Okay, heads up, guys.
Last week I was diagnosed with cancer. To add embarrassment to alarm, it’s anal cancer. I have, so far, visited with my primary physician, with a general surgeon, with a colorectal surgeon, and with an oncologist. Of these the oncologist is the only one that really matters.
Next week I will be flown back to Honolulu to have a port installed in my chest (to Katy’s disappointment, it won’t be glowing and sexy like the one in Iron Man) and to have a CT scan. The results of the CT scan will determine the course of therapy. Surgery is ruled out, at least at this stage (surgery would involve removing the entire apparatus, sewing me up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and then I live with a colostomy bag for the rest of my life. Not an enticing prospect). So I am probably looking at a six-week course of radiation and chemo, which luckily can be delivered on this island. The chemo will be administered twice during the six weeks, but the radiation will be daily, five days a week, for the six weeks. At a hospital in Kealakekua, which is just north of Captain Cook the town. No word on whether parts of Captain Cook the captain were cooked before they were eaten, but parts of me will be. Cooked, not eaten.
It is predicted that the first two weeks will be fairly easy, but after that all bets are off. Luckily I have my sister here to help, and Katy is flying out later this month. Since I am otherwise in pretty good health, I am hoping that I sail through the therapy with minimal side-effects.
What this means is that I need to bow out of any meetings for the next two months, and after that we’ll see if I’m left with a functioning brain in my head (I’ve already made all the jokes connecting my head with my ass so you can rest your inventive faculties on this one). I am also bowing out of any plans for company, at least until I know what life is like in the aftermath of all the above.
So, think upbeat and optimistic thoughts for me. All healing wishes cheerfully accepted.