Well, fell into shit-house, did not find piano.

Both of my fans know that about six weeks ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Didn't see it coming.Smoked for 37 years, hoping that would just take me out, but what the hell, it's not lung cancer? I get the sympathy, "pat on the hand, I'm so sorry" cancer, and not the "well, what did you expect?" cancer.

Despite all the pink ribbons and cute slogans and the concerned, silent tilt of the head and weak smile everyone gives you, it's nothing to dick around with and they needed to take the entire right breast, and PDQ. So that went down last week.

On the whole the surgery and post-op were as smooth as could be expected. The best case scenario is that loopy surgical patient goes home with pain pills and sleeps for three days, wakes up and has a bowl of oatmeal.

Unfortunately that was not the case, but I am afraid of crossing some invisible line of geezerhood by describing the whole thing.  Recovery was miserable, but what are ya gonna do?

The good news?  The surgical sight is PERFECT and I am cleared to return to work on Monday with just some minor follow up with the plastic surgeon, who, lemme tell ya, is some kinda of artist. I will taking my left breast out at parties to show people, LOL.

So here are 2 experiences worth a laugh.  And I double checked the first one with doctor to make sure I wasn't delirious with pre-op meds.

 First:  As I was in the OR, as God is my witness, the plastic surgeon had Pink Floyd "Comfortably Numb" playing in the OR. And I'm thinking--dude, that's kind of a sinister song if you really know the lyrics. So I asked: “Really, Floyd, that is so kewl, have you heard the Easy All Stars Dub Version? He, said “Yes! I have that How kewl izzat?” And 'cause I'm a little scared I ask him to hold my hand and he does and we have this little conversation and then...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I did verify this with him today just so no one can call BS. I said: "Because it just sounds so familiar, like something that happened to me 30 years ago, listening to Floyd, holding someones's hand, passing out...that wasn't you? Was it?"

      

      Fast forward a buncha days and the I go to see the other surgeon. “DR. I-Save-Lives-SERIOUS”, to have a “drain” removed. A Jackson- Pratt Drain, to be precise. Don’t  Google it, just don’t, you won’t be able to un-see it.  I have all the respect in the world for the medical profession, I’ll occasionally inject a note of levity into the conversation but generally I try to shuddup and listen and I say please and thank you and understand many staff are really really busy, so I cut them a lot a of slack, and I am willing to wait for stuff– for a reasonable time depending on the situation. But yesterday. Yesterday. When the doctor took out the last postoperative drain-- that lovely surgeon DR. SERIOUS with the big blue eyes wearing a snow white t-shirt under his starched button down shirt and his sweet smile-- when he took out that drain, well, my eyes went black and my primitive limbic system kicked in -- I nearly grabbed his balls.  And yes I yelled. I believed I made have yelled: “Holy shit snax” but he was too sweet (or professional) to comment. 

 So we may now trip, tra la la into the wonderful world of toxic chemo and radiation. La la la…  The pathology came back and they upped the Staging from II to III-a,  which is not a surprise, because the tumor was large, and fast growing, and yadda yadda yadda. So Holy shitsnax.

I get it that no way that everyone who gets hit by this thing was just skipping down the road, enjoying their good life and looking forward to the next exciting thing, oh boy! Some of us were sitting on the curb, wringing our hands and pondering our next move when this kicked our ass.

And I so don't want to be defined by this.  This is only who I am for a short time.  (One way or another.) 

And that’s all the news for today.