Three Old Men and Me

I walked into the dressing room at my radiation treatment center this afternoon and the curtain to Room D was drawn. My routine is interrupted. I've always changed into my gown in Room D. All but one of the changing rooms has clothes hanging from hooks. I take the only available room. I have to share it with a folded up wheelchair with a hand-written cardboard sign taped to it that reads "BRAKES DO NOT WORK." I take off my Tybee Island T-shirt and put on a gown. I walk toward the hallway waiting room where four chairs await. On my other visits, the chairs have been empty. Today, three are occupied with old men who look to be in their 70s. I sit down, making the hallway standing room only. For whatever reason, things are backed up today. Here we sat. Three old men and me. ...
"Three Old Men and Me." Sounds like a country music song waiting to be born. My songwriting, like much in my life, has been put on hold. The only things I write these days are on this blog and $15 checks marked "co-pay" to the doctors. ...
Eventually, I get my radiation treatment. It was about 20 minutes late; long enough to make me have to shell out $3 for parking. I don't know what this contraption that zaps me with radiation is called, but I've decided to name it Gumby. If we're going to be spending time together five days a week for eight weeks, might as well be on a first-name basis. ...
Tomorrow kicks off with radiation at 10 a.m. Then I shuffle over to my surgeon. He is going to put a "port" under the skin in my chest so I don't have to get stuck as often when I have to have blood drawn and when I start chemo. Ah, yes, chemo. That starts shortly after 11. Five hours of bliss, I'm sure. ...
My apologies to Fran Drescher. I just discovered the actress wrote a book titled "Cancer Schmancer." I don't expect her lawyers to be knocking on my door anytime soon, but maybe I need a new name for this blog. Some slogans I've already nixed:
Cancer, the other white meat.
Got cancer?
There's always room for cancer.
Cancer, it gives you wings.
For all you do, this cancer's for you.
Cancer, Australian for beer.
Maybe I'll just go with "Gumby, Dammit!" (Here we go with apologies again, this time to Eddie Murphy and "Saturday Night Live.")
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And pray. Please pray.