Two months out

It's now been three months without chemo, or two months out from the end of my last cycle.  I continue to improve, though I'm starting to get a feel for my new normal; not as productive or sharp as I once was, but more productive, sharper, and more creative on average than I've felt for over a year.  Last night I awoke with a fascinating idea for a story kicking around in my head.  Maybe it's time for a new project.

Yesterday I had an MRI, and this Thursday I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. C.  I presume that is when I shall discover if going off the chemo has had any negative consequences, though I don't imagine it will.  I don't feel anything that leads me to suspect any regrowth or complications.  I haven't heard from Dr. C. yet as I might had the MRI shown anything particularly bad, but he doesn't work on Mondays or Tuesdays so maybe he hasn't had a chance to take a look just yet.  Either way, not something I intend to lose any sleep over.  One of these days, after an MRI much like yesterday's, I will hear some bad news.  Maybe that day will be Thursday and maybe not.  When it happens, I'll review the situation and we'll all figure out where to go from there.  Until then, no sense obsessing over it.

I know that I got lucky with my first operation.  It had an impact, sure, but I can still write.  I can still live my life.  But what about the next time?  What if they have to go back into my head and remove more of my brain?  Can I roll the dice twice?  Is there any chance I could get through a second operation as cleanly as the first? 

I have so many stories I'd like to tell.  I do not feel my death hanging over me, but it seems closer on the horizon.  I will not die today, but I know I will not live long enough to tell all of my stories to my satisfaction.  Yet even with that thought, one that might drive me to hours, even days of steady writing in the past, I find so little time to do more than what is required of me.  I tell boring stories all day at work, for people who don't much care about the ending.  They contain no twists nor turns.  Interesting characters are few and far between, anomalies often swallowed by predictability.  Rivalries are dulled by bureaucracy and legalese, and the outcome is always the same, time and time again.

I don't think a vacation would quite do the trick.  Were I wealthy enough to retire, then maybe I could focus more on telling the stories I'd like to tell.  But who couldn't use a little more money, especially in this economy? 

Maybe I'll continue to improve, and be able to spend more time writing for myself.  Even if I can't tell all of my stories, maybe with a little time and a little luck, I'll at least be able to tell the best ones.

In the meantime, at least I have this blog.  This is one story I can tell, and one in which I am quite personally invested.  One that, if I may be so bold, a few people seem to read, and one that, in the endless reaches of the vast internet, will outlive me, or you, or anyone else alive today.  Evidence that once upon a time, there was a man who called himself Knightly.

And Here's to Life

So not bad, as far as parties go.  Not bad at all. 

I spent the night with a few friends from high school, and a few of their friends, and a few of their friends' friends.  About a dozen of us, none over the age of 35, yet three of us were cancer survivors: one had testicular cancer, one had lymphoma, and lastly little old me.  It seems like that shouldn't be the case.  Too many of us are getting sick far too young these days.  Or maybe we were always sick, and only now, with this generation, do we have the capacity to notice.  Anyway, onward to happier things.

I have some great stories from that night but sadly they are not mine to tell.  At least, not just yet.  One was equal parts embarrassing and romantic, and ended with a woman from my past quite eager to see me again soon.  She was actually my first kiss - if you'd like to call it that - just a peck on my cheek on a dare from her friends, back in the first grade.  Thankfully little more than that at the time, as "elementary school sweetheart" sounds profoundly creepy.  Maybe we can build something a little more significant this time around.

The party did me a world of good.  I felt like my old self; sharp and quick, able to elicit laughter in one moment and contemplation in the next.  Yet I'd set aside that cautious, neurotic part of me that had always held me back. 

Not a bad way to start a new year.