Let’s see: if I were our
fearful leader, I’d order a celebratory parade of saluting oncologists riding
atop rose-covered linear accelerators being pulled along by pairs of yoked
nurses in glowing scrubs. Ba-da-bonkers.
This all started a couple
of months ago simply enough, with the discovery of a “primary malignant neoplasm of the right upper lobe of the lung.” Doesn’t
exactly roll off the tongue, but it might help you in your next game of
Scrabble.
When I heard it, I so
wanted my body to be the flesh & bone equivalent of a brave new world
argonaut, but what flashed before me was Don Quixote on a dead planet.
In one of my first diagnostic tests, “an expression immunohistochemical assay was
performed on paraffin-embedded tissue sections fixed in 10% neutral buffered
formalin for 6 to 72 hours.” Yikes.
I was across the room talking this out loud to myself
when my dear wife Diane overheard me, and her biochemist background surfaced:
“Oh, sweetie, that just means that they’re identifying
the markers on the surface of your tumor cells that can be attacked by immune
medications.”
“Of course it does. Silly me.”
She forgets herself sometimes, and sometimes I forget how smart
she is. There was a bit of little boy in
me, however, that wanted to hear “Oh, that’s the test they do on the cool goop
so they’ll know what to zap you with.”
I’ve said before in this ledger, that “knowledge is
power,” and I’ve long subscribed to that as a caregiver.
Along my path of peril, however, I’ve had my moments
when I didn’t want anything resembling a crystal ball nearby. No seers, no
fortune tellers, no heads ups. No forewarnings, no preps, no getting up for the
games. Just give it to me as we go, and with cool goop lingo and black
raspberry applications. It’s summer, after all.
As I’m nearing the end of it, I am looking back on
this descension of cancer, this course of treatment and what it’s meant and how it’s changed
me and Diane, fleeting and far-reaching.
I’m reduced to eating what Diane describes as “slippery
cooking,” although I’ve come to see it as a delicious/nutritious augmentation.
And, she’s done it so well. Soft, oily, smooth, wet and savory fare that will slide
past this choking sore throat. It only hurts when I swallow, Doc, and no I’m not
finishing that joke.
The plus side? An EXCELLENT food intake, like her cauliflower
kale soup (to die for, but I hope not).
And, funny I should mention it, but she’s just come from the kitchen sporting her Bubba Gumpers cooking apron and announced: “Damn, the zucchini
soup is so boring! Now… how to spice it up!” Zucchini from our garden, homemade
with loving hands, delivered with a full heart. Boring? Silly girl.
Puddings and pops, flavored ices, smoothies, frozen
yogurts, protein shakes, scrambled eggs, slurpy sides, slithery cereal, and I’ve
even come to know and love the delight of a barbequed pureed hamburger. Again,
it’s summer, and concessions must be made. I can’t give up yummy as a
standalone.
Two other primary functions: bathroom privileges are
now considered Constitutional Amendments, and any degree of manual labor needs to
be recalculated beforehand using a slide rule, a sun stick, a child’s garden of
verses, and dog years.
Re-enter Diane: “I’ve got it! I’ll add pulverized
bacon!”
Far as savory goes, that may save the day … and the
week … and the prognosis.
And, tomorrow? Graduation Day?
Watermelon soup!
It's summertime summertime, sum sum summertime....
It's summertime summertime, sum sum summertime....