The Fighting Spirit

My family's moved from total grief mode to total fight mode. And it looks a little like this.

That's how the French Revolution really looked. Eventually, they were all, "Instead of singing so much, we should've learned how to fire these rifle thingees."
Because as we all know, it was their obsession with theatrics that quashed the rebellion. 

Any time we're sitting around for a length of time, we can't help climbing on top of whatever object is near us- a chair, a table, the chandelier- and we wave our latest CAT scan and say something like:


"Never give up! Never surrender!"


"They may take our lungs, but they will never take... our other organs!"


We were all at the hospital yesterday because my dad was getting a port surgically implanted. (It's like a picc line, but under the skin, near the clavicle). It will be easy access for the chemo infusions.


While he was in surgery, my mom and I were in the waiting room. She was reading a book about survivors, and I was working on my revisions. (They're due tomorrow.)


About every other minute, one of us would interrupt the other (okay, it was mostly her interrupting me) to share an inspiring story of victory in the face of incredible odds. 


And then the fighting spirit really took over and every word out of our mouths sounded like a battle cry, so much so that when the nurse came to speak to us, we answered by bellowing... "NO! Our bellies cannot stand idly by drying out... we WILL have another CRANBERRY JUICE! Tell me, do you hear the people sing? They are asking for that special crunchy ice only hospitals have! Now... MAKE... IT... SO!"


No, they were not relieved when we left. Why do you ask?


My dad is home again now, recovering and hopped up on pain meds. In fact, that's the best part. To see this quiet, serious physician all loopy on Loritab. 


For example, on my latest revisions, the main goal is to delete pages. This morning, my dad asked me how many pages I'd "delinquished." 


me: "Huh?"


Him: "How many pages have you delinquished... I mean, diminished..."


Me: smiling as he tries to search for the word "deleted". It was awesome. 


I admit, I'm loopy too. I kept telling the doctors: "When are we going to surgically implant a woman in his port?"


and then when they'd look at me questioningly, I'd say, "Isn't it customary to have a woman in every port?" And then I'd laugh maniacally and slap the doctor's shoulder. I looked like this:

Nobody ever laughed with me. But I say it's better to face these things with a loopy brain.


Anyway, tomorrow we are at the infusion center to start the chemotherapy. I can't wait for the nurse to insert the IV so that I can bellow: "On my command... UNLEASH HELL!"