Beethoven has had his baptism of fire, and emerged triumphant. The enemy generals at the Cancer Center have stopped assaulting him with radiation treatments. Although he has had to give up some territory, he has heroically stood his ground. My blood brother is still there in all his lumpy glory, refusing to yield, shouting “Cancer Pride”, and “Tumors Are Human Too!” At least that's what he'd shout if he had a mouth to shout with. Lucky for us, he doesn't.
Now that their initial forays have been successful, the Commanders of the Medical Alliance are holding conferences, planning their next offensive. There's talk of an “epidural resection of the residual mass”, an elegantly named procedure indistinguishable, as far as I can tell, from the rude “chop that sucker outta there”.
Me, I'm just collateral damage. My job is to lay there and serve as a battlefield while the proponent of constant unlimited growth battles it out with the advocates of socialistic regulation. The interventionists tell me their radiation poisoning keeps on for weeks after the last exposure, and I'm feeling some gurgle guts and things, but it's hard to tell if its from that or from junk food.
They ask me “Is there any pain?” and I'm “Yeah, mostly the PITA of having to come around here getting poked and measured and filling out forms”. I've got a big black spot too. I don't know what it looks like (I can't see my back) it's just a big blistery patch that itches. Some people get big fancy tattoos there, but nobody has one more uniquer than mine. It makes me special. Ugly, but special. For now, we're busily waiting for the sawbones sawboneses? sawbonsai? the medics to decide our fate, me and Beethoven are.