Spent some quality time with the kids at the oncology ward last Friday, because what's more fun on a ped day than watching your old man parade around bare-assed in a hospital gown? Actually, I think it was a useful exercise because it gave them a better understanding of the treatments I'm undergoing and the excellent care I'm receiving. I thought it was especially important for my youngest, Allison, who's only seven years old, although she has already weathered numerous health care crises owing to the multiple deaths of her imaginary husband, Chief, who has expired and come back to life on no fewer than a dozen occasions. According to Allie, Chief has been shot, burned, pushed off a cliff, hit by a bus, eaten by a labradoodle and fallen through a plate glass window, among other untimely demises. Cancer would be a vacation for the poor bastard. Allie seems to be holding up quite well under the circumstances, due in part to her imaginary emotional support companions- Fucksack the dog and Bleembloomblombloms the cat. (I'm not making this up. She is, but I'm not.)
Congratulations! It's a liver!
The doctors have been keeping a close eye on my liver because that's where the particular type of cancer I have is most likely to turn up if it spreads. I went for an ultrasound on my liver last week and got the thumbs up, although I kicked myself afterwards for not asking for a picture of the grainy ultrasound image that I could keep in my wallet and use to bore the shit out of friends and casual acquaintances. They still don't know the sex of my liver - we thought it might by a boy, but that telltale sign turned out to be a cyst.