Opinions are like ...

The computers weren't talking to each other at radiation today, so Gumby was a no-go. But I did have a session with my radiation oncologist. He said he'd looked at my PET scan and "it looks great."
Doctors. Some see the glass just above empty, some 30 percent full.
Doc 1 on Monday says: "You don't have widespread cancer."
Doc 2 on Thursday says: "You have curable cancer."
Doc 1 says: I have a "better than zero chance" of surviving this monster.
Doc 2 says: There's usually a 25 percent cure rate. He puts my chance at 30 percent.
I feel better after the talk with Doc 2.
The radiation appointment over, it's on to another five-hour date with chemo. ...
There are 26 recliners in this rectangular-shaped room, with the nurses' station in the middle. Some patients have a spouse or adult child or grandchild with them. Others are by themselves. There are flat-screen TVs on the wall, and several of us bring books. Others sleep. Those of us on "long chemo" for the day bring lunch, snacks and drinks. The nurses are tops. Especially when it gets past 4 p.m. ~ close to quittin' time ~ and there's just me and maybe one other patient in the room. My philosophy, though: What happens in chemotherapy, stays in chemotherapy. ...
It feels as if Christmas is still going on around here. I received a package from my copy desk pals ~ BJ, Steve, Cameron, Lisa, Lauren, Ashley, Anisha: Thanks for the Rx sugar cookies (see picture below); other friends have sent the book "Love, Medicine & Miracles" by Dr. Bern S. Siege, cards, letters and e-mails. All are appreciated. ...
Tomorrow: radiation, chemo (where I'll be reading "Love, Medicine & Miracles) and preadmission treatment for my port procedure. First appointment at 9:15 a.m., last at 4:30 p.m. ...
This from a friend:
"The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing (Zephaniah 3:17)."