RICE, RICE, Baby... and Giving Thanks

It's always a good time for a Vanilla Ice reference.

So... this is a hard post for me to write. You might think that's because I have bad news, but that's not the case at all. I have quite good news, actually. And that's the issue.

It's currently Thanksgiving, the turkey is nicely spatchcocked (what a fun word that is) and drinking in flavor from the smoker, and while I find this holiday problematic for historical reasons, I have a lot to be thankful for.

Yep. That's what you're missing out on. Sucks to be you.

On Monday I went in to get a PET scan, and the results were good. Amazing. Fantastic, even.

The cancer is gone everywhere except for those buggered three little nodes under my arm, but even those spots are lots smaller and way less metabolically active. Those spots are there, but the likelihood is that they won't do anything. My oncologist said that I was essentially in complete remission... for the moment. The RICE protocol, as nasty as it was to go through, worked and worked well.

That is pretty much the best news I could have hoped for. So, what's my problem?

I don't know, Picard. I do not know.

I really don't know, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to try to write it out.

First, I think I've gotten the idea of "fighting cancer" driven into my skull. It takes time and talent to do that, by the way. My noggin's inordinately thick.

An actual scan of my head.

If the cancer's gone, what am I fighting?

There's a lot to unpack there, and I've only started talking about my first point. Sigh. Okay. Deep breath. I don't think I'm actually fighting my cancer. Or at least I'm not sure that I should be, if I am.

This is similar to the way I try to look at diet and exercise. I've always fought my desire to overeat and to sit like a lump in front of the TV. That hasn't ever worked. I do well (nitpickingly, annoyingly well) for a while, sometimes even for a long while. Then I inevitably fail and fall.

I was going through a cycle of punishment. I'd punish myself with cream-filled donuts and overflowing buffets. Then I'd punish myself again with a ridiculously strict and unsustainable diet. Oh, I haven't moved in months? Then clearly the answer is to engage in the most painful exercise regimen that exists. P90X, Insanity, Crossfit... you name the punishing program, and I've probably done it.

Figuring out how to disrupt that cycle is an ongoing process, and one that I don't think I'll ever perfect. That's okay, though. I don't have to be perfect, and that's kind of the point.

Any time I go into battle with myself, I end up losing.

I know the cancer isn't me, per se. But it's made up of my cells. I grew it. And while I've said before that the idea that I somehow made myself have cancer can't be fully true (I have a hard time believing that a child with leukemia invited it), I do believe in the idea of karma. I've had the opportunity to build up a lot of negative juju, and it's not insane for me to think that it manifested in the form of cancer. Two cancers, to be precise, one of which is practically untreatable (the renal cell that we got rid of, along with my kidney), the other of which is really rare (gray zone lymphoma). The odds against something like that happening are pretty staggering. If the result had been positive instead of negative, we'd be calling it an out-and-out miracle and offering sacrifices to the Goddess.

Yeah. To Te Fiti. She seems nice enough, if you ignore that whole lava monster
phase she went through.

So what's the solution? Hell if I know. I think it's something along the lines of inviting the cancer to leave my body. And yes, I'm aware of how weird and hippy-dippy that sounds. I am actively working to change my negative behaviors that might have encouraged the growth of mutated and out-of-control cells. Now I'm encouraging my body to find its healthy equilibrium once more.

Or I'm working on it, anyway.

And if that's the case, then there's no need for me to continue fighting myself.

Kind of ridiculous, isn't it?

Just as a side note, Kimo is outside fighting with a cactus. Life imitating writing, y'all.

Now we get to the second part of my strange reaction to my remission. This one will (hopefully) be shorter, but it's harder to acknowledge and process.

I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sing those blues, Mr. Brown. Sing 'em loud and sing 'em proud.

Some of that is knowing that my autologous stem cell transplant is coming up soon. If ever there were another shoe to drop, this procedure would have to fit that bill. It's gonna be pretty bad. When I try to think forward, preparing for what's to come, I run pell-mell into a blank wall.

It's art, y'all.

I can't quite bring myself to imagine what it's going to look like. I just know it's going to suck eggs.

Well, that sounds familiar. When I found out about my cancers, I knew the chemotherapy wasn't going to be a walk in the park. But I made it through that.

I can make it through this.

I wish that were the only part of my "other shoe dropping" magical belief. It's a lot more complicated than that. I've talked about being in the process of interviewing for a job I've been working toward for the past six or seven years.

There is a truth here that I don't want to acknowledge. I have no control over what happens next.

It always comes back to that, doesn't it. Control. I want it. I can't have it.

But I can choose to give the idea of control up. That's just as wonky as the stuff I was talking about earlier, but it doesn't make it untrue. In this universe, control is a lie. The fact that it's the favorite lie I like to tell myself is my problem.

Great. This means more therapy, doesn't it?
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In our next installment, we review all the songs and foods that I will no longer be able to enjoy because they now remind me of chemotherapy.

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