My sincere thanks to everyone who has prayed for me or who has left a comment. You have no idea what a line or two of encouragement means, so I'll tell you: The lift is enormous.
I'm sick. Too sick to write. The nausea is the worst, followed by fatigue. I've been instructed repeatedly by my oncologist at the onset of therapy that if any of the following symptoms occur I was to call and tell them. The symptoms of fever, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea or uncontrolled weight loss warrant a call to the Doctor on Duty. This is the third weekend in a row that I've called, only to be told to go to the ER by a doctor for whom English is a barrier more than a language. This last time the doctor on call spoke to me as if I were a petulant child unwilling to tough out a bad case of stomach flu.
Tomorrow is Monday and I'm going to get word to my radiologist about what's happening. My radiologist, by the way, is one helluva good man and is the doctor everyone wants if they have to go through what I'm going through. For those who don't know, I have radiation therapy five times a week and chemo therapy once per week; I'm taking Cisplatin in chemo therapy.
Basically, I'm sick of dealing with people who don't speak English and I'm damned sick of being treated like a child. I'm an adult male of reasonable intelligence and education, and although I haven't got the tee-shirt for being around the block, I'm being measured.
My brother Big Mike has survived leukemia, and told me that at some point I would sit down and wonder if I made the right decision by deciding to fight the disease rather than succumb to it. While I have not had that particular discussion with myself, this weekend I came pretty close.
My thanks to all of you for your prayers and missives.