[setting] Friday, 7 PM or so, I went out with Mr. Deeker to watch the warm-up game for the World Cup (US vs. Venezuela = US 2, Ven 0; Mr. Deeker becomes very nationalistic when it comes to soccer) and I looked down at my cell phone on the table.
[suspense] Cell phone, "1 Voicemail," press through to number--it's from the Cancer Center. Shit, this is not what I need, the hospital calls me on Friday at almost 6 pm--what, more bad news?
[climax] It's my doctor. Why would my doctor call? Why Friday? I'll tell you that in the midst of this experience, even with trying to be positive, I'm hesitant to hope much. Not too much. So against that feeling--Dr. Whiting called to tell me my CA 19-9 numbers, remember those?, they have dropped again! Down to 6300 (from over 9000 last time), which is about another 30 percent reduction. Excuse my French, but, fuckin Cheebus! I'm shocked. That's good voicemail.
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4 comments:
ah, good news for a Friday night. very very good. thanks to Cheebus, or as I have now been corrected (sorry about this everyone), Jeebus. but maybe we can keep Cheebus, it has a certain ring to it, no?
fuckin Cheebus! it's all I can think to say, and
I'm quoting, even,
fuckin Cheebus a right!
nothin to piss & moan about with that!!! hooray!! (that sounds really childish, huh?)--so, FUCKIN' HOORAY!!! HOW'S THAT?!! :) oh my cheebus, jeebus, buddah, whatever works...!!! way to go Mr. Jones!! Keep wearing your cape!!
ARIGHT!!!!!!!!!! dont look but im doing a dance. scary but im so excited im having to retype each word. that is the best news ever. scott you deserved that. i fell to my knees after the dance and praised everyone i could think of. this will be a great weekend. thanks cheebus. i like it spelled this way. love ya brother
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