The big C word and it’s not my last name.
March 31, 2019
So I went to the doc a little over a week ago and he cut off a chunk of my ear. Said I would get a call if it was cancer. The week went by without a call. I was elated. Once again, I had beaten the odds.
But yesterday my phone rang and guess who? A robocall. I called AT&T and lodged a complaint that I know will go nowhere and produce zilch-o results. I hung up, started a couple of augers and crawled inside a grain bin.
I felt a buzz in my pocket and saw it was another robo call. With the slight possibility it wasn’t, I answered.
It was the doctor’s office announcing I had cancer. The nurse could hardly hear me because of the noisy environment I was in. I could hardly hear her because I was immediately in shock and denial.
We scheduled an appointment for me to go in and they would start wacking away on my ear until they ran out of cancer. The situation was a bit disconcerting but like most of my last 8 years, I had corn running. The augers took my mind off the C word (cancer) and put it on the other C word (corn) for a bit.
When I finished inside the bin, I started thinking outside the bin about the implications. I probably wouldn’t have a problem if I hadn’t stirred up the growth (see a couple of posts ago) with my homemade remedies and turned it into a hornet’s nest. But now, like always, my theoretically ingenious solutions turn the smallest problems upside down into monster disasters.
Because of my primitive extraction methods, the basal cell carcinoma had probably moved out of it’s little apartment just above my earlobe and was moving into a big mansion named Ben.
Just because I made it mad. Bummer. I’ll throw in a picture I’ve already posted just so you remember how angry the little sucker looked.
I decided I had better put my things in order. I’ll begin by first making my bed.
Then I’ll let my wife know of the recent developments and the fact that she better start looking around for a replacement. I always thought I’d go first but the odds pointed toward a sudden accident rather that a lingering demise.
Next, I better start once again cleaning up several properties I own that need a major spring cleaning. I don’t want to leave my wife and her new partner with messes that they’ll have no idea what to do with. I do not want to do anything that would mess up their honeymoon.
There’s no way her new husband will be as brilliant and ingenious as I in disposing of mass amounts of metal, rubber, spare parts and several hundred other classifications of truckloads of materials that I’ve paid through the nose for over the decades. I’m just grateful I’ve already spent several years (literally) in the clean-up mode. Maybe this will be my last project.
At the temple last night, I ran into a doctor friend who lost one of his ears in a car wreck a few years back. I informed him that soon I might look just like him. If I’m lucky.
If my doctor starts wacking on my ear and doesn’t hit non-cancerous ear material before he runs into my head, I’ll have an important decision to make.
Should I tell him to keep going? At this point, I think he should. I’ll tell him to not put the brakes on with his turkey-carving implement until about the halfway point which is an invisible center line of where the tip of my nose is located. This isn’t what I’d prefer but might prove beneficial in several ways…
- I’ll lose some weight
- Hopefully, the portion of my brain that brings about some of my goofy decisions will be gone. If that portion is on the other side, I’m in trouble.
- Since half of my mouth will be non-existent, this will probably cut down on my food consumption. Maybe I’ll finally get back down to my desired healthy weight of 180 or so.
Last night I ran into another friend who asked about my ear injury. I told her the details which brought on some alarm. I calmed her by saying at this point it could very well be a non-catastrophic incident. But then as I left, I said “Ta-Ta for now. It’s been nice knowing you.” I guess maybe I’ll start using those lines as my parting words whenever I talk to a friend.
I’m glad our county has just elected a coroner who is a good friend of mine. I have peace of mind knowing that he’ll keep people from desecrating my corpse, at least until it is six feet under. After that, let the dancing begin.
At least I won’t have to scramble around and write my life story. In fact, I’ve got scads of boxes of Recovering Idiot that probably won’t be gone before I am. Maybe Michele can save some money on funeral programs and pass out books.
May 6 is the day they start chipping and excavating. Wish me luck.