmed-over death in an Israeli hotel room is nothing more than a waste of money. So my mom, who was paying for the whole deal, managed to get a refund on my tickets based on my doctor's no-travel order. I feel bad enough that I had to back out without having cost my mom a good deal of money besides.

They're still going; I watch from a distance, and keep my puke bucket handy. In a strange way, the fact that I feel pretty bad makes me feel less disappointed. I would be more disappointed if I felt good but still couldn't go, if that makes any sense.

My mom and nephew are good travel company and I'll miss not going. But, it's not as though anyone made a conscious decision that led to this. I certainly never ordered Hodgkin's Disease from the a la carte menu, if you know what I mean.

Collection Illness

One of my worst weaknesses as a model-builder is my inability to stick to a single overall sort of collection. And a good symptom of that underlying illness is my habit of dreaming up mini-collections within larger collections. For example, the other day I was combating nausea by trying to recite (silently, of course) all of the major versions of the MiG-21 jet fighter and the distinguishing features thereof. This is actually pretty difficult, especially for Russian equipment. The Americans make things easy by using sequential letters. If you know the alphabet and know the least bit about, say, the F-105 Thunderchief, you know that the major versions are the F-105A, B, C, D, E and F. But the Russians? They don't use model letters in that way, or at least didn't, so with the MiG-21 you had versions like the F, PF, PFMA, MF, SMT and so forth.

Anyway, back to my point. I conceived in that moment of woozy nausea the idea of building a collection of MiG-21s, from the early MiG-21F up to the last MiG-21bis. And from that came other ideas, like "Hey, the Messerschmitt 109 exists in a whole bunch of versions too; why not build one of every one of them?" And having opened that floodgate, why not every version of the much-maligned and better-than-you-think-it-was P-40? And then, oh hell, why not Delta boosters, and Sherman tanks, and Fletcher-class destroyers?

Enough.

At least when the nausea lets up I'm lucid enough to realize this for the insanity that it is, and my scribbled MiG-21 collection notes slip into the trash can. But the collector can never be fully excised and he's still in there, cackling maniacally and waiting for the OEZ MiG-21 to be reissued...

The Worst

I think the worst part of chemo is that the side effects are never the same from one day to the next. Just when you think you've got the schedule worked out, it changes. As of last night, for example, I was doing pretty well and figured I'd have a few good days until my next chemo next week. But this morning I've gone totally to pot. Some new chunk of my colon has died, or so it feels like, and I'm intensely nauseated again. Intense. That's not too strong a word for it; I'm breaking a sweat from the effort of not throwing up. I'd let myself throw up if not for the fact that I'd lose the anti-nausea pill I just took; I hate to waste those things.

I'm such a joy to be around these days. I'm constantly sick and all I do is complain. I don't know if I can face four more months of this, frankly, but the thought of dying is even less palatable. So here I sit, sweaty and sick, about as socially appealing as a piece of burnt toast, caught between a rock and a hard place. Lovely.

Hoe-down Throw-down Big Damn Deal

We've been watching the Food Network a lot lately. I first turned on the Food Network for real in the dark days of mid-December, when I was first going into chemotherapy and had completely lost my appetite and was pretty much fixing to die. I figured that maybe I'd see something that would stimulate me to eat, and in any event is there any human activity that is as harmless and genuinely hopeful as cooking food? I may not like sea scallops or clams or whatnot, but the act of cooking itself is inherently cheerful, whether you're cooking burgers or Ho Chi Minh sandals.

There are certain shows on the Food Network that I really like. Anything Alton Brown does is liable to appeal to me. I enjoy his screwed-up sense of humor, his sense of play, and his intellectualism. Sometimes he is overly fussy and extreme, but rarely to the extent that it annoys me - if anything I'm usually awed to stunned silence by his extremism. I also like Ace of Cakes. It took me a few shows to come to grips with Duff, who at first struck me as a hirsute blowhard. And he is a hirsute blowhard, but a generally amusing and amiable one. And the cakes are amazing themselves. And I like the Neelys, who I suspect could fix a flat tire with a barbecue rub, and I never get tired of the way their pack of brothers always shows up in time to eat.

But there are Food Network shows that grate on me. Any kind of throwdown showdown challenge is usually lost on me, for the simple reason that cooking isn't a sport, let alone a spectator sport, and I find their attempts to whip up drama and pathos annoying. Poor Bobby Flay, every day is a throwdown challenge for him! That's so sad. Not. And while I don't have any specific complaint with Guy Fieri, I just see too much of him. It seems that every time I turn on the Food Network hoping to be amused by Alton Brown or the Cake Folk, I end up having to watch Guy Fieri eat in the kitchen of some greasy spoon somewhere. Is this the best we can do? Cadge for ratings by making Guy eat unhealthy food?

I'm blogging now, basically, because Ace of Cakes went off and now it's some Mega Super Duper Chocolate challenge, where people make replicas of famous sculptures out of chocolate. This doesn't amuse me, and it doesn't motivate my appetite, so it's really a loss as far as I'm concerned. Oh well. Time to go open a can of sliced peaches, one of the few food groups that never upsets my tender midsection.

Neulasta? Nay!

I'm not going to try to convince anyone to not take Neulasta if their doctor(s) recommend doing so. A low white blood cell count is no laughing matter, as it can lead to delays in one's chemo and even to illness and infection - perhaps even fatal ones. So don't misconstrue what I'm about to say as a rant against Neulasta.

I'm SO glad I didn't need Neulasta this time. My "numbers", as we Hodgkin's Folk sometimes refer to our blood cell counts, were good enough that my doctor elected to skip the Neulasta. Which means I got to skip the rather unpleasant ache in my bones, which means that other than my usual chemo illnesses, I feel pretty good. My digestive tract is even showing signs of starting to come back on-line today, though I personally wouldn't hold my breath - I've been down this path before.

One thing I really do hate about the Hodgkin's/chemo combination is the way it completely takes over your life. All I talk about is lymphoma and chemo. What about all the other things that interest me? All the other things that I think are funny or weird or strange? Nope, got no time for weird; we've got chemo to deal with.

Oh, but I finally did get my tractor tire fixed today. I cut up a 4X6 to make cribbing for the jack from our F-150 truck, which lifted the tractor just fine. S&S Tires in Surprise fixed it for something like $14, which as far as I'm concerned is just dandy. Now the tractor's sitting on four good tires again, and I can actually do stuff. I'm not sure what just yet, but surely there's "stuff" that needs doing.

This is the first real productive outdoors handyman thing I've done since my diagnosis and it feels good to roll in the dirt, grunt on the end of a lug wrench, and actually do something.

Now, where did I leave my Percocets again??

One Good Thing

The one good thing about Chemo Wednesday is that I can wake up more or less on my own schedule. It's virtually a day off from that point of view - if I want a cup of coffee the previous evening, I can have one. If I want to lie in bed for a while and play connect-the-dots with the imperfections in the ceiling, I can. It's not like a workday, where it seems that I'm already behind schedule no matter how early I wake up.

I'm starting to think of chemo as a huge Wheel of Fortune kind of thing. Every time I have chemo, I spin the Big Wheel of Side Effects. I've already had nausea, no end of digestive complaints, bright red urine, hair loss, that peculiar "chemo smell", the odd taste in my mouth, drooling, and what I suspect is neuralgia in my lower legs. What's next on the Big Wheel? I hope it's "boss sound effects". I think chemo would be a lot more fun if it made the world sound like it was connected to a wah-wah pedal, or if it made everyone sound like Ozzy Osbourne, or if the music of the spheres suddenly got all grindy Bill Steer-style.

But no, I'll probably get something repulsive or at least highly inconvenient, like suddenly growing neon red nasal hair six feet long.

A Loop

I thought I had a handle on the timing and nature of chemotherapy side effects, and clearly I was deluded. I've come to expect the worst in the four days immediately after chemo, but all of a sudden I'm having the worst four days BEFORE chemo. That's an odd thing and it throws me for a bit of a loop. Mind you, these effects aren't that bad, but I confess, I'm growing just a tad weary of and depressed by all this illness. Yeah, yeah, it beats dying of cancer and all, but you try yorking into a trash can at work for five minutes straight and pretend that it's all good.

On a lighter note, I suddenly became interested in the so-called Winter War, when the Soviet Union invaded Finland in November 1939. The Finns put up a hugely spirited defense and inflicted horrendous casualties on the Soviet Army, whose mismanagement might have been called comical if it didn't involve so many useless deaths. The Finns were eventually exhausted by superior Russian numbers and, ammunition expended, were forced to accept a Russian diktat at what amounts to bayonet point, but to the end the Finns were never really beaten.

I don't know how my sudden interest in Finnish history came about, but it did. And I suddenly recalled that I had a model of an early Bristol Blenheim light bomber in my collection, the rivet-heavy Airfix one, and my memory was that it had Finnish and British markings. So I started the search for the Blenheim, looking high and low and sorting through heaps of dusty model boxes in the garage, getting ever filthier and almost convincing myself that if I was going to traipse around in such a favorable environment for Black Widow spiders I should at least wear shoes. But eventually I found the kit and - alas! Free French markings, not Finnish. Nothing against the Free French, mind you, but I was really looking forward to Finnish markings.

Not that it matters. Tonight I have to go to my mom's house so I won't be working on models anyway. It's a regular extended-family get-together at mom's. I'm not sure how many people will be involved - judging from the noise level, it could easily be three or four hundred people, but I doubt it's actually more than twenty. So even if I had a Finnish Blenheim, would it do me any good?

Nope. I'd probably just throw up on it anyway.

Heard it on the X

I was duly working away today when someone at work asked me if I'd received my card, or my money. "What card," I asked. "What money?" It turns out that the guys at work bought me a card and raised some money to buy me a gift while I was out undergoing the early stages of chemotherapy.

That was awfully thoughtful of them - but I have to ask, where's the card, and where's the money? Am I correct in surmising that they changed their minds and bought a couple of pitchers of margaritas instead? Looks like it! And the ones that weren't in on the pitchers of margaritas are probably thinking "Gee whiz, that ungrateful bastard didn't even say thank you!"

Well, I appreciate the thought, and besides, I can't have a margarita anyway. Red wine, yes. Margarita, no. The Good Doctor sets his watch and warrants on it.

Cardinalismus

The Cardinals are playing in the Super Bowl right now, and hometown patriotism insists that I watch, but I can't bear to. It has nothing to do with the Cardinals, or the Super Bowl, or this alleged "imposter syndrome" that Steeler fans insist that I should suffer from. Mostly it's because I am so intensely nauseated that watching anything that moves makes my guts roil and makes my lunch rise. It's awful. I was outside a little while ago, ostensibly searching for a tube of white glue but really just being somewhere where nothing moved, and I happened to watch a bird fly past. Just this head movement alone was enough to make me so dizzy I thought I was going to fall down.

So I came back inside and took my yeller anti-nausea pill. I think it's actually an anti-spasmodic, given to people who are prone to seizures. I like to think of it as an anti-schismatic, meaning that it'll help prevent you from forming anti-Popes and prevent you from setting up rival religious structures in Avignon. And in the process, it's not bad for nausea either.

And no, I'm not nearly as funny as I think I am.

So, Cardinals, you're on your own for now, because I can't watch TV. There are times, and this is one of them, when I get really sick of chemo. I know it's saving my life and all and I'm not ungrateful, but damn I wish I didn't always feel like an episode of some lame soap opera entitled On The Edge Of Vomit.