What we did on our summer vacation? Geesh.
Here we are on the edge of the brink of the beginning of the end of my last week of radiation/chemo treatments for lung cancer. Two days off, then we’re back in it and going down the home stretch next week.
After that? Well, you’ll know when I know. The greatest truths (and half-truths) will come when they do the follow-up diagnostics and we’ll see what we see. And, yes, it might make more sense to look for what we don't see.
Point of order: I’m not sure why I’ve taken to dragging you into this with the plural pronoun. Guess I didn’t think you’d mind, and I feel like you’ve been in the fold here with me all along anyway, as we both find the way through it.
I’ve danced with this devil many times in my nursing career, especially those years I spent working in elder and hospice care, attending my patients as nurse, facilitator, advocate, witness, doing my best to always be objective, think & work holistically, and … and … wait … wait---
Oh, hell. I’ve just reached up to scratch my head, and my hand has come back with a clump of hair. Dammit.
I was hoping I’d miss this one Rad Chemo undoing. Right this minute, we can’t know to what degree I’ll get all sparse and sprigly on you, but first … let me get this good whimper out of the way.
**whistling, looking stunned, wiping off tears, thwapping forehead**
Next order of business, and to keep from going mad, is to get ahead of this (pun intended) and find a good bald joke. And, because this is New England, you can't get there from hair.
Let’s drop everything (what else can we do?) and get the bad hairless humor established. I’ll start:
“Even though I’m going bald, I’m keeping my comb. I just can’t part with it.”
More as we go, El