"She done did it again!"

My mom just rolled me home from another insane meal at the hand of Katie Whorf. I just wish she'd give up this whole medical ambition she has, admit that her true calling is to become a less awful Rachael Ray, or a less indulgent Ina Garten, or a less self-centered Giada DeLaurentiis-- because DAMN, the lady can cook! My mom has started reading my blog, and hopefully she'll chime in on this because she, too, got her body rocked by Katie's pork tenderloin.

So, the neurontourage met today for the Tumor Board. (I still hadn't settled on a proper name for the event...nothing stuck except the name the doctors themselves gave the event. Totally sucked the fun right out of it. I kept reaching for something along the lines of "G8 Summit"...but "C6 Summit" didn't have the same fluidity, and then I stopped caring.) I didn't hear from Dr. T. or Dr. S., so I'm assuming the best. Dr. T's clinic did, however, call earlier today to formally schedule my pre-op, which will be on Friday. So, pre-op is Friday, surgery is Monday. Another BFF, Molly, is flying into Cincinnati on Saturday, followed by Katie's mom, my sister, my dad, my aunt... my personal chef, my masseuse, my auditor (yes, I've become a Scientologist-- I figured it was time), my guru (in case the Scientology stops being fun, and I go Eastern instead), and whomever else can fit into the G4. (It's whisper-quiet!) I cannot believe the amount of people that are gathering on my behalf. It's dizzying-- perhaps moreso than the whole reason people are gathering in the first place! (Because, y'know, the tumor causes dizziness...one of the wide variety of superfantastic features.)

It has come to my attention that faculty members of my high school have started reading my blog. This both scares and delights me. It scares me because now I'm going to be super-aware of what I'm vomiting onto the page...considering I'm already self-censoring, this could lead to some very subpar entries. (Expect some really forced exposition about the character development in Song of Solomon or some pointless, schlocky crap about how much I love my family.) Swearing may become less fun until I get used to it. (Mrs. Wolf, Senora Gamero, whomever else-- let me just clear the air and say this: my affinity for swearing and colorful language isn't a reflection of the education I was afforded at IA by you or any of your colleagues. My penchant for convoluted sentence structure...yeah, not the fault of the IA English department.) It delights me because it may be kind of gratifying to my teachers that at least one of their students enjoys the written word, and they deserve some credit for that.

In unrelated news, my cousin Michelle shared with me a new theory today. Apparently, it's not a tumor in my spine...it's a gremlin. So, if someone could put some water on the nape of my neck, we might get this thing taken care of a little faster. (In all honesty, it's been a while since I was fully versed on gremlins-- is there some other step I should be taking? Wasn't there something involving a blender, and midnight feedings? This is not my wheelhouse.) Another theory she had was that I actually have a twin in my spine. (Remember that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding where the aunt tells the story of the hamartoma in her neck?) If that's the case, then I need to give her a really bitchy name-- that'll be the new word challenge for the next day or so. Any ideas are welcomed. (There was a girl that lived down the street from my family when I was little, and her name was Ursula. Total bitch, from what I remember. And then The Little Mermaid came out, and wow, that girl must've really had a hard time, unless someone turned her into a Bond fan and she learned about Ursula Andress...hmm.)

Last thing before I check PerezHilton.com one more time: part of my discharge orders was a prescription for an anti-inflammatory steroid, which I'm taking twice daily. This may not be interesting to anyone, but it is absolutely un-f'ing-believable to me how precisely this particular drug is treating my condition. So, I take it every twelve hours, and I can honestly feel that right around the eleven-hours-and-thirty-minutes mark, it has started to wear off. I know logically that this can easily explained by dosage, half-life, efficacy, chemistry, what-evs...but it's still pretty incredible. I don't think anyone can tell from the outside, but a hundred little things feel just a little more normal when the drug is working. My righthand fingers are slightly more nimble, those weird non-sneeze, non-cough, eye-watering episodes stop, my neck is a little less tense, I'm a little less off-kilter...so weird. I would love it if this was all psychosomatic, but it totally isn't. I want to get a t-shirt that says "Better living through chemistry", because it is certainly the case. I mean, not by much-- I still have a goddamn tumor renting space in my spinal cord-- but enough to notice. I can't help but think that maybe there's a way for me to just keep taking this steroid, and then I wouldn't have to have surgery. I've come to grips with the idea that this challenge has been presented to me for a reason, and the onus is upon me to meet it with grace and guts, but I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't wishing for an easy-out clause, every so often. (I think that it's called bargaining...like, "If I never have another diet Coke, can I not have the surgery?" Wait-- am I grieving? Isn't bargaining the second stage of grief? Psych majors, holler at me.) Anyway, the whole point of this blog is to keep everyone updated, and keep myself sane through the sweet therapy of words...so, now everyone has a little better idea of what this feels like. Scary, a little extra uncomfortable every 12 hours, overwhelming, humbling, revealing, funny, scary again.

Hey, maybe my next entry will have decent-sized paragraphs. Hmm.