Productive Sunday.

Hot dog! I just had the first productive day I’ve had in..  well weeks, at least.  Cleaned and re-arranged the entire downstairs of the house with the help of my good friend Marian.  What a nice feeling.

Now I’m sitting here waiting for the Mag. Citrate to start to kick in (to clean out my own downstairs).  I’ve got a follow-up endoscopy tomorrow, complete with needle biopsies of the now hopefully dead tumor.  I should know by the end of the week how succesful the last six weeks of treatment have been.  This will be the third I’ve had this summer..  after 34 years of nary a one.  The first time I had to do the preparation, I was pretty horrified by the whole ordeal.  Not eating for a full 24 hours leading up to it..  taking POWERFUL laxatives to clean you out..  spending the entire evening near a toilet.  Really charming stuff.  But at this point, after what I’ve been put through since, it doesn’t seem so bad at all.

Alberto has made the suggestion that there is a chance, just a chance, that I won’t need surgery at all.  The needle biopsies will help determine this.  They need to feel quite sure that there are NO living cancer cells left to be willing to leave it alone.  Apparently, if there’s anything left at all, it can come back with a real vengance.  And lemme tell you, if I NEVER have to go through this again, it’ll be too soon, so I’m not all that interested in taking chances.  Still, the possibility of NOT having to go into the hospital for surgery, and stay there for 10 days, and emerge with a permantent colostomy, is hard not to be pretty excited about.

Please cross your fingers for me tomorrow.  I’ll update as soon as I know.

0 Replies to “Productive Sunday.”

  1. Cross-Cross Apples Sauce! All forty of the family’s fingers crossed tight! Hey, I think I’m going to get my toes involved too, they just called from my feet to say they are just as full of hope and good wishes!

    -j, r, s & z

  2. This is a crucial point, my boy. Every waking minute needs to be spent thinking, “NO SURGERY. I’M NOT GOING TO NEED IT”. It’s that final punch in the ring. It’s that pesky, wobbly, what’s-it-gonna-take blow. Keep delivering your one-two punches. Bang. Pow. Eat it, mother fuckin’ cancer. Then when it’s down – spit out your teeth guard and say, (while panting heavily) “little BITCH. who’d you think you were dealing with?”