parking-garage roulette

So concludes the final installment of the strange and contorted anti-cancer CHOP-“cemo” regimen; CHOP equaling Cyclophosphamide, Doxorubicin (I don’t know where they get an “H” for this), Oncovin (trade-name for Vincristine), and Prednisone, a steroid.
Yesterday, Thursday, January 17, 2008, the final “cemo” infusion was administered.
There have been six “cemos.” There will be six Rituxans; two more to go. Four so far, so that altogether it is R-CHOP.
That means at least two more games of parking-garage roulette.
Wilmot, part of Strong Hospital, uses the attached Strong Hospital parking-garage; two bucks up to the first hour; more thereafter.
Wilmot gives us a coupon for a single visit so that parking is only a dollar.
So I use that for the first park, since that is usually the longest — there’s usually a doctor-appointment.
Second park is when I return to pick up my wife, at the conclusion of her treatment. That’s in-and-out, so in-and-out from the parking-garage. Sometimes it’s two bucks; other times it’s nothing. We think it depends on who’s manning the checkout. So every departure is the roulette-game: two bucks or free? (We wait with baited breath.)
The cancer, which was only lymphoma, pretty much disappeared after the first CHOP — as did the hair.
Well, no hair; but it’s still the same person I married: snide remarks, gutter comments; a “liberila” — and as such disrespectful of self-declared authorities and noisesome blowhards.
“Just because we’ve lost our hair doesn’t make us different persons,” Hairman’s wife commented. She has cancer too, although it’s worse.
“You’ve been an A+ student, Mrs. Hughes,” the nurse said. —They’re very pleased.
“Well, she was A+ before she started,” I said.
The nurse had to relate to my wife what I’d said.
“And ornery too,” I observed.
As is commonly misconstrued, this was taken as a negatory comment by the nurse.
Hardly. I wouldn’t be the person I now am had I not been “ornery” (bull-headed).
“Don’t forget I had a stroke,” I said. “But I didn’t want to be disabled.”
“Some people just don’t want to be sick,” my wife said.
So now we can visit the great land of the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower*, so that Linda’s mother can see that Linda is not at death’s door.
Whether I go along will be a function of whether we can find a pet-sitter for the dog, as I’d rather not put him in the slammer.
The lymphoma is not cured, just beaten into remission.
Checkup in April.
Freddy Thompson has lymphoma. He’s running for prez.
Maybe Linda should run for prez too —TUB-THUMPING CONSERVATIVES BEWARE!
But she ain’t Hillary-Dillery.

*I also benefit from this, by not having my life turned upside-down by the passing of Linda. So does the dog. I doubt I could take care of him alone. I also doubt I could I could take care of myself (and a house) alone, due to the stroke. — We work as a team.

My wife is “Linda.” She has lymphatic cancer; it’s treatable — she will survive. —We just celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary.

“Cemo” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “chemo” is spelled.

“Wilmot” Cancer Center in Rochester.

“Liberila” is now how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. Not long ago it was “liberial.”

“Hairman” is my hair-dresser in nearby Honeoye Falls, N.Y. I’ve gone to him at least 16 years.

Linda’s mother (almost 92 years old), lives in a retirement community in “the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower” in De Land, Fla.

“The slammer” is pet-sitting at the vet. The dog thinks of it as prison.

“Freddy Thompson” is presidential candidate Fred Thompson.

All my siblings are “tub-thumping Conservatives;” merrily goosestepping to Rush Limbaugh. Anyone who disagrees with them deserves the ice-flow.

“Hillary-Dillery” is Hillary Clinton.