Don’t tell my cancer, but we’re about to launch “Operation Get Outta Here.”  Tomorrow (5/30) they’ll put me into a light sleep while they install the port in my chest that will serve as the entry point for my chemo treatments which will begin next Friday (6/6). I’ve enjoyed this period of time between the original diagnosis and the beginning of treatment.  

I’ve done so many things that I love to do that I might not be up for during the next few months.  Yesterday I played a pretty solid round of golf. We spent a priceless holiday weekend at the beach with the gift of some amazing late spring weather.  Lauren and I had a fun Daddy-Daughter bowling date.  We’ve gone out for several dinners with friends.  We also had our first-ever family portrait taken. It’s that childhood feeling at the end of the summer when the new school year, which once seemed so far away, is only days away.

But here’s what I didn’t expect we’d be doing.  We’re laughing.  A lot.  Cancer isn’t funny…in fact, it’s about as unfunny as it gets.  But 18 years ago I was fortunate enough to marry a woman who can be as goofy as I.  And as genetics would have it, we spawned a goofy child.  In our current situation, the choices are to laugh or cry.  We worked hard at the beginning to fulfill our crying requirement, and now we’re on to the other.

If you’ve been through this yourself, then maybe you get it, but I can’t explain the euphoria.  There’s something extremely liberating about having such a challenge ahead that the small daily aggravations of life fall off the radar.  We’re enjoying so many things so much more.  It’s a side-effect the doctors didn’t tell me about.

There are rough days ahead.  The chemo, especially the steroids, will try to fool with my moods and patience.  But at least going into this we’re charged up and ready.  I’ve drawn so much strength from your support, and I’ve learned a great deal from the personal stories you’ve sent me.  I’ll represent as best I can by giving this my best effort.

Until next week…