A Letter to the Ed and Picture from Medicare Central….

Dear Mike,

The white coated kadaitcha men gathered at the bottom of my bed this morning, sagely conferring over my latest blood  and urine results. “Looks like we’re getting it.” one of them opined under his breath, though there was still a little uncertainty in his tone. “Mmm”, said  the other, not committing either way. One of the little nurse angels grips my hand quietly and Sche, who has been a tower of strength, an absolute brick, smiles indulgently and kisses me, whispering, “You’ve won a heart there.”

The kadaitcha men continue to confer. They are now looking over pathology results relating to some grotesque little section of tissue that was previously me, but is now the object of their arcane interest. Apparently they’re quite pleased with themselves, their results. I remind them, in a quick efficient display of charm, that I’m in the room, I can both see and hear them, and they can include me in the conversation if they like. The tiny nurse angel giggles under her hand.

My intrusion into their collogue seems to surprise them. “Yes, of course,” says the consulting oncologist, a small Greek chap with an odd fancy for tweed suits and velvet waistcoats. “Well look, it’s all good news. All your results are within expected parameters, some are very good. In fact we think we’ve got it. You’re not clear yet but these numbers are very encouraging.”

Of course I immediately turn to Sche and sing, “By George I think they’ve got it!” Sche laughs and replies’ “indeed they have.” All of which goes over the doctors’ heads because neither of them has probably ever seen “My Fair Lady”.

To cut to the chase, it turns out that my cancer was or is, as the kadaitcha men said at the beginning, tiny, early and entirely manageable. I probably could have shouted at it and it would have run away. However I still have to continue with the treatment they say, though it will get easier now, and there’s a possibility that they will be able to limit the course to a mere six weeks depending on next weeks’ results.

The treatment remains much worse than the disease, though it transpires that my extraordinarily uncomfortable passage through last week was “not normal” and resulted from a faulty catheter messing up a particular dose of the genetic wonder drug they’re using on me. I’m assured that there has been no lasting damage and indeed the higher dose may have helped bring on the results the kadaitcha men are so happy with. No harm no foul.

So, it’s all good, and as I said to the oncologist, “Cancer can kiss my crease!”

In a few weeks anyway.

(“Ommmmmmmm, every day in every way I am getting less and less cankerous, ommmmmmmmm”)

Fondest regards to the pork chops.
W