I just got back from a post-operative follow-up with my newly acquired thoracic surgeon, who shall be forever known as Dr Cuteness. The man looks like he literally stepped off the Grey's Anatomy set, or the cover of Cute Doctors Monthly.
Even my beloved seems to have developed a deep DoctorManCrush on the guy, even going so far as to Googlestalk him to see what he earned, his career history, where he was born, whether he was married, social security details, type of car he drove, all in the vain and pathetically desperate hope we might somehow be able to engineer a new friendship with him. That's not weird is it?
But let's get back to business.
Good news! I survived a major pericardial effusion, the likes of which Dr Cuteness seems to think is some kind of medical miracle. In his words, "I don't know how you're not dead". Because you saved my life Dr Cuteness.
Even better news! The major pericardial effusion was not caused by malignancy!
Probably some kind of infection, given the speed at which it took hold, but who really knows?
And that's the crazy world of cancer. Where a suspected infection of the heart is GOOD news.
The kind of news that makes you want to break open a bottle of bubbly, go spend a lot of money on something really frivolous, go skydiving or bungee jumping, kiss your enemies, dance through the woods all Disney-like, frolic on a white sandy beach somewhere warm and tropical, get another dog, count your blessings and find religion, give away all your worldly possessions to go live in that dream off-the-grid cabin on the side of a mountain somewhere, get that vintage Red Karmann Ghia, shout to the world your joy to be alive.
But wait, the BAD NEWS is you still have Stage IV breast cancer.
To hell with it. Maybe I'll just do all that stuff anyway.