(Pink Floyd reference)
CT scan yesterday, a scan of the chest specifically, where they discovered the so-called 'opacity' (smart people talk for solid mass; think 'opaque'; or think 'solid mass').
It's like riding a bicycle, if you hate riding bicycles but are forced to do it every three to six months and even more frequently at times, with the outcome determining, perhaps, whether you are going to live or die and certainly whether you are going to have to get back up on that bike again just as you thought you were getting rid of it forever and for the best of reasons: you didn't need it anymore!
Something like that, except that you are riding the bike back and forth through a tunnel while attached to a needle spreading warmth through your lower extremities if you know what I mean and I think you do, while wearing some sort of radioactive-free scrotum protector (or whatever it is that they protect in your own particular case) and being advised by some neutral voice first to breathe and then to hold your breathe for a number of tolerable seconds.
As I mentioned, they want to determine whether the 'opacity' in my lower left lung lobe is a one-hit wonder or the beginning of an exciting new adventure.
They can't tell me, of course, not the folks who take the pictures, and the guy who looks at the pictures isn't even on the premises as far as I can tell. So I await a call from OncoMan, and even that call will only be to advise me that we have to meet so that he can disagree or agree with the conclusions of the scan whisperer or whatever he or she happens to be called.
They have blown it in the past, believe me, and I speak from personal experience.
In the meantime, I am now eating better and more and faster than at any time in the past seven years, even to the extent that I am somewhat comfortable going out to dinner with new friends, comfortable going out with the wife to eat at joints I never would have tried before all of this, Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Tibetan (oh okay, we haven't eaten Tibetan, at least not that we know of, but that is probably only because of a local shortage of yeti and yak).
I am gaining weight, I am getting stronger. All of this has led me out into the nether regions of the backyard where I do believe despite my best efforts at quarantine-like protection I have contracted a mild dose of poison ivy (is there such a thing as a mild dose of poison ivy?). At the same time, I was energetic enough to replace a headlight bulb in my car that precluded the wearing of gloves if I was to get into that space so tightly designed that the clear notion was that when a bulb went out you would simply drive your automobile off the side of a cliff. The result is, truly, an arm and attached hand (through a bit of fortunate, to be honest) that look like a poster for anti-self-abuse (not THAT kind, gents!). To wit, my right hand has half a dozen cuts and scrapes and bruises adorning its back side while riding up the right arm attached to that self-same hand is a bloody trail of both cuts and these interesting blotches of subcutaneous (if subcutaneous means just beneath the skin) bloody messes. Clerks at the local stores see this as I reach out to pay them for beverages or food delights and insist that it is on the house, as they do not want to be infected with what I can only assume is headlightitis.
The point is that life has taken a wonderful turn for the best in regard to my health if you don't count me standing on a foot stool trying to put a rather large rubber box up into a high space in one of my sheds only to discover that one of the legs of the stools had outlived its usefulness, such that the box and me, together, went crashing into things when the leg collapsed, actually broke in half after, lo, these many years, leaving me wrapped up in garden hose, paint cans, tools of various sizes, shapes and sharpness, while being showered with, of all things, Easter bunnies, plastic eggs, colorful wicker baskets, green emulative grass and the like, the former contents of the box I was trying to store while in an earnest endeavor to finally clean this particular shed (and also extract my lawn mower from the deepest, darkest regions of said shed, something I did succeed in doing once I had gathered my wits (such as they are and strewn about the shed, of course) and figured out a way to stand up again without having anything reliable to grab in order to assist in arising from the proverbial ashes, while tangled up in blue (hoses, of course, but also yellow, green, and black ones), while evading the sharp sides of shovels and hoes.
I made it out of that. If I can make it out of that with but one broken finger (yes, my left pinkie finger somehow stood the brunt of it, pushed the other fingers out of the way to save them and exclaimed that it would take this one for the team) I can make it out of most anything, I imagine.
And this is my convoluted way of saying that after all of this, not just this one incident in the shed, but everything over the past seven years, more cancer would not make me very happy, precisely BECAUSE, broken pinkie finger notwithstanding, I am feeling as healthy as I have in these last seven years.
It would, in a word, suck.