Thursday, December 14, 2006

Think shrinkage

Not THAT kind. Y'all are sick, you know that?

Today, my dad has a doctor's appt to get a shot (not sure of what and it is a series but he can't remember how many in the series. I so love men.) and could possibly get some preliminary results of his most recent PET scan. This will tell the tale. Is he a surgical candidate (good news) or has the tumor/whore cancer not shrunk enough and thereby necessitates more chemo (whore, part deux) and then some radiation? We shall see. I hope he gets SOME sort of results today because I am not good at the waiting. That is shocking, no?

So do whatever it is that you all do and/or believe in. Pray, chant, slam the gris gris on the whore cancer, knock on wood, throw salt over shoulder, WHATEVER. I could not give a shit less. I will take whatever positive vibes I can get. I will wrap them up in a nice bow (Dad is big on presentation) and sit them on his lap and say "See, the internet is not just poker games, Dad. They loves them some you because I have told them some stories about you yelling up the stairs to me and Krista when you were lonely when Terrie was gone. I told them of your fixation (a somewhat unhealthy one) of Frank Sinatra. I told them of you singing Christmas caroles in the mall while forcing Krista and I to hold your hand when we were TEENAGERS. And, above all that, I told them that at some point, the hubs will knock me up and how empty it will all seem if you are not there to sing to my kid. How else am I to explain to them that my kid's lullaby of choice is inexplicably New York, New York without having you as a reference point? And more than that, they know how much I love you and for WHATEVER REASON some of them seem to like me and find me amusing, so they are sending all this just for you." To that, he will say, "Did they send a perfect Manhattan to go with?" He's charming that way.

Labels: Dad, Health

Elizabeth at 4:00 PM

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1 Comments

at 4:33 PM Tammy said...: SHRINKAGE, SHRINKAGE, SHRINKAGE, SHRINKAGE.

Go away little bastard tumor. Go away.

Tammy, who is off to pray, chant, and throw salt over her shoulder.