Day 11 - Living Forever in Pain

My life is currently cut into three slices: chemo, cancer, and women. Out of those three, only chemo hasn't hurt me.

Had my bleomycin shot on Monday, and other than a little redness on my stomach and chest, I feel fine. No nausea, no tiredness, if I didn't have a shaved head, I probably would forget I'm going through chemo.
Speaking of which I applied some sunless tanner on my pearly white dome to get a tan and now I have bright orange streaks down the back of my white head. I don't know if it's a good look or not. I can't see back there.

Anyways, that's not on my mind right now, as you probably deduced from the opener.
I'm currently trying to figure out what to do with this one girl... we'll call her Cindy. Cindy is the most beautiful girl I've ever dated. Although it's up for debate as to how many dates I've had with her. After the fifth or so, I started to get the "friend" vibe. Then I took her out one night to a bar with some people and she seemed really into my one friend. And then I cut off all communication with her.

Let me say this, ladies, it is not necessary for you to like or enjoy the company of the friends of the guy you are dating. In fact it's better if you hate them.

I couldn't stop imagining my friend ending up with this girl, even though he probably wouldn't do that cause he's a good guy. However, that very thing, only made him more indifferent to the girl, and therefore more desirable. The one thing I can not tolerate with women is being in second place. If I'm not your number one interest, I'm not interested.

My thought for the rest of the night was getting this girl away from my friend before they exchanged phone numbers and ended up together, which would have really fucked up my friendship. Not necessarily cause I'm a jealous bastard, but it's difficult to see your friend take a girl you like and not feel some twinge of emotional devastation.

She called me a week or two later and I let it goto voicemail. She was wondering what I was up to, and to give her a call if I was going drinking with my friends. Thank you, I was looking to put another nail in the coffin before I buried it.

So that was that. Of course, I felt kind of bad just ignoring her. She didn't do anything wrong. I fucked up. I failed to get her interested in me quickly enough. Beginner's mistakes. Missed the opportunity to kiss her when things were peaking. Oh well, my bad. Won't happen again. Still - not her fault. I had to give her some kind of reason for not seeing her again. Fortunately, roughly around the time I received the news of my rising alpha fetaprotein markers, and the need to have 9 weeks of chemotherapy. What luck!

"[BEEEEEP] Hi Cindy, this is Seth. Look I know it's like I fell off the face of the earth, but I've had a lot of stuff happen in my life right now. I've just been diagnosed with testicular cancer, and I'm going to be going through 9 weeks of chemo therapy. I'll give you a call in like 3 months. Bye."

Okay, so that's still pretty terrible, but hey, she knows it's not her fault, she doesn't feel rejected, and I don't have to deal with her ever again unless I want to. (3 months is the dating equivalent of never)
So I figured that was that. But it wasn't.

A couple of hours ago, Cindy called me, I silenced the ringer and let it goto voicemail. I don't need that kinda stress in my life, not now, but if she's got something to tell me, I'm willing to let my voicemail plead her case.

Pretty standard fare. It's been a long time since we talked. Give me a call if you feel up to it.
"I miss you... bye"

I'm such a sucker for "I miss you." Maybe it makes me think about everyone I've ever wanted to say that to. Everyone important to me who've left and I've never seen again. Maybe it's the sincere way she said it. Like we had a bigger connection that I thought, and I was just oblivious to it. Maybe she feels sorry that I have cancer, and somehow that makes her want to be with me.

Maybe it's a trap.

Maybe I call her up, and we hang out, and I find out we're still just friends, and I'm just one of the guys she keeps around to make her self feel good, and then one day we're hanging out with people and she ends up hooking up with one of my friends and I feel like a loser who can't close a girl he's picked up.
Beautiful girls fuck you up. You look at them, and suddenly you can't tell if you like being with them, or if you're just hypnotized and you actually feel like shit hanging around them; you only think you like them cause they're hot.

If she wasn't so fucking attractive, I'd be able to consider having her as a friend, but that's not an option here.
Being friends with Cindy would be dogshit torturous hell. And then I would jump off a bridge and shoot myself in the head.

Let me explain my "rule of friendship." If Person 1 just wants to be friends, but Person 2 wants MORE than friendship, then Person 2 is condemned to die a slow painful death. Obviously Person 2 will accept friendship. Person 2 will take whatever Person 1 offers, because Person 2 likes Person 1 so much. What Person 2 forgets is that friendship is not a step towards a relationship. So, Person 1 will be happy that they are friends. And Person 2 will be forever in pain. Well. Sometimes Person 2 will do something like confess undying love towards Person 1, and Person 1 will get creeped out, and then Person 2 will be able to move on. But living forever in pain is the standard I think.

Anyways, I'm going to call her. I have to. I can't resist "I miss you"s. I hope round two of chemo is more painful.
I think I'm going to need something to distract myself.

Day 8 - the pointy hats come off

You should of heard me. I was brilliant.

"Birthday cake, makes life worth living another year."

Being jolted awake by the telephone during an extended power nap yields strange revelations about the world.

"But you notice, that the second time, you need twice as many candles to get the same effect."

Especially when the dialog takes a deliberately combative tone.

"And then the next year, you can't just have two, you need a third one to feel the same effect. Otherwise you'd be like fuck that and then the pointy hats come off and start flying around like serious projectiles, poking peoples eyes out. It's horrible. Thats why they make you blow them out before you eat the cake. In a fit of birthday cake induced rage, there could be a fire."

I got off easy today. Got a quick shot of bleomycin, and the anti-nausea drug, lorazepam, which comes with a pleasant groggy high. You kind of slide back and forth down the street, with slightly more control than a drunken stumble. Later in the day, you get tired and decide to take an hour nap. You sleep 3 hours past your goal and wake up to a phone call from a friend from home.

I swear, getting waken up at this point opens up part of your brain to the infinite wisdom of the universe. I become a genius for the ensuing half an hour conversation. I state that "Langston Hughes' success with the poem "A Raison in the Son" is largely due to the people who interpreted it for him. Without the right interpretation, it's about decomposing grapes.
To further prove my point, I quickly make up a poem about corn, which ends with something like:

"And as the light shown down on the fields,
who knows what comes
of the mouse when it squeals."

It's a metaphor for existence and the wonder of youthful discovery. I just made that up on the spot. Give me the award!

Then the conversation turns to the topic of pollen, which my friend seems to think can be eaten.
"Pollen can not be eaten. Do you know why?"
"...because it's pollen?"
"ITS pollen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Oh."
"POLLENNNNNNNNNN!!!!"

Note: Conversations end quickly when you yell "POLLEN" over and over again. I imagine that's how brilliant people end conversations all the time.

Day 5 - Phantom Testicle Syndrome

Do I miss my right testicle?
No. I'm glad its gone. We separated on bad terms. It's amazing how quickly you can go from love to hate. But then again, it's not. Any body part which starts harboring hard lumps is asking to be removed. Yeah, that goes for all of you, hear me?

I will not tolerate cancer growing in MY body. That is unacceptable. I don't care who you are.

Of course, I was a little apprehensive at the idea of only having one testicle, mostly for aesthetic reasons. I suppose I imagined one side of my scrotum would deflate, and leave me looking asymmetrical, like a car with a flat tire. But let it be known, the body is not a car. And my testicle is not a static piece of rubber. He will accommodate, move to where he needs to go, and accomplish whatever he needs to do. I call him my lucky left testicle. Apparentally, he's working overtime producing sperm and testosterone so I have the same amount as I did with two testicles. That's pretty amazing. I should give him a raise. He must be exhausted. Sorry big guy, no help is on the way.

I researched prosthetic testicle implants, but ultimately decided against getting one.
Testicles are not breasts. I'm relatively certain girls do not fawn over testicles, or surf the web to get closeups of testicles, or want anything to do specifically with testicles. They just aren't sexy to begin with. One testicle is just as sexy as two. (Or just as not)
Also, I don't need a fake testicle to make myself feel better about myself. I mean, I would KNOW it was a fake testicle, so if it had any effect on me it would be me feeling like a dumb ass for having purchased and installed a plastic ball in my scrotum.
The small risk of infection is the final nail on the coffin. How much would it suck to get an infection from a fake testicle? I definitely would not feel too proud about that doctor's appointment.
"You know that fake testicle? The one that you installed to make you feel better about yourself? It's killing you."
Fuck that. Even if it worked okay and felt like a real testicle, it would probably just make me think of cancer every time I touched it.

Come to think of it, the only time I touch my balls is when I'm looking for cancer anyways.

I wonder if there is a limit to how many prosthetic testicles I could have inserted in my scrotum? 3? 5? Maybe they could install some kind of battery so they would flash like Christmas ornaments, or make a squeaking noise when pushed together.

I'd like to find some prosthetic testicles, and just go around throwing them at people. Or maybe 250,000 and do something like this:



Muhahahahaha

Day 4

I made this track today, which probably captures how my day felt more than anything I can get my fingers to type.
a general human property [mp3]

Day 3 - Metastasis

I think I can pinpoint the moment for me when "Testicular Cancer" became "Cancer."

Notes from before my surgery:
Most cancer stories are concerning the heroic battle for life, filled with wisdom, memories, and hope. Not mine. I'm just losing a testicle here. Clearly, I've been robbed.
This is a memoir, a requiem for a testicle, if you will. (That would have been the name of the site if I had wanted to be ridiculously cheesy.)
I'm currently sitting in a waiting room awaiting blood work, thinking about how I'm going to turn this semi-critical health problem into an award wining novel. Writing is the therapeutic process of transferring misfortune into pleasure and profit. Well, pleasure anyway.

Before surgery I viewed testicular cancer as kind of a pseudo-cancer, much in the way I view my Jewish heritage allows me to be kind of a pseudo minority. Like, as a Jew I can say I'm a minority, but no one knows unless I explicitly tell them, so I don't face any of the potential hardships of a minority. With testicular cancer, you technically have a life threatening illness, but it's pretty easy to treat, and you don't really have to deal with it on a day to day basis unless you go around telling everyone you meet. Thats how it seemed to me. Until I saw my mom's face one day.

Alpha-fetoprotein markers indicate the presence of liver and germ cell tumors. My AFPs were at 9 when I got bloodwork before surgery. A week afterward, I got blood work again, and scheduled an appointment so my family could come down to the urologist with me and discuss the results.
I was whisked into an empty examination room and told to take off everything from the waist down and get under a paper blanket. The urologist came in, and quickly checked to make sure things were healing correctly, and after approving with a confident nod, opened the door and signaled my parents to enter. My mom stepped in, first smiling, then she saw the blanket, and a mortified expression took to her face as she realized that it was the only thing I was wearing below the waist. "Are you ready for us? He's not even dressed yet!"

Again, I found myself smiling stupidly, wondering why this consultation required me to be half naked in front of my parents.
The doctor walked over to the desk and picked up my file and started talking about my AFP markers, saying he hadn't yet received the latest AFP results, but...
"Wait. No here they are, the marker is at 15, it went up... Should have come down after the surgery. That's probably a mistake."
Confusion thickened the room, but I already knew what was going on. My cancer-lite was turning into real cancer. Right in front of me.
"You should see the oncologist, he'll be able to tell you more." His tone was grim, but caring. He stuck out his hand.
My Urologist had done all he could. He had cut out the cancer he could see, but now there was some invisible cancer floating around in my system that no blade could touch and no CAT scan could identify. I shook his hand, and he gave a comforting smile to me and my family, and then walked us out of the room. I knew I was stepping into new territory.
When you're dealing with a urologist, it means the problem is localized to a general region.
I had looked up "Oncologist" earlier in the day. I was now officially in the care of a cancer specialist.

A week afterwards, my AFP marker had risen to 20. My cancer was spreading.

Day 2 - Routine

I feel the need to check in. Hey how you doin?

Its two am, I think I just passed out for 4 hours or something. Sleep is a rather irresistible bitch. I had a long and indepth dream about airport transportation.

For reasons unbeknownst to me I'm supposed to be taking tylenol every 4 hours. Seems kinda like a shot in the dark to me. Don't think, just do. [Gulp]

My new hair cut rocks. I just looked in the mirror and thought I saw a huge mole on my forehead staring back at me, but it turned out to be a piece of lint. I take the moment for silent celebration.

Chemotherapy's not at all bad so far. I sit in a comfy chair for 4 hours surrounded by pleasant staff and other patients, and watch air bubbles creep into my catheter using my peripheral vision. Sneaky mothifuckers, but completely harmless it turns out.
"You need to consume tons of air for it to do any damage," a smiling nurse informs me. Good. Cause it is kind of scary watching a potentially lethal air bubble proceed through 4 feet of tubing, all the while getting closer and closer to the port where it suddenly disappears into your body.
"The media has done a great job of terrifying people about it," she says.
Agreed.

After chemo I work from home for about 3 hours a day. After that, I watch a movie. I feel like I'm on a lazy vacation. At least I have routine to keep me company.
K, time to watch The Wire. Night.

Day 1 - Dreaded Responsiblities

The mass began in the stomach area, and having spread from there, quickly infected the eyes, and the limbs. Once the cells were in metastasis they were difficult to stop. In all likely hood they would simply take over the entire entity, shutting it down from head to toe, and draining it of any visible signs of life.
The disease is prevalent and there is no known cure.
It is called "boredom."

To say I am familiar with the condition is an understatement. I lived in it. Officially, it's called Connecticut.
Don't worry this isn't about to turn into a, "I was born in..." post. Really the only thing I have to say about Connecticut is that I lived there for most of my life, and it was really fucking boring. I used to think there was nothing redeeming about it, but now I realize that I wouldn't be so motivated to get stuff moving in my life if I hadn't lived in a place where I had nothing going for me. I know what boredom feels like, I don't need to slump around my room doing nothing to get a taste of it.
So I guess an uneventful childhood can play a big part in shaping who you are.

I was getting bored the last week or so. I guess cancer is just not as exciting as getting hit by a car, teetering on the precipice between life and death. No. Instead you're sitting in a waiting room for an hour and half to get a unimportant blood test, or get a baseline for your respiratory functions. It's not all particularly exhilarating.

But today, I got to sit down and get my first dose of chemo. Etoposide (VePesid), and Platinal (Cisplatin) injected over a 5 hour period, is definitely new territory for me. I memorized the names of the drugs, and then delved into a great book called Mom's Marijuana by Dan Shapiro. I highly recommend it for it's wit and inspiration. It's written by a guy who went through chemo, radiation, bone marrow transplant, and probably some other stuff. Much more serious stuff than I'm going to have to go through. It's a relief to read. I want to get a life changing experience out of this, but not at the expense of my health, and that of my family's. And that really is what this is about.

No one goes through cancer alone. If I did, it would probably be easier. I wouldn't have to call up friends I haven't seen in months just to tell them I have cancer. I wouldn't have to respond to emails from concerned and loving relatives, thanking them and reassuring them I'll be alright. I wouldn't have to worry about whether my parents are worrying too much about me. I feel bad that I can't deal with this by my self and not bother or worry or burden anybody else. But it feels even worse to keep secrets, to keep people in the dark, to not be able to tell them whats going on with my life. So I compromise. I've been putting it off for as long as possible, but as of yesterday, all of my close friends and family are aware of my condition, and I've written or talked with them all on the phone. It had to be done. Just as the doctors are responsible for making sure I get through this okay, I'm responsible for showing everyone else that I can.

I'm not sure I'm doing the greatest job.

I specifically wrote down on my agenda to tell the girl i met in Florida the next time we talked that I'll be doing chemo.
Instead I ended up calling her up at 2:30am drunk, while playing a tribe called quest song 40 times in succession and repeatedly asking her "Can I kick it?" Insisting she reply, "Yes you can!" That conversation lasted an hour.
...Next time then.

digging shit

Oh my god. Rain. Winter. Doom. Gloom.
Its all coming down. Where did summer go?
Where did the fucking days of sun and joy disappear to?

Nah, I'm just joking. The weather is shit, but I'm lookin up. Pretty much, I'm lookin forward to getting a new hair cut.
I really just needed an excuse. How else am I going to justify cutting up the hair on my head and the chin straps that I've been rockin for the last 4 or 5 years? Only cancer can give you that kind of excuse.

Okay, let me confess why I'm writing today. My last post was really good, and I don't think I can out do it. So I've been putting off posting anything day after day after day. I've seen this happen before. Some guy starts all ambitious and writes for like 5 days in a row and then one day he just stops, and theres like a week of silence. Then he comes back, and he's like, "I'm sorry I haven't been posting lately, just I've been busy." Fuck that. No one cares. Thats the thing with writing, you either do it or you don't. No ones going to sit there and be like, awww geee why don't you write anymore? There are no epitaphs for bodies never born. I just made that up on the spot. Look how clever I am.

Okay, so in case you haven't figured it out by now, in order to write, I need to start over with something really unimpressive. Like this rambling pointless entry about nothing. Gotta face the facts, its not all going to be gold, but you're not gonna find anything at all if you stop digging. Look how clever I am.

If this is going to be a shitty journal entry I might as well go all out. Next week I start 9 weeks of chemo, and the thing most on my mind is how I can pull off the bald look. I want this hair style change to be a choice, not an unfortunate necessity. I bought some sunless tanning foam. It's probably going to turn me orange. Whatever, I'll try anything.

My oncologist says I'll be getting some drugs that are going to make me feel drunk all day long. FINALLY! That oxycodone shit wasn't fun at all. I'm excited to get some treatment that might actually be fun. We'll see.

Nother reason I haven't written shit is because I have a really good story to tell. You see, I think I'm pretty good at pulling good writing out of shit. But when something actually DOES happen? Thats when I drop the ball.

Remember how I said going to the sperm bank was the least fun you can have with your pants off? Well, I figured out a way to make it fun. I highly recommend the following:
Download lots of porn. Put it on your laptop. Bring it to the clinic.
Thats what I did.
Theres absolutely no reason you should have to put up with one or two porno mags as your only inspiration. It's not like they search you before you enter the room. You can bring whatever you want. Although I recommend bring headphones with you. Otherwise, they might wonder whats going on in there.

I also got a chance to talk to the main doctor at the clinic, where I confessed what she could be doing to make things better. That's another strange phenomena about the clinic, 95% female staff. Guess guys don't want to be touching jars of semen all day. The problem is, girls don't know shit about masturbation . What's really interesting is, at the clinic you will never hear the words, "masturbate," "cum," or "ejaculate." Instead you hear sperm, semen, and collection. The nurse actually told me, "Come find me after you collect." I think I'm going to start using that word.
IE. I accidentally collected in her eye. etc.

Anyways, I told the doctor about how bad the process was.
"You really took the fun out of masturbation. Thats difficult."
She said she knew, but they had no budget to spend on providing masturbation materials. So I told her, well, you can just tell people to bring their own materials. She looked at me thoughtfully and said, "That's a very novel idea!"
I left the clinic with some self satisfaction, knowing that the wheels of reform were in motion.

Note: I had been drinking before I wrote and posted this. I guess I'm not going to get that book deal now. Fuck it.

Sperm Banking, Part 1 - The End of Masturbation

My least favorite sexual experience dates back to before I had my first kiss. I was in a playground at night, we were too old for kids stuff, but it was nighttime, so we snuck in. I was standing next to my girlfriend at the time, and she was sitting on the swing set, and something in the conversation indicated that I should kiss her, so I leaned over and brought my lips closer to hers. But she wasn't coming up to meet me halfway, and I was too neurotic to continue the kiss on my own. So what did I do? I fell over. On the ground, into the dirt, under the swing.
I laid there on my back in a self-loathing comatose state, pondering the futility of existance.

After a minute or so, I regained my senses, got up, and pretended like nothing had happened, but if I had to look back on my past and select my single worst sexual experience it would be this. A sexually frustrated kid, lying in the dirt after fucking up his would-be first kiss.

Why am I telling you all this? Because we have a new horse in the race.

Yesterday, I got to experience for the first time, the joy of sperm banking. And what a joy it is.
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I started following the nurse to the back of the fertility clinic. Maybe a shag rug, a water bed with wooden columns and draped velvet curtains, some Barry White playing in the background at a tasteful volume, dimmed lights.
But when the nurse with the large hoop earrings opened the door, I was very disappointed. It was a regular examination room. The same kind of room I was in when I found out I had cancer in the first place. I think I'd be more comfortable jerking off in the middle of a job interview.

After taking in the inherently hostile environment, examination bed and all, the nurse directed my attention to the technology I'd get to use for my visit: Two porno mags. TWO PORNO MAGS. I would now like to deviate from the topic at hand for a moment.

Not too long ago I went to Montreal with some friends. At a strip club, they ended up spending somewhere around 350 dollars to watch two strippers get naked and essentially fuck each other for an hour or so. Here, I'm paying 350 dollars for the opportunity to jerk off into a little plastic cup in the back room of a fertility clinic, and what do I get? Two porno mags. I mean, who jerks off to still images anymore? Is this the 1940s? Get me the fucking Internet!

The nurse left and I gathered my supplies and stepped into the adjacent bathroom to begin the arduous task of masturbating under these harsh conditions, although I wouldn't quite call it masturbation. It felt more like I was milking myself.
(Cows probably have a more erotic experience... I hear they have machines.)

Imagine trying to position the tip of your penis just inside the rim of a plastic cup that's not much wider. Imagine the hard plastic edges of the cup hovering dangerously close to the most sensitive part of your body during your moment of climax. Oh, and as a final insult, whatever bodily fluids you managed to eject while in this precarious position, ends up in a tall measuring cup. The notch at the top reads, "120 ml." I think they want you to take your score and divide it by this number to find out how much of a man you are.

So anyways, after I was finished crying...
Just Kidding!

After I finished up, I stood there, pants around my ankles, with a cup of semen in my hand, and laughed for a good half a minute.
The ridiculousness overwhelmed me. These ivory league PHD geniuses had figured out a way to make masturbation unfun. They had succeeded in taking the one activity that by definition guarantees ones own pleasure, and completely sucked the joy out of it.

For committing this unspeakable crime, I can do nothing else but advocate violent vigilant justice upon those responsible.
Spare no mercy.

The Beginning of the World

I'm literally taking off work tomorrow to go masturbate.
It's my first sperm bank appointment. In many ways I feel like I've spent years training for this moment. Dilligently slaving away at all hours of the night, perfecting my sperm production abilities. In fact it was during one such night when I found the bump for the first time.

It was late, and I was masturbating vigorously when my fingers brushed up against a hard spot and every muscle on my face froze.
I knew. Instantly.

Cold panic sweat shot out from every pore and I became frantic. I checked, and then checked again, and then again. It was small and difficult to find each time, but it was there.

That moment, right then, that was probably the worst I've ever felt. Complete utter despair. I couldn't believe it. I thought I was dreaming. In fact, it wasn't all that unlikely that I was dreaming. I'd had plenty of lucid dreams in the past, and as any lucid dreamer knows, dreams can be 100% realistic. Well almost 100%. (Clocks don't work very well)

I examined my alarm clock and did a reality check. And then again. And again. I've never been so unhappy to realize I wasn't dreaming. This was really happening. It was all happening, live, right in front of me. I sat there helpless, while I felt my entire life changing around my ears.

I knew it wasn't the end of the world. But I wasn't yet willing to accept the kind of world it was the beginning of. The kind of world which involved embarrassing doctors appointments, and worrisome parents. The kind of world where you have to worry about disease and death. The kind of world where you exist only with one testicle.

It's pretty incredible what you can accept when you have no other options.
I stepped through the door, and found my self in the world of testicular cancer. Let me say, once you're here, it's actually not so bad. There are friendly doctors, 98% cure rates, and some humorous life experiences to be had.
For instance, tomorrow, I'm taking off work to go masturbate. Oh yeah, and its PTO.

Sexual Eccentricities

Testicular cancer is easily tricked.
You can lie to it, and it will believe you. You can misdirect it and it might not find you for days on end.
But at some point you end up looking at it from across a doctor's office or listening to it mumble through a cell phone, "I found you!"
...and then you're back in it again.

I went to Florida this weekend for a wedding. I didn't tell anyone I had cancer, and for that single weekend, I didn't have cancer. I met a friend of the bride, a sexy white girl with the ability to fake an irresistible British accent, and we ended up in my hotel room, fooling around... literally.

"I feel like I'm fucking a transformer." The stiff structure of the dress's whaleback frame felt unusual beneath my hands and I decided to let her know.
She laughed, "You're not fucking anything."
This was correct, as we were merely grinding against each other on a hotel bed comforter.
"Whatever."
I started singing the transformer theme song in between toungings.
"...more than meets the eye!"
"What??" Her face showed a touch of twisted amusement.
"...robots in DISGUISE!"
Clearly I have issues.

But those issues, have nothing to do with cancer. I feel fortunate to be able to take a break from dealing with a serious medical condition to explore my worrisome sexual eccentricities. They're much more fun anyways.

As an example, today I just found out I'll be going through three cycles of chemo instead of just two. Which means I'll be in chemo for 9 weeks instead of 6 and I need to get some sperm banked, just in case I become sterile. Which means my treatment will probably be pushed off for another week so I won't be able to say my chemo start date is September 11th anymore. I think it also means I get to jerk off in a medical building, which sounds kinda exciting.
Clearly I have issues.