If you think about it, that makes sense. Toxins do come into my body. They have to leave somehow. The dead cancer has to exit, too. So I'm thinking the gas is from the treatment. I have no medical proof, of course. Something tells me that doctors don't study farts.
Now a lot of you may wonder how my wife is taking all this. I can assure that she is absolutely fine with it. You see, my wife is kind of smell-challenged. I'd come home from work and the house would reek from some cooking or something and she wouldn't even know. She's been that way ever since I've known her.
Men, I know what you're thinking. This makes her quite an unbelievable catch. Even more than being a great cook, a loving wife, a responsible and caring parent, having a wife that can't smell your farts puts you at the pantheon of great mates. Right up there with Mrs. Cleaver and Edith Bunker. Looks come and go. But a woman who can't smell your gas, now that lasts forever. Who would ever want to divorce a woman with this rare and incredible quality?
So I fart away with almost complete impunity. I say "almost complete" because I still have to make it silent but deadly. If it's loud, my wife may know something's coming and then try to smell something. That throws everything off because her nose is on alert. But if I position my cheeks just the right way and it squeaks out ever-so-stealthily, she is eternally fooled into thinking that I am one sweet-smellin' fella.
That's all I have for today. This weekend was uneventful. I'm trying to remain low-key to allow for my white blood cells, platelets and everything else to get back to normal.
One interesting tidbit from the world of MD Anderson. I had to go to the medical supply area to get some, well, medical supplies. After I placed an order, the girl wrote it up, then turned around and yelled, "Customer waiting!" She did it every time. It replaces the usual, "Order!" or "Order Up!" I thought that was pretty cool. The guy who gave me the supplies was this gangsta looking gent with gold chains, a grill and a tee shirt that had the words "Street King" written across his chest. I said to him, "I feel like I'm in high school trying to buy my drugs off a guy with a Street King t-shirt." Even though he could clearly fuck me up good for making such a blatantly racist statement, he thought I was funny. He obviously wasn't Asian.
Enclosed are pictures of my puke buckets. I'm not using them now but I thought I'd show them to you anyway. As you can see, my kids designed them.