The State of Things in Casa de Cancer

First, I want to give a quick shout (or yelp, maybe) to everyone out there that's been as supportive as they have during my time of cruddymuffins (which is a term I was thinking of using in reference to cancer, but I'm already over it). It sucks that it takes a pretty nasty illness for people to come visit you and stuff, but it sure is nice to see people. Now, you can go ahead and pat yourself on the back for calling a little more often or dropping by here and there or mailing me a very sweet -but not too sweet- "get well" card, but you ain't shit compared to this guy:

Yes, he came to Cleveland to wish me well and help baby me after a chemo week, even going so far as to watch this with me, but he showed more mettle than anyone that claims to be helping me by attempting to eat a 4 lb. cheese sandwich. Say what you want; he did it for cancer.

Anyway, we have good news and bad news about that whole cancer thing. First, since I just watched The Expendables, I'm no longer spin kicking cancer in the face, I'm stepping on its friggin' neck. That's really violent, but it'll pass. If Van Damme was in the Expendables, we may be back to jumping spin kicks in the unsuspecting, doughy face of cancer. But since he held out for a meatier role that didn't exist (thanks, Wikipedia!), we're going with the Sly Stallone, HGH version of c-word kickassery, and that involves neck stepping. And testosterone. Lots of testosterone.

Second is the bad news, but it ain't that bad. It turns out that I'm going to have to go through radiation therapy after the chemo has ended. The odds of me actually skipping radiation was nearly infinitesimal to begin with, so I'm not exactly crushed, but still. I'm boutsta get zapped come October; hide your women and children.

The good news? It turns out that the chemo isn't just working, it's working. The largest lymph node that I had was around 4.5cm x 4.5cm (roughly the size of an ice cream truck driven by a werewolf) and is now down to around 1.5cm in diameter. My doctor -whom I'll go ahead and remind all of you is the kindliest Englishman this side of Hogwarts- is very impressed with the progress I have made up to this point, even though we're going to go ahead with the radioactive blasting of cancerous evil.

This is actually really good news. I've felt like dirt for the past few months, but not half as bad as it could have been, I guess, which made my lady and I think that this whole chemo thing didn't take. Turns out the opposite is true. There are now three more treatments to go, and I'm to the point where I'm counting down the days until I start radiation so I can be rid of my 6 hour hospital trips. Now that the thought of my own urine makes me nauseated (that is not a joke), I want to be good and done with chemotherapy, like, this afternoon.

So, I guess I'm kinda through with the whole "sick with cancer" thing. I mean, it was cool in the beginning and all...