Lymphomania

7/20/07

"Hope, as deceitful as it is, serves at least to lead us to the end of our lives by an agreeable route."
--La Rochefoucauld, Maxims 1665

Today was the day. 9:30: Meeting with Doctor Ahmed. I suppose I should talk about my disease: about prophylactic chemo injections that reinforce the blood brain barrier; about gazing at the galaxy of twinkling tumors that is me; about the unknown compatibility of the Rituximab and Hepatatic deities; about gig-friendly self-injectable Tour de France blood enhancers; about the distinctive differences between bone and bone marrow; about quixotic hopes and experimental studies; and about wooden stakes through the hearts of lymphomaniac vampires. Well, maybe not that last clause. While not physically ill yet, I’m already getting sick (excuse the pun) of writing about it. Long story short, they’re still collating. They might want to adjust the treatment. Rather than the day after the night of Gethsemene, I’ve gained a temporary reprieve from my voluntary poisoning; from my transformation into a walking, talking toxic doll, or dump, depending on the outcome. Kindly Doctor Ahmed is going to call my cell as soon as she has the necessary information, so that I might possibly still be able to get the chemo today. I’m so excited!

On a lighter note, allow me to share some random thoughts. Notwithstanding that I should count my blessings, and that I’m a veteran cocktailer who’s had the good fortune of knowing how to avoid the 9 to 5, I’m still of a mind that it’s hard to relax in this world, even for a professional like me. Assuming that libidinal satisfaction is a form of relaxation, I recently received a call from a caring friend concerning the upcoming separation of me and my alter-ego, Don Juan. Like a lot of you silly geese out there, he erroneously thought I might be worried about losing my mojo. Nothing could be further from the truth. Shame on all of you for even remotely entertaining that thought, you obviously know very little about my past reputation, Catholic school, altar boy etc.. Okay, so I’m lying. Actually a bout of chemo induced celibacy might temporarily eliminate the possibility of my repeating a mistake that has plagued me all my life: letting the wrong head do the thinking. Later…