Dad called to say, again, that they still have no idea what he has. I'm starting to wonder if this isn't lymphoma. If local pathologists and a national convention of them can't ID your lymphoma, maybe you don't have lymphoma. It's possible, I suppose, that Dad's exposure to so many classic lymphoma influences has given him a super blood cancer with powers and abilities far above those of mortal lymphomas. They won't take another sample from him, much less deflate the giant armpit lump; they're afraid of jostling loose more of this mystery junk into his system.
Dad wouldn't be this far along in his diagnosis if he and Mom hadn't known some of the hospital staff. The first appointment was bumped up a few weeks. But now we're back to the normal "stress and wait" schedule. His health is the same. I guess this is what it means to live with cancer.
I'm up to page 16 in the script, and we finally go back to Act One tonight. I'll have to carry the script for the stage direction, but I hope this memorization at least helps me get more into character, as the director requested, on this, our whopping fifth rehearsal. Yes, I'm still fuming. A little voice in my head whispers "ego" and rolls it's imaginary eyes. A dozen other voices chirp in with "isn't this the theatre we were walking away from in November?" But it's a good role, and I was asked. So I will trudge on. Trudge trudge trudge.
We're still dying to know about last Saturday.
Picture of the Day
Coolest signboard job ever?