Subject: how I spent my week (Ed wrote this February 10) I neglected to mention at the end of my last missive, but years ago, I researched the word "anastamosis." No reason, except a fascination with words. What I came away with was an education into the positions that various species of worms get into when copulating. There's the end to end anastamosis, the overlapping, the side by side, etc. Most amazing of all is to stop and think that some ancient Greek dude spent time on a sunny hillside watching worms copulate, and then applied that knowledge to saving lives by re-attaching blood vessels and intestines. Small wonder we've walked on the moon. 30 Jan - checked in for the transfusions. Sitting beside the admitting clerks desk, I noticed the entry in the "diagnosis" box on a form sliding out of her printer. "Colon CA" Short for colon cancer. I was led to believe that the pathology report wouldn't be back until that afternoon, but there it was. A cold shot. No avuncular doctor sitting me down in his office for a "Come To Jesus." Actually, since my doc is Jewish, it would have been a "Come To Moses." Instead, just a short note in a box on a form. So two units of packed cells didn't bring my numbers up. Instead of going home, I was admitted. They managed to squeeze me onto the Monday surgery schedule as a stand-by, and wanted the weekend to work me up. 31 Jan, another transfusion, and a CAT scan. Doc comes into my room with a long face. CAT shows the original tumour has grown through the intestinal wall into the abdominal cavity and scattered seeds throughout the area. For good measure, it also went into the liver. So, a slight change of plan - cut out the main tumour, then aggressive chemotherapy for the seeds. Monday. YAY! When they put me to sleep, I'll wake up with one less evil, nasty growth inside of me. Monday evening. Woke up. Evil, nasty growth still inside of me. Inoperable. Tumours removed from liver, abdomen, and elsewhere, but there was nowhere to cut the intestine where the main one was without cutting into cancerous tissue and releasing more demon-spawn when they closed it back up. Drop back fifteen and punt. Goal of chemo is now to shrink main tumour to a size where surgery can be re-considered. Meanwhile, I have to recuperate from surgery. There are no pain receptors in the intestines. But there are a zillion pressure receptors, so your intestines know when they're twisted, pulled, prodded, etc. The surgeon really man-handled mine looking for a place to cut. Try telling your brain that what it's feeling is pressure, and not pain. It just doesn't work. Morphine works, but if you know me, you know I hate narcotics. If the pain (sorry, I meant pressure) gets unbearable, you pass out, right? If you're passed out, you don't feel anything, right? Simple solution. I don't know if it's still there, but there used to be a place on Lake Avenue in Pasadena called Monahan's Irish Pub. Their signature drink was "The Black Marble," a martini with a black olive in it. Yup, you guessed it, that's where Joe Wambaugh got the name for his novel. Joe used to get shloshed in there a lot until he got so filthy rich from books that he bought a condo at the Balboa Bay Club down in Newport Beach, where they have their own exclusive boozitorium. Anyway, hanging above the back-bar at Monahan's was a beautifully carved sign with a quote from one of my favorite poets, Dylan Thomas: "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." 9 Feb - This afternoon, I stepped out the front door of the hospital. Across the street, the sun was bright on a steep slope coved with dead leaves, interspersed with the bare trees the leaves had fallen from. Thinking back on the past week, I was dumb-struck. The scene before me was just so goddamfuckingbeautiful that I wept. Chemo starts 17 Feb The battle is joined ...