Nina: “Does a banquet really
need an asparagus server?”
The Count: “Does an orchestra
need a bassoon?”
You know it’s going to be an intense meeting with the oncologist when he doesn’t start out with 10 minutes of banter about cycling and running.
He says it’s not awful but not good, sort of like every Bob Dylan album ever. Sorry, Bob Dylan fans. And it’s time to start the chemo mambo.
Truth be told, we were relieved when he said it. Living with lymph nodes inside you that glow in the dark is sort of like that scene in “Alien.” You just keep your eyes covered up while waiting for something really bad to happen.
And the prognosis is great. 90-95 percent chance of virtual remission (lymphoma never really goes away), minimal side effects other than making Mo fetch stuff for me constantly for months on end, and I get to spend countless hours in the infusion center, which has a spectacular view of the mountains to the north of the desert. Best. Christmas. Ever. Sorry, Rudolph.
We knew it would happen sooner or later; might as well be sooner. This should cover us forever, or until the doctor needs a new mountain bike. Just kidding. As a Mayo guy, he works on salary. Or possibly celery. My hearing is not so good.
And so it begins. Does an orchestra really need a bassoon? Probably so, if they’re going to perform Dylan. And I never cared for asparagus anyhow. With life’s great mysteries solved, there’s not much left but to dive off the high board into the pool of Jell-O below. I hope there’s Cool Whip.
In the words of the prophet Bullwinkle, “This time, for sure.”