“FYI, no evidence of abnormal uptake on PET. Proceed with radiation as previously planned.”
My oft glazed eyeballs have read some beautiful poems in their day, but this piece from my chemo oncologist feels like the deepest and most meaningful haiku I’ve ever read. It’s like (robotically straight) music to my ears. The dude has some ultra conservative doctoring chops which is just how I like him. All Business, All The Time.
I mean if I was an oncologist, I’d probably write that email a little differently-
“Dude! PET scan was all good, no signs of any gnarly shit we weren’t expecting, so you’re cleared for radiation. I’m way stoked for you! Now go kick the rest of that cancer’s arse! Good luck with the radiation, I’ll see you in 3 mos. for your checkup. BOOM!”
Though I suppose it would be refreshing to have a doctor that communicates like a stoned teenager, it could unsettle more patients than not. Good thing I’m not an oncologist.
Regardless of the delivery, we are some very happy Huttsezes to get this news, lemme tell ya.
No going back to chemo.
No more chemo induced nausea and vomiting that never ends.
No more Steroid Man and his ragey antics. Not gonna miss that guy.
No more veins that fecking hurt from the infusions.
No more olfactory senses of a frigging bloodhound/ pregnant woman. Praise Jebus.
No more having half a beard and a weird scraggly semi head of hair. Gnarl.
Best of all? No more fear of the unknown, no more fear that the chemo wasn’t working.
Because it did and I’m halfway through this battle. I can head in to radiation knowing that I’ve won the first big fight, and I’m proud of the strength I found when I was down for the count and being battered by nausea and vomiting. I’m thankful that my family has made it this far, intact and strong instead of rattled and punchy. Cancer doesn’t just try and kill people, it also pushes families to breaking points and requires a lot of love and patience to negotiate successfully.
Speaking of love, patience, strength, vomiting, family, and thankfulness, I’d like to take a brief moment to talk about my kids. Gosh, I love them so much.
When I’m not cooing about them or basking in the loving glow that they bring to my world, I’m often found in states of vexation and ire that should leave me more concerned about a stroke than cancer. They can be such spectacular douchenozzling arseholes at times that I wonder how I haven’t yet sold them to science. They currently have me perusing the “Wanted for Science” section on Craigslist.
The Öberstürmfürher Bällërina (my adorable daughter) is either the sweetest ever child EVER, or a ball buster of epic proportions that swings a big, studded mallet the size of Mjolnir. The Goddess of Thunder has symbolically been bludgeoning my smalls since the day she was born, and has been back at it lately- she’s always been this way. I’m hoping that as she grows and matures past the mercurial age of six, there will be moments when she sees that choosing the path of least resistance will keep her privileges intact. Both of us can’t wait until she’s old enough to get a phone- her because she wants one and me because I can use it to bend her to my will/get her to be nice. No easy task, let me tell you.
Have you heard this quote about strong women?
“Here’s to strong women.
May we know them.
May we be them.
May we raise them.”
A powerful quote, I’m sure you’d agree as I do. However, I’d like to add a line or two at the end if I may.
“Here’s to strong women.
May we know them.
May we be them.
May we raise them.
May we thank their withered and exhausted fathers, the poor bastards.
May we wonder how they didn’t sell her to science, FFS.”
Normally, the kids don’t grind me down too terribly, and I can handle The Öberstürmfürher Bällërina and her sack stomping shenanigans- she’s six, I should be able to surf that shit. Lately however, her 17 year old brother has thrown his hat into the ring with levels of shithousery heretofore unseen.
The artist formerly known as Bilbo Douchebaggins has regained the form of three or so years ago when he turned being a douche into an art form, when surliness was his mentor and sarcasm his best friend. Well, he’s found new heights and swiftly scaled them. How did this lovely teenager re-douche? That’s a good question.
Recipe For A Re-Douching
6’3” of unfiltered teenager
1 cup becoming a senior in high school
2 cups varsity American Football
1 cup possibly making defensive captain
1/2 cup American Football locker room antics (preferably teabagging but you can substitute Icy Hot ointment on the jockstrap)
3 cups condensed self entitlement
10 fucking cups of know it all
1/4 teaspoon actual knowledge
0 cups listening to dad
Make a roux with the unfiltered teenager, self entitlement, and know it all. Wave the empty cup of not listening to dad futilely over the top of the pot.
Stir in 1 cup of becoming a senior followed by 2 cups of varsity American Football and 1 cup of possibly making defensive captain. Bring to a boil, then simmer on low forever. Add the half cup of locker room antics, and cook for ten minutes. Garnish with the 1/4 teaspoon of actual knowledge taking care to spread the minuscule amount around as evenly as possible. This will be hard. Serves two parental units. Ad infinitum.
Now, you may be thinking, “C’mon Huttsez, lighten up on the kid. He’s been through more than most people his age and now he’s dealing with you having cancer! Don’t be such a dick!”. I hear ya.
But he can see me beating this shit, he knows that I can do it. I’ve been strong so that he hasn’t had to carry too much.
No, his re-douching is just a part of growing up. He’s exercising confidence and becoming a man. He’s just doing what I did, and countless other kids have done when they start to reach adulthood- shaking off the remaining shackles of childhood so he can learn to fly on his own. I just wish he didn’t have to be such a cockbag about it (he came up with that little gem).
Huh. You know what? I feel better getting that out. It led me to that last paragraph and reminded me that I was him not so long ago. It’s funny how writing things down can help get you to a place you needed to be. Sweet. I am thankful.
So it’s radiation next, folks. I’m getting my warrior on for the second half and I think I’m gonna need it.
My favorite chemo nurse said to me on my last visit-
“Radiation next, right?”
“Yeah. They said 15-20 treatments.”
He did a face cringe. “Well, the first week you’ll feel pretty good, like no big deal you know? But after that can get... a little rough. Give us a call if you need anything, ok?”
I’m not gonna list the side effects. As I’ve said before, it takes a special kind of idiot to tempt fate like that. So don’t google “testicular lymphedema images”.
That’s it for now.
Thanks for reading see you soon.
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