Wanna know what reward you get for having a good PetScan? (Mine was, by the way, and don’t misunderstand; I am certainly grateful). Anyway, the reward for having a good PetScan is…more chemotherapy!
Here’s the way I picture it.
The PetScan is accounted good because it shows that my internal Nazis have not attempted any anschluss. They have not, that is to say, made a grab for any new territory outside their current boundaries. The land-grab, as you know, is an old Nazi trick. But extra lebensraum for them, as they used to call it (lebensraum means living-room) is the opposite for me, because it comes out of my hide.
So keeping these cellular Nazis in check is a good thing. Even better if they are actually more tightly contained than before. I conceive of it as being the exact opposite of the Warsaw Ghetto, if you ken what I mean: Nazis confined to a tight area of crumbling buildings behind aging walls, with good guys all around outside seeing to it that they don’t slip out any openings, shooting those who try to do that, and waiting for hunger and debility to do in all the rest.
To return to my point, if the PetScans show that the Nazis continue to be tightly cordoned off, that means the chemotherapy is working…and that means the chemotherapy ought to go on. One good sac deserves another, as it were.
I guess I ought to apologize for these rather frequent wellings-up of World War Two imagery, but, well, that was in my blood and meat long before these other little bastards took up residence there. I refer you to an earlier dispatch, the one about my mother.
One more thing. I’ve already written some about Cancerese, which is an English-based argot liberally laced with Latin, medispeak and bullshit, but the subject currently under discussion, chemotherapy, has a very interesting verbal feature of its own, if you don’t mind a further linguistic note.
To wit, chemotherapy comes in rounds, the ways bullets and shells are fired, or drinks ordered, or applause is elicited. What the devil these things have in common, I’m not sure I can say.
Of course, chemotherapeutic agents are weapons, as it were, fired against the enemy. And then these agents often do literally come in mixtures actually referred to as cocktails, though I have yet to hear anyone drunkenly call out, Yo, gang, next chemo’s on me.
But the applause thing I don’t even have a guess at. It simply doesn’t happen that a nurse-pracitioner draws aside a treatment room curtain to say, with a flourish, Ladies and gentlemen, let’s all give Mrs Esther Dellahootchy here a big round of chemo.
Come to think of it, a round is something else as well — a melody for many voices, like Row, Row, Row Your Boat, but not sung in unison. Each individual voice sings the beginning of the melody alone at first, then keeps on singing while joined over and over and over by new individual voices, all of which themselves keep on singing, as long as they can.
Which wouldn’t be bad description of life itself, it is beginning to seem to me.
All of that was even more discursive than my usual dispatch, which tends to be, I am aware, plenty discursive enough.
Must be all that anti-nazi cisplatin on patrol in my synapses.