Hello, my name is....

Ned. As in N.E.D. As in, my scans and blood were all healthy and good to go.

Take that, cancer!

It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife

Tomorrow I see my onco to find out the results from my latest rounds of scans and blood tests.

One hour later and five blocks away is a free screening of Sicko. (I never did get make it to this when it was in the theaters. I thought in the midst of trying to wrangle with my own medical drama, it might send me over the edge.)

This irony is not lost on me. The big question is... if the cancer is back, does that mean I should or should not go sit through Sicko? What is the universe trying to tell me?

When Worlds Collide

I wheeled my cart to the register, placed a rubber baby buggy bumper between my crap and the crap of the lady in front of me. I caught her just as she was getting her change, two customers in front of me was my gastroenterologist.

She looked frazzled and tired. My first instinct was to call out her name and say hello. Tell her thanks again for saving my butt.

But I didn't. At first I told myself that it was because she looked so tired and I didn't want to bug her. Now I think it's because in order to make sense of this all, I can't have my cancer world and my food shopping world collide. The mundane task of buying milk, limes and great northern beans wouldn't play nicely with the world of laxatives and ass-cameras.

Gone Daddy Gone

That's it! I couldn't take it anymore.

I've cut my hair. All of the frazzled, dry, thinned out craptastic chemo hair is gone. My full, luscious, ringlet-curls have returned.

I look a little like a 20's flapper. But with an extra 40 lbs of chemo-steroid weight on my cute kewpie doll figure. (Sigh. That's my next project.)

In any event, it feels good to leave one more vestige of cancer behind.

I have my 9 month post-chemo CT scan tomorrow. Let's all say it together, "Fuck Cancer."