Tommy Von gives me the twice-over. listens to my breathing, checks my abdomen, pokes my guts and my liver. pushes the lymph nodes in my groin. ahhhh! tickles! squeezes my ankles, hard.
I'm finishing the "picnic" period of my ride. For 8 weeks, I rest, and feel the sun. Tommy Von is my oncologist; he's checking my strength before I ride the pony another three months. "How's your energy?" "How are your hands and feet?" he asks. My hands are fine, my toes still tingle from neuropathy, nerve damage, from the last rounds. "Have you fallen down?" "What? I don't know! Have I fallen down?" Where did that come from? Oh. neurological health, this chemo crack they give me attacks the nervous system, every system, while it attacks the cancer cells where they hide, if they're still here, and hiding.
"You're fine," said the pharmacist at Rite Aid. She's sure there's no cancer in me. "You're done," said P, who's highly attuned. "You look great," says everyone.
Fuck you, Death! I'm still here!
But I have to finish, mop up, prevent. "Wipe out micro mets," says one surgeon. "Step on its neck while it's down," said the other.
While I'm still on unrestricted diet, we had a fabulous Thai dinner prepared by Diane Hodges:
appetizer: mixed nuts, dried shredded squid, lite as air chips, mango gummies, wine or orangina
dinner: thai fish salad
coconut chicken green curry
cellophane noodles with shrimp, veggies and nuts, chinese chives and ginger
thai white rice
dessert: sticky rice cake with sliced peach and pretty sauce
oooh that was good!
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