Just a smidgen of good news

Well I'm still waiting to hear back from my Neurologist down in Marietta, but I'm hoping that the scans will come up clean. Psst. You wanna know a secret? I have the CD with the scans on it, but I'm too afraid to look at it. Besides it only works on Windows machines. Who uses one of those infernal virus-sucking contraptions anymore anyway? (HA!)

But the real good news is that, after speaking with an Oncologist up at Mayo, I've come to learn that I'm not the only young bearer of a brain tumor to forego chemo and radiation and move on straight to expectant care. (Which is so called because Doctors are 'expecting' the tumor's arrival back in my body, so they test with MRI's rather frequently. Nice.) He said that he had a hand full of patients that were, like me, young, and diagnosed with a completely resected grade III tumor, and get this, they were doing just fine! Apparently, I'm not the only one who fears that Twelve cycles of chemo and a continued dousing of barely sub-fatal doses of radiation may not be the best route for a body desiring to continue with life.

Anyway, it was a HUGE relief to see those words coming from a renowned Oncologist at the top of his game. Before I felt like the only idiot stupid enough to disobey Doctor's orders; now I realize that there're a few of us out there. Knowing that a group of like-minded folks is out there makes me feel like I can beat this thing, and if there's a group of people out there that can beat this, then I know I certainly can too.

Two days and counting...

Here I am back in Philly. Sometimes it feels like I'm dreaming a dream about my doppelganger living my life in an alternate universe. It's kind of surreal but kind of really real at the same time.

So I'm settling in, but this time I feel like I have a goal, a very real goal--to keep myself grounded and focused. I guess I never really had that before. Always striving for the next thing, stressing over this then that, I never really gave myself much leeway in the pursuit of peace. I had to succeed, had to strive harder. I just knew that I could handle anything that I threw at myself. In some ways I did. In other ways, I failed miserably.

Now here I am, back in the City of Brotherly Love, but with a mission of health and wholeness. Unlike the fractured, jagged and ultimately unfullfilling life I once led, I now have to chart a new and different course...

Awww...my first follow up MRI

Well the time has come to test my wits, bite the bullet and see what's been going on for the last few months in this noggin of mine. I have my first MRI since the day after my surgery coming up next Wednesday. I'm won't say that I'm not afraid; sometimes I think I feel twinges of a headache or a little dizziness and I think to myself, "Oh that's it, it's growing. Everything I've done so far has failed." This is what I have to live with for the rest of my life. Not a fun prospect but one that I'll have to figure out how to deal with nonetheless.

Anyway, as long as this next MRI comes out clean (and we all hope it will), I'll be heading back to Philly for the Summer and the remainder of my lease. I don't know what'll be happening after that. Things seem to be constantly changing, and I can't seem to make up my mind about anything. Oh well, there'll be plenty of time for that. Keep your fingers crossed/pray for me/keep me in your thoughts on Wednesday...

The headlights of the mac truck in front of me...

In continuation of the previous rant that I was aimlessly meandering up to, I've been thinking of just leaving this whole brain tumor mess as it stands for now. I'll probably head back to Philly to finish out my lease through the next few months and then figure things out from there. I may head back toward the Atlanta area or I may just move outside the city for a year until I feel like things are truly wrapped up. I don't know, though. I can't seem to commit to anything right now, and I certainly can't seem to make up my mind about anything; that would require knowing what I want in the future, and I cannot seem to see anything clearly on other side of this foggy mess right now.

It would seem like my ideas for my life and future plans have to either take a backseat vacation or take an interminable interlude in a back-alley dumpster. I can't necessarily plan on living a long life like I did before. Now I know there are those of you out there saying, "Oh for shame, that's such a depressing thought." Let me explain, though. What I actually mean is that I can't put things off until the ever indistinct 'one day' of my future--there may simply be no time for that anymore. Things that I've always wanted to do--such as living in a simple cabin far removed from the dregs of society and taking a road-trip out west--need to be actualized in my present situation. I have to start taking action now if I'm ever going to get to see and do some of the things that I've been putting off since I was a young lad.

A consultation with my next step toward the exit door

Well I met with Dr. Voloschin, the Emory Neuro Oncologist, for the first time yesterday. After a brief introduction to his PA and nurse (which consisted of the one hundred twenty-seventh neuro-functionality test that I've been administered since Goliath popped up). They were both really humane, which has been an extremely rare trait to encounter on this little journey, but the PA was the nicest one of all (I secretly wish that she was the doctor instead of Dr. Voloschin, but don't tell him that). As I've noted before in this little blog, these consultations typically scare the crap out of me, but I think as the weeks and months progress, I'm getting better prepared to handle them. I wasn't nearly as anxious this time, and I wasn't riddled with fear and general anguish afterward either. That's progress, right?

So the doc's prognosis is that since the most recent scientific medical data that we have is based entirely on stage IV tumors, he can't, in all good judgement, really recommend whether I should do the chemo or not. So basically, it's up to me to make that decision. Now I know this is a nail-biting cliffhanger at this point, so I'll just tell you that I have absolutely no desire to do chemo right now. That doesn't mean that I'll never have to do it though. So I'm left with this little peep of a voice in the back of my head quietly murmuring to me that I may one day regret avoiding the chemo, but I just don't like the looks of it right now. I'd really like to be able to return to some semblance of a normal life in the near future. Maybe that's not an advisable way to go about this, but I feel like I've literally ate, drank and slept this thing since the end of December and, dammit, I'd really like to have a life again. Maybe that's too much to ask, but I'm growing tired of being stuck in limbo in suburban Atlanta. Yet I know I have to make the best of a situation that I didn't ask for or deserve in the first place, so maybe I need to pay more attention to that rather than focusing on all the negative aspects of my situation.

Now my only problem is deciding when to start the radiation which, surprise surprise, I'm not too happy about. Any form of radiation carries with it the cumbersome weight of late effects (i.e. permanent changes in the brain as a result of dangerously high levels of radiation demolishing perfectly healthy cells). These can come about anywhere from months to years after the radiation ends. There's no way to know when and the degree to which it will happen to me, but some degree of it will happen nonetheless. Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to this joyful process. My only other option, then, is to do nothing at the moment and wait and see what happens (not advisable albeit strangely appealing) or to find other clinical trials that i may not be aware of. So I'm opting for the clinical trial investigations. It may turn up nothing, but if so, then I always have my beatific radiation bed kept warm for me by the hospital (that and the dangerously high amount of radiation regularly emanating from it).

Top 10 Psuedo-Horror Flicks of the '80s

So I've been spending my days of late thinking hard about what the most memorable (somewhat scary but usually just plain silly) '80s pseudo-horror films are. I'm quite happy with this list at the moment. If you have any comments, suggestions, or uncalled for criticisms of me on a personal level, then please, leave me a stabbing remark.

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1) Gremlins (1984)
I always wanted a little Mogwai of my own (sans Gremlin potential, of course). I always thought that whole no-water-after-midnight bit sided towards the absurd as well. I mean how could you not give those cuddly little creatures a reprieve from their thirst. Oh my god! I just blew my own mind.

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2) The Blob (1988)
A classic of it's genre, I think the original was from the 50's, but the 80's remake successfully captures all the fantastic stereotypes of the decade that we all grew up loving and hating. You know, besides the flashy fashion and high-strung hairdos, I do miss shoes that require pumping. What a great idea.

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3) Evil Dead 2: Dead Till Dawn (1987)
This cinematic masterpiece solidified a love of silly horror movies for me. I've never had the patience or the stomach for serious ones, but when the director and actors aren't taking their own film seriously, hilarity ensues.

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4) The Lost Boys (1987)
What are the two greatest things ever to occur in the history of existence? Kiefer Sutherland and vampires. Need I say anymore?

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5) The Fog (1980)
This one's actually successful at being a little bit scary. Creepy fog and expired pirates from the past. I'm in.

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6) *Batteries Not Included (1987)
What if all your coolest toys suddenly came to life?

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7) An American Werewolf in London (1981)
This is actually a really good film. Two American tourists travel through the UK and one gets bitten by a werewolf in a desolate part of Scotland and goes on to terrorize the residents of the Isles. Film making genius!

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8) Critters (1986)
This movie scared the crap out of me as a kid. I don't think I ever actually finished it, but it's from the 80's and the cheese-factor is through the roof. All I remember is some guy having a critter burrowing out of his stomach. Yeck! Hmmm...maybe I should watch it again.

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9) The 'Burbs (1989)
Tom Hanks discovers that his odd reclusive neighbors are actually murdering people in the night. Like most influential 80's films, it stars one of the Corys.

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10) They Live! (1988)
Three words: Rowdy Roddy Piper. This has to be the worst film of all time. It contains like 20 minutes of story line and one hour long fight scene. It does include a washed up wrestling star and poorly (i.e. cheaply i.e. NOT at all) disguised aliens, though.

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A new direction for this (seemingly) old hag

Ok. So I must admit, this blog is getting a bit boring. To remedy this, I've decided to spice things up a bit with some of the hilarious top 10 lists that my friend Rachel and I have been steadily devising over the past couple of weeks (besides, the cancer bit's all washed up, isn't it?). She's really good at coming up with adjuvant details (so you end up with 30 items on your not-so-brief top 10 list), but that just makes it all the more fun.

Just to keep this blog a bit more on the entertaining (rather than terribly taxing) side, I've decided to sprinkle some of these in. Otherwise, I may just have to bore myself to sleep or become morbidly morose, and no one wants that now do they? I've already got one on deck, so keep your eyes glued to your computer screens (don't really. I hear that there's a good chance they--like everything else in our world--can cause, guess what, CANCER. Yay!)

A day trip to my old stomping grounds twice removed

Today my friend Jenna and I road-tripped (a loose use of the term actually) out to one of our old favorite places. A park not too far from Athens, the home of our Alma Mater, but far enough to make me feel truly out in the boonies, away from it all. Known for possessing the longest covered bridge in all of the great state of Georgia, Watson Mill State Park has it all (I also use this term loosely). It does contain the ruins of an old mill, though, which, if you're a fan of ruins at all (and who wouldn't be), are borderline super fantastic.

There's also a dilapidated old driving bridge that spans one of the many small tributaries to the great Broad River. Time has stripped it down to its most enduring parts: support beams. Spanning the creek roughly 40 feet above the ground, I spent many an hour up there battling my life's (seemingly) insurmountable confrontations and challenging myself to overcome my fear of the (im)possible. (Really, all I got was a healthy dose of vertigo and a bit of a scare.)

Living in Philly: Past Reality, Present Dream

Today we played Bocci Ball in South Philly. It's a great little game who's closest relative is probably sitting in a chair (in terms of energy expending physical activities). Really. If you can stand up in lengthy tiresome five minute intervals (sometimes even less), then you possess the uncanny potential for Bocci greatness. That's why the Philadelphia Bocci Ball courts are always crowded with aging Italian men (if anyone's even there at all). That's all they've got left in this world, so let them have it alright?

Anyway, my roommate Dan, my neighbor Candace and I went to the nearest sizable park and set up shop (unfortunately, we came to the sad conclusion that the set we were, in fact, holding in our very hands was a croquet set albeit one trained in the fine art of deceptive Bocci set-ery. Neither were the balls weighty enough, nor were they appropriately colored. The nerve of some people drives me straight off the cliffs of insanity sometimes. How could they deceive me so carelessly as if they weren't smashing my ever-beating heart against the wall. It's all lies, I tell ya.

It's been good to see all my old friends (again, with the use of the word "old"). Unfortunately, I didn't even get a chance to see them all. There were broad swaths of them that I simply didn't have the time to see. (If I didn't get to see you, I apologize again and again. There were simply too many people that I hadn't seen in close to four months. They had to sustain the warming radiance of my shining personality first. I'll hang with you guys next time I'm up there though) They're all so caring and awesome. Where would I be without them? Probably in the worst place in the known universe--a South Philadelphia gutter (Adam, sound familiar?). Clogged with trash, used needles and other unmentionables (use your imagination), that's where I'd be stuck for the duration. Caring friends certainly do make hard life experiences much easier on the ol' ticker.

Update: Life on the Road and Other Tormenting Tales of Travel

Good lord do I hate doctor consultations. I mean really; there's only so much up and down, heart beating in my throat, shaking hands and general roller coaster-like activity that one meek person can handle. Here's a thought: maybe I'll just give up now. I mean (statistically speaking), I'm fighting an indefatigable enemy. The doctor told me today that there is a one-hundred percent chance that this relentless foe will make a comeback. No matter how much chemotherapy and radiation we douse him in. No matter how many blunted scalpels we throw at him; Goliath will return. It's just a matter of time. Three years, seven years, ten years (maybe), but he'll be back.

So what are the months of my life spent in cancerous isolation all for then? The intricate scientific complexity of chemotherapy and radiation are really more like hulking blunt objects that doctors, behaving much like ancient cavemen or as the participants in a fancy Biblical stoning, can blindly and rashly hurl against my head and body. Some people live and some people don't: that's what happens when blunt objects are hurled at human bodies with reckless abandon. It all comes down to what the body can handle. If it so happens that we can handle the damage inflicted by hefty pointed objects, then we heal and eventually recuperate. If not, then we return to the dust of the earth.

Chance. That's all we're left with. Like a game of roulette, probability rules the day, and the meaning of my life boils down, in a precise and quantifiable manner of course, to numerical relationships. Everything is a number. A statistic in someone else's study (and that's if you're lucky): that's the inherent scientific value of a human life. Well I don't buy it. Neither is my life so easily quantified, stripped of its subjective meaning only to be lost to the ages. Time is the only agent with the power to strip my life of it's meaning. No fragile mortal coil possesses this ability: to draw meaning, as blood is drawn from an artery, from my life.

I will only breathe free in the air of my fire.

Happy Birthday Me!

Well, I've made it this far. Twenty-eight years and all I've got to show for it is this silly little blog. March 31, 1981 12:07 AM: my exact moment of birth. The witching hour, what an eerie moment to pick to be born. You'd think I'd be more discreet than that. It's no wonder I have this latent dark side brooding within me. Being born at such a late hour is to blame, right?

In case you can't tell, these pictures are from my birthday party. My mom's parents and my cousins all came to celebrate the inauguration of my twenty-eighth year. We had boat-loads of kid-friendly fun which mainly consisted of running in circles and waving our hands in the ear like crazed little Macauley Culkens (guess the movie), watching Spongebob and eating far too much cheescake and soy ice cream (c'est tellement delicieux). Of course, it was so good to see my grandparents (By some miracle of nature at twenty-eight, i still have both sets of them. Go figure). Of course, they put both trick candles and sparklers on my cheesecake. I was so confused and intimidated by all that tricky illumination. I didn't know whether to douse the cake in my half-full glass of water or run away screaming. Those candles were determined not to go out without a fight. In the end, the cadre of cousins, nephews and my niece took care of it with blowing galore (and even some spitting). Those candles didn't know what hit 'em.


I just heard coyotes howling in my backyard. Maybe they were trying to mimic the police sirens that were echoing through the night air, or maybe they just thought they were other coyote howls. They sound just like you think they would. I imagined the typical image of the coyote howling on the cliff silloutted by the larger-than-life moon. It's pretty cool that my parents live in a place that has coyotes. It just makes it that much more exotic.

Rummaging Through My Forgotten Past

You'll never believe what I've found stored for the past geological age in the drawers of my desk, lurking in the deep shadows of my past (hmmm, that sounds much darker than I really meant it to). On it's own, these pictures are in no way threatening, sinister or deceptive (unless you interpret them likewise. This would place the fault squarely on your shoulders reflecting in no way upon my most innocent of intentions.) They do make for great fodder for those of you out there considering kidnapping/ransom or blackmail in the near future (although the fact that these pictures are already available to anyone with an internet connection does somewhat foil these plans--somewhat). Don't let it deter you though, keep that chin up champ.

This is Mittens. Mittens was one of my best friends back in 1989 (from whence this picture came). We had all kinds of fun together, too. (I get the feeling that he was generally ignored at the home of my neighbors. Now that I think about it, their dog was kind of the devil, too; I don't think they were very good with pets.) I was 8 years old at the time, plaid was OBVIOUSLY all the rage, as were my Nike kicks, and green was (and remains to this day) my favorite color. When my neighbors moved away, I heard that Mittens ran away from their new house. I never heard what happened in the end, but I always secretly wished that he missed me and was trying to find his way back here. I never saw Mittens again. That made me sad.

This is Friskers. We got him from our music teacher when I was in elementary school. If I remember correctly, he adopted us shortly after the Mittens years. Friskers LOVED it when my mom would get home from the grocery store. The pile of empty grocery bags was like a cavernous kitty maze; pure fun. It was like the cat version of a great party, only there were no other people, just lots of plastic bags. Ok so maybe that was a bad comparison. Friskers met his end one day rather suddenly, but I'd rather not dwell on that. He was a loving and eccentric cat (aren't they all?), and he certainly loved lying in closed-in spaces.


This is Jay the Stray. He just graduated from the school of cuteness (with honors). I think I was in 5th grade when I found him. Biking home from my friend Nick's house on the other side of the neighborhood, I noticed him just wandering around in the grass. As was my nature, we hung out for a bit. It must've been because I didn't shoot him with pellets that he decided to follow me home (he had 20-something pellets lodged in his skin. Let's not discuss what I'd do to the individuals responsible for such neglect). I can still remember riding down the hill to my house and glancing at him behind me just trotting along happily. Once we got home, we sat in the backyard, and I convinced my neighbor to feed him some of her dog food. Jay's currently in the running for sweetest dog ever. To this day, maybe a decade later, I still occasionally dream about him. If I ever get another dog, he'll/she'll have to be like Jay. It would only be fair.


This is the last page of a comic that I made back in 1993. Back then I was really into all things superhero, oh and ninjas, too. Anything that I could even remotely relate to Japan was just so exotic (and therefore the coolest by proxy). Being the budding 12 year-old comic book artist that I was, I fashioned characters out of regular household items--gone horribly awry! The Nail, Machine Master: these are all characters that any 12 year old boy could easily invent by rummaging through the house on a typical summer day. If you'd like to see more of the exciting adventures of Phantom X, it's too bad for you; they're limited editions, and only I have access to them. So sorry. If you play your cards right, one day I'll clue you into the story line.

Bad News from the Land of Goliath

Well that wasn't what I wanted to hear.

I just got off the phone with Raven, and apparetnly Goliath was officially dignosed as a mixed Glioma stage 3. Stages 1-2 are considered low grade and stages 3-4 are considered high grade. So Goliath (or at least a small portion of him) was a bit more aggressive than we were hoping he would be.

So that means that they're recommending Chemotherapy and Radiation, and if I'm to start this protocol, it would begin in the next two weeks roughly. If I do pursue this course of action, I don't know where I'd stay either. If I stay in Atlanta, I'm near my family, but I leave myself subject to all kinds of infections that my totally compromised immune system will have no chance to combat. I don't know if I'd be able to handle Philly in that state either. It's too early to say, I guess. I'll have to wait until after I meet with both of my new oncologists (Yay!).

Obviously, the picture's still a bit fuzzy at the moment. I sent an email to the resident Doc at Hippocrates to get the alternative perspective on my diagnoses. Hopefully, I'll hear back soon, but you never know with busy people...

And so the saga continues. I may not be battling Goliath anymore, but I guess you could kind of say I'm battling myself at this point. This isn't the news I was hoping for, and I'm really bummed out about it at the moment. I'm not looking forward to 6 weeks or 6 months of lethargy, body aches and nausea not to mention sporting the 'cancer patient' look. You know what I mean. The thin, wiry frame topped by a bald, shiny head. Like an escaped abductee from an alien probing experiment gone wrong, I'll be almost unrecognizable as a healthy human being. In fact, I'll look more like an alien. Great just great. I'm REALLY looking forward to this.

The Utter Joy of Life in Limbo

Well that was nice.

I just finished a three day stint, a hiatus in hell if you will, that unfortunately didn't involve any enjoyable extracurricular activities--just the opposite. You see when a currently-drug-dependent individual (Hey, what're you looking at me for? This is a hypothetical case.) tries to quit a drug cold turkey, basically his/her body responds by shouting (in a New York accent, of course), "Hey buddy, whachya doin' ta me 'ere?" The drug-deprived body can respond in any number of ways: sweats, chills, fevers, hot/cold flashes, pain, nausea, profuse vomiting (that's all I can think of at the moment). But mine responded with abundant swelling (every place on my body that was injured in some way swelled just enough to make me uncomfortable; really intense pain is a better descriptor). It was everywhere, too. Yesterday, I talked to one of my docs, Raven (named after the Baltimore Ravens?) on the phone. She suggested that I revert to a previous point on my drug taper schedule. Apparently, it may not just be the withdrawal; it could also be the timing. Many times, there simply hasn't been enough time for the swelling affected by the drug to reduce in size. Ooh, maybe it's both!

So now I have to wait until next Monday (March 23rd) to find out the status of Goliath. The doctor responsible for identifying the status of my tumor had to send a sample of it out for genetic testing (I wonder if I can get some of that in a jar of formaldehyde. Would that be gross?). I know it sounds scary and complicated (not to mention super hi-tech), but Raven allayed my fears as it's apparently very normal for such a rare and multi-faceted tumor (Yay! I may just make it into the history books yet). They just want to be sure of it's status before they risk their reputations on a concrete diagnosis. Sigh, I guess I can continue to wait and wait and wait...


In the mean time, my extended family came to visit me a couple of days ago (that's my grammie and me up top). Unfortunately, it was during the last few days. It was good though to see everyone after all I've been through the last few months. As we can see in example 2-A, all the kids had a good ol' time running around, break dancing, screaming, and sitting calmly on the bench (Gwen's gonna do something cool, she's just waiting for the right moment). Somehow I still have both sets of grandparents. I'm about to turn 28 years old, and I still have both sets of grandparents. I'm really super lucky; I don't know anyone else my age that still has both sets of grandparents.

The frustration of a phone call

Here's how the cycle's been going lately: stress out over a phone call, make said phone call, receive no news whatsoever, cry. I guess it's better this way, though. Today is Friday the 13th. For all I know, they could tell me that my tumor didn't in fact get removed, and that they actually took out healthy brain--just on the opposite side from where the surgery was supposed to happen. That development would be less than stellar. Ok so I'm really glad that's not the case. So I'm supposed to find out the final results on Monday, but there's just no telling what's going to be the case here. It's just such a rare tumor. I hope the delay is just from having to check so many different sections of it. That or they lost it.

a brief pause for my cute niece

Now it's time for some shameless promotion of my niece. I can't help it. I mean look how cute she is. Would you do any different? Today we went down to the swing set. She played; I photographed. What a perfect day.

Yesterday, when we got back from Baltimore (we spent almost a month cooped up in that Best of Westerns with the best of maids, Marie), this was the glorious sight before my eyes. My sister and niece spent many hours slaving over it. It feels good to be home alright...

Goliath's Stats

Size: 8cm x 8cm
Ok, Goliath is at least borderline, well, gigantic. I guess that’s why I named him accordingly. That’s roughly 3.14 inches (or Pi inches, if you will)—a 3 in.x 3 in. fragment of festering flesh that was surgically coaxed out of my head into a hermetically sealed formaldehyde-free container. How did Dr. Q remove such a rare reality from my head you ask? With his superior surgical skills silly! (He said that he’d only seen one other tumor of the same variety in all his years of neurosurgical specialization.)

Weight: 3 Pounds!
A pretty weighty tumor, Goliath has left big empty shoes for my brain’s many types of fluids to fill. They say that neurological cells don’t reproduce, but I’ll show those highly accomplished and credentialed physicians the meaning of neurogenesis. Seriously though, that’s a relatively weighty tumor; it’s like my brain’s experiencing it’s own personal renaissance.

Age: probably years old
Dr. Q couldn’t say for sure (currently, nobody can know this), but he thought that due to the amount of adaptation that my brain had undergone, the tumor had probably been growing slowly in it on the scale of years rather than weeks or months. It was only the more aggressive part that had triggered the symptoms that I started experiencing around Thanksgiving.

That's all he told me for now. Wait until Thursday for my super all important release of the Goliath's official prognosis. Hopefully it'll be good news all around.

A post-op fantasy

Well today was a bit of a let down. Sadly, I didn't get the official word on my tumor, yet (muted trumpet sounds). I did get my staples out, though. I also met with Dr. Q again (He's so likeable. I just want to squeeze him). Now I'm in another hotel (Yay!) an hour outside of Durham, NC. Honestly, it's such a unique experience, this hotel that is. Seriously though, I can't wait to get home where I can actually get some much needed R&R. I'll do some biking, eat some raw food (and some regular food. If you think I'm gonna stay totally raw, then you've obviously gone completely nuts, which is actually fine with me.) Anyway, I've got until Thursday to wait for the official word now. I have to call back up there, so hopefully I can have a more official update for you then. Bye now!

Visitations and ramifications

Last night my friends Evan and Shannon came for a special visit. Well it wasn't so much special as absolutely conventional, but that's to be expected from a bunch of snarkers like them. It's too bad, though. I was a bit on the tired side when they showed up, so it totally slipped my mind to snap their photos. Drat! It's ok though, I commisioned Shannon to take a remotely developed picture of her and her beau (guess what? that's them above!). You know, it's like we've leapt into the 21st Century without even taking a step into the 20th (yes I know, that makes no sense).

It felt so good to laugh with them; I'm serious. I'm talking full-body laugh here. I guess I've just been taking things so seriously lately that I forgot my sense of humor. I mean, I thought I kept my sense of humor healthy and radiant, but I guess there's a difference between a hearty chuckle and full-body laughter. The only problem is that it makes my head feel like it's gonna split open when I laugh that heartily; a strange albeit satisfying feeling, I guess.

Record huntin' was next on the list. I didn't feel very good when I woke up this morning. I'm coming down off the Dex so every few days when I have to reduce the quantity I take, I get a bit of a headache. Nothing that an appropriately placed dose of Extra-Strength Tylenol can't take on, though. We scouted out two different hole-in-the-wall record stores. Dan and Adam loaded up on records (Adam in particular). We got lunch, coffee, saw the building from the Wire. What didn't we do? One thing's for sure, Baltimore's got nothing else for us. Well that may be a bit of a mis-statement. How about: Baltimore's got a whole lot more to offer us and we're probably not gonna get to see it. I think that sounds better, don't you?

Tomorrow morning at 8:40 is my post-op appointment with Dr. Quinones. Then Jay and Bob are coming by for their final visit, too. Having friends come visit really helps me on the road to recovery. I don't realize how much I need the interaction (though it's really tiring), but it helps me to feel like I'm a normal person again. Ok well, wish me luck tomorrow. There's no telling what my fortune will bring...

Goliath's toll

I don't know what Goliath's final toll on my life will be, but I do know that I can never go back to the way things were. This experience has been rich, to say the least, but something about referring to my brush with cancer as an 'experience' makes me feel terrible. To put it bluntly, I could have died. I could have had neurological or physical complications from the surgery or one of a million other possible conditions, but I don't. The fact that I've come out of this so similar to the way I waltzed in--as a fully feeling human being--is frankly astounding. I don't know who to thank or how, but I feel like I've just won an award for living and it guarantees me a new lease on life. The only problem is that now I have to live with a new lease every waking moment. I can't slip up and get jaded and bored like I did before; that just doesn't seem right--at all. Of course I'll have bad days where I feel next to terrible, but I can't let myself fall into the pit of darkness that I emerged from in late December. It just wouldn't be fair to myself.

So now I'm left to recover from this situation. If chemotherapy/radiation is needed then I'll have to take that step in the course of time, but as for right now, I don't need any further thought about whether or not to get surgery: it's done. I've bought myself one thing that I just wasn't sure if I had before: time. Goliath's gone, and hopefully he won't be returning, but only I can ensure that he never returns. Because if he does, there will be some serious hurdles for me to tackle. Though I feel like this experience has prepped me for those hurdles, a second bout with cancer (which some would say is inevitable for the survivor) would send me into the throes of a battle from which I may never return. It's scary, I know, but for now, I can claim a certain degree of victory over Goliath. We'll see what the doctor says on Monday (the day of my post-op appointment), but I've got my fingers crossed for a clean bill of health. Wouldn't that be fantastic?