Costanza Day

I woke up feeling okay. And after avoiding disaster twice in two days, I decided today was going to be George Costanza Day, meaning do as close to nothing as possible. So I haven't. And I hope I will be repaid with some healthy labs.

This is another big week. I am scheduled to get another treatment of ICE on Wednesday. The hell starts but it's a good hell. That would make two of three and then the real hell starts. Hopefully, eventually, my lumps will start to go down. But they haven't yet. Still got that Sealy posterpedic look to my midsection. It's very important that the cancer retreats with this portion of the treatment, if only because it is the greatest determiner of success. Basically, if the ICE works, chances get much better that everything else will work. If the cancer is still busy being cancer, well, you got problems.

There's two types of success here: partial remission (PR for us medical folk) and complete remission (CR). Obviously, you want CR. But my transplant doctor is confident he can do the job right with PR. We won't know if it's PR or CR until we get to my third ICE treatment. 

Many of you have wondered about the kids. Sherri and I decided to try to make the kids' lives as normal as possible. So she stays up in our double-wide in Bartlett as much as she can. Dad is just taking one long trip to get better. Mylie Cyrus and Sean White have never gone to rehab so they don't get it as well as they could. We thought about TiVo-ing celebrity rehab but then that Jeff Conway character would seem eerily like me, slumped over and such. 

 

So they take it fine when only Dad is gone. When both are gone, not always the best. Conner's been most effected, which is surprising because when we are home he isn't. He's off with his posse somewhere, usually beating up nerds and throwing rocks at police cars. My sister did a wonderful thing and uprooted herself to watch the kids for a whole week during my first treatment. That must have been rough for her. We knew it was tough because by the end of the week, the dog was the only one with new toys. 

If you're wondering how my dog is taking it, wonder no more. My dog is really stupid. No, really stupid. As in really touched in the head. She eats her own poo. 

If you're wondering how my wife is taking it, I do too. I hope she's doing well. She's from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. You know that movie, Fargo? Well, Sher's family didn't see what was so funny about the movie and neither did their friends, by golly. She's a lot like the Brainerd sheriff, Margie. Only much better looking. I'd like to say that the accent is gone too but it comes back whenever we reach Kenosha. She plugs along.

I don't take it too well. The best I do is avoid it if at all possible. We have Skype but it's hard to see your kids happy and at home while you have a tube stuck out of your arm wondering. But maybe I'll feel better later tonight when I hear someone else puke. No, really. Others got it real bad.