Will Tomorrow Be My VJ Day Over Cancer

Tomorrow I go into a CT Scan that will determine if there is any cancer left in y body. This has been a rough past year, iclud9ig three other years, where I was previously recovering from having cancer the second time.I was stunned to find I had to f9ight it again i 2016 and knew it would be a long battle with esophagus cancer, but I armed myself and walked back on the battlefield.
I vowed to work hard on fighting cancer, performing stand-up, and doing presentations for groups. Well,I taliked about beihng haunted by an emptiness after such a long battle, and waiting to be pardoned from the cncer regimentation. I couldn't help feeling drained after such a log battle, and find myself with at leasdt 40 new minutes of comedy material, but professionally and financially starig fro scratch again because of cancer not because of anything I did (But self-pity is a luxury of the healthy and the perpetually miserable). I have tried to avoid survivors who define themselves by cancer, because they see themselves as victims--and they are tarbaby people who want to draw yout into licking their wounds so they can keep the open and feel sorry for themselves. I have a hard view of them. They are worse than the disease because its ot there, and they cling to it.


WHat filled my emptiness back into the Fred fuel tank? Well, I was watching Bill Bob Thorton in Goliath, and I thought of his taent and dedication ad admired his ability to convey the character and emotionally me. And that's what I always wanted to do with y writig and life. I believed in inspiration, just like I believed every wave I caught altered me into a higher plane through sacrifice to the stoke. And slowly that spirit leaked back into me, filled me with--well, okay Fred, you've struggled, so do others if they really BELIEVE while others just lower their gun and walk quietly and resigned in a perpetual twilight; whereas, I run backwards to the dream, spinning the Eart below my feet to greet the screaming reality of a sober dawn.


SO I slowly emerge to prove a life is well worth living. But I have to wait, liike I'm sitting in a jail cell waiting for the repreive fro cancer on tomorrow's CT scan. But in the meantime, perform through this, and see what new Fred is hatched through cancer's hardened cell of nothingness.

Acupuncture: Needling

If I had a twin brother would acupuncture be voodoo? Yes, trying to fight against neuropathy in hands and feet. You have to take an adversarial approach to chemo going after your healthy parts of the body. Chemo doesn’t take prisoners. Goes after the good and bad equally–sometimes birds of a feather don;t flock together. It goes after the innocent and the guilty–chemo is a trial lawyer.

So I’m letting the chia pet energy within me invigorate the nerves with blood circulation, Gotta keep those nerves soaked.

You can fit about 40 of the acupuncture needles into one regular hypo needle.

Does it hurt?

Well, only the co-pain–er, co-pay!

The Pivot to stay true to form against cancer

I guess. That’s what I do. Sometimes cancer thoughts go Hemingway. Short, punchy, direct (, with a few true falsehoods thrown in). And it seems meaningless. But it’s like trying and hoping to start a car that might not turn over.
 
You want to get traction, purchase. You are tired of being a patient where things are acted upon you. You want to get that traction on cancer to smear it, cruelly and joyfully digging your spikes into is soft squealing malignant mass. You want to push and rip the tumor away. So you can pivot back into your life–it’s a propulsive drive against the formidable, that I believe rejuvenates and obliterates the languor oif illness with the snarling and roar desire to claw more out of life, which doesn’t have to be a violent act, but a form of determined sculpting, shaping form out of a block of a blank in your day.
 
So are you going to open your eyes and be true to form?

What the cool ghoul did to Freddy-7

What John Zacherly does for me.

The cool ghoul crypt-kicked into the grave at 96,

I listened to Dinner With Drac a few times, Then I remembered when I was around seven and heard the song, I listened to it over and over again and then pantomimed the song and acted it out. He aroused a desire that I had no ability to articulate, but was inspired by, and I didn’t know it was a calling—and what’s a calling? When the roller coaster locks into its climb and you ascend, and know that even when you take the drop it means it’s from a height that prevents you from falling and flying off into a cool and unpredictable journey.

Like all great artist, Like originality. Like Orson Welles to Dean Martin to Soupy Sales to Thoreau to the Beatles…

He awakened me.

And as I listened to Dinner With Drac and the sax solo goes off, Chemo Fred imagined Freddy-7 dancing and singing the song inside my body, his joy and enthusiasm ridding my body of the latent cancer that might be trying to stop us both. And the spirit enlivens me, wipes out the wooziness.

I awakened me.

And put cancer to death,

Cancer Wisdom

Some observations having cancer, fighting it, having it, fighting it, and having it and fighting it, have given me—three for math people you can say I’m an exponent not a proponent.
 
At the end of life they say you walk towards the light , you only have to walk towards the light if you live in darkness.
 
They say there’s nothing new under the sun, but there’s a hell of a lot happening above it.
 
Coworkers are weird. My take is if you don’t hang out with them, don’t trust them. You act happy, they’ll find a way to give you work you don’t want.
 
People are capable of enormous generosity that can overwhelm you that inspires you to leave your comfort zone and become more compassionate for the suffering of others which is why I decided to curl up in fetal position until they go away and leave me alone.

My hero: the cool lovable ghoul: John Zacherle

One of the heroes has died who shaped my life beyond reapir and probably drove me away from the 9-5 crunch of reality to whatever my life became.
 
There were so many of rhese cool hosts on TV. They ruined me. Soupy Sales, Office Joe Bolton, Chuck McCann, Sandy Becker, Captain Jack McCarthy, Beachcomber Bill, Gene Lond;s Cartoon COrners General store. They were hip, beat, and cool, bringing the world of monsters, Stooges, and twisted hunor into the pliable minds of children–and I’m grateful I was one of them. They were grown man who had fun. There influence was huge on kids. Hell, Zacherle performed with the Grateful Dead. I know all the words to his song “:Dinner with Drac>
 
When I found out he died and lived such a full life, I smiled in grateful affrection, feeling like I was part of it. The world these men and Zach showed me still lives in my ubncrtiical Little Freddie heart–they kept that guuy alive and safe from the cynical centrists acceptance and compromise of the adult world. I ran to the madness of the rising sun in each day-0-they showed me the light, and nothing will extinguish it. Yes, follow what you love, and it will lead you.
 
I had to write this–he meant to much to me to read his obit and stop there.
 
Thank you Zach, thank you!
 
Zach lives!
 
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/29/arts/television/john-zacherle-dies.html?hpw&rref=obituaries&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&module=well-region&region=bottom-well&WT.nav=bottom-well&_r=0

 

What doesn’t kill you makes you smell stronger.

What doesn’t kill you makes you smell stronger.
 
I woke up in the middle of the night with my underwear soaked with poop, It’s so humiliating. I’ve thrown away four pairs of underweesr because of this. I take the medications but it doesn;t always work. I go to the bathroom and suddenly lose my balance and fall with poop on my legs, I lied there for a few seconds making sure I haven;t hurt myself. Laurie comes running in, all worried. WHen my butt hit I made a floor-shaking boom. But I slowly regained my composure and stood up, People who say I’m an inspiration or have courage–well, can’t say I was a pretty picture.
 
The one thing I learned about going through chemo on my third all-day ride pass–well, I know it’s a healing toxin, but it’s still a toxin, and I approach it with more of an adversial stance, That’s why I’ve gone into the clinic for bags of hydration (the equivalent of two liters of water) to flush the toxins out of my system quicker. I’m doing a balancing board for my legs, ankle weights, dumbells for my arms. I stop, panting, exhausted. And as weary as I am, the overwhelming feeling though all of this is a pulse of healthiness within me–my body is saying cancer is not here, keep going, cancer is not here, but keep taking the hits to make sure, but cancer is not here.
 
And then I land on my own ass with my legs covered with poop. I refuse to be humbled by waste.
 
I get up. Clean the bed. And sleep.

My kangaroo heart skips a beat

“How is your day going?” I asked the nurse, who was checking my blood pressure and weight.
 
I was there to get hydrated, I dercidced that was the best way to push chemo out of my body. Last time I had chemo, I thought of it as a healing force, which I still do, but I also know now I have to fight its effects a little harder—aches in feet in hands by doing exercises, getting chemo out of my system sooner–well go through two bags of a hydration to get more fluids (After all, no way can I drink 8 8-ounce glasses of water every day. So for three hours, have an IV drip; ideally, this pushes the toxins out faster so it minimizes the damage chemo does to the health cells, and enables me to recover quicker.)
 
My blood pressure is high if I’m talking, and it’s normal if I decide to be boring and not say anything.
 
:It’s been a rough day.”
 
“How so?”
 
“Well sometimes you see people who arent going to make it. You’ve actually lifted my spirits…you’re a fighter. I see you, and you’re a fighter.”:
 
I said, “:Well, people sometimes don;t see the other side, if peoploe don;t make it. Did they fight for an extra second or minute of life. WHat if they made it to Tuesday, they had Tuesday–they wanted Wednesday, but at least they got their Tuesday That’s heroic, and that doesn’t mean death won.”
 
She smiled.
 
Then I worry, being humbled. Hoping this fight eradicates cancer. I don;t want to come back here again and again if it somehow has travelled somewhere else. So I’m never secure in my station. But every second my fists tighten and I bring it.
 
I walk to the chair to get hydrated. I watch two episodes of Skippy The Bush Kangaroo–watching the kangaroo lope and jump so effortlessly reduces me to the wonder of a child at other creatures. The Roo is a spirit, and I imagine that spirit bounding through me.
 
“Go Skippy,” is softly say, as my dreaming heart makes a kangaroo hopping beat that enlivens my body. I softly sing the theme song, “Go SKippy. Skippy the Bush kangaroo, Skippy a friend so ever true.”

Standing Up To Cancer

I'm probably the only performing comedian who is taking chemo in the nation; maybe the world. I told the audience at Sam Weber‘s show at Poet and The Patriot, “When I’m up here I don’t feel sick. I don’t feel chemo’s side effects. I feel me. And that has to help me get better and I thank you.” Plus I had a solid set, and a lot of new material worked almost too well.

I once heard a woman say, “I didn;t mind losing my hair to chemo, but when I lost my eyebrows I freaked out because I lost my face.” Shaving my head doesn;t bother me. You take the iniative. You decide toi get rid of hair, not chemo. But the simple fact, or survival tip is simple: if you;re going to fight cancer you have to leave your looks behind and become something else. If you remain attached to them it lessens your strength to fight the disease. That person doesn’t fit in the battle.

 

Not too many comics do stand-up while going through chemo. When I’m on the stage I don;t feel sick or chemo, I feel likie the best of me. Arousing that spirit has to be better than merely throwing the oars out of your boat in a storm.

Beleive in Towarding

 woke up thinking of Arlo Gutherie’s lovely warm song “City of New Orleans.”

 

Good morning America, how are you. Hey don’t you know me, I’m your native son.”

 

Yes, year ago I took a train to New Orleans. I was having some grapefruit and watching the scenary go by, and th black porter came over to me and said, “Put salt on it.” I did. “Makes it sweeter doesn’t it.”

So I wake up with hair falling out of my head from my second round of chemo. The strands of my legs muscles feel liike taut rubber bands trying to bend me against myself. My head feeling waterlogged and gassed. When I get up and walk it’s like I’m hanging upside down and my legs are barely getting any traction from the air. That’s how I walk, upside down in a right-up world as my hair parts away from me.

Good morning America, how are you. Hey don’t you know me, I’m your native son.”

 

I believed in that spirit, Believed. I never listened to anyone who told me otherwise. I took the journey, the journey shaped me, the journey rewarded me, the journey challenged me, and the journey beckons. I believed in the voices, the voices.

 

Good morning America, how are you. Hey don’t you know me, I’m your native son.”

 

Yes, I believed in the song, Believed in Kerouac and going cross-country, Believed Chicago was the biggest small town, Believed in going through the Northwest–Seattle, Tacoma, Portland. Believed in Hemingway, Sinclair Lewis, James Branch Cabell, Steinbeck, Dreiser, Fitzgerald, Mark Twain, Henry David Thoreau. Believed In Grant, Sherman, Washington, and Lincoln. Believed in San Antonio, Austin, Almagordo. Believed in Santa Fe, Taos, Henrietta (Oklahoma) Believed in Hialeah, Miami, Key West. Believed in New York City. Believed in Freehold, NJ.

 

But I believed the most in California. Ah, where I knew I could grow the best as a comedian in the wide-open world of San Francisco, and that surfing was going to shape me into a wave of life to ride, and harvesting grapes and drinking the nectar of a harvest. And the love of friends and finding love.

I believed in that spirit, Believed. I never listened to anyone who told me otherwise. Believed in Mort Sahl, Lenny Bruce, WC fields, Laurel and Hardy, Groucho, Rickles. Believed in funny, Believed. .I took the journey, the journey shaped me, the journey rewarded me. The journey challenged me, mocked me. And the journey beckons. I believed in the voices, the voices. I didn’t betray the voices or the journey. And so my shadow settles warmly across my path instead of dragging behind me, trolling for bitterness.

 

 

Good morning America, how are you. Hey don’t you know me, I’m your native son.”

 

 

Chemo seeps into me, soaking into my fibers, searching to those malignant dust motes of cancer that can turn death into a perfect storm. Some might get depressed about losing hair and getting weaker and thinner, but all it does is harden my resolve, because I have a journey in me that will go further than the dead-end of settling for the present. The weakness trying to peel me away can’t strip away what’s in my soul—comedy in my blood is stronger than cancer. I’m running leaner and meaner and laughing between the tear drops. I’ve taken this cancer journey twice before. Again, I journey I choose! hair drops, feet drag, tears form, but I keep moving towards, towards–well, towarding.

 

 

So today, I rise, and look for the salt to make this day taste sweeter.

 

 

Good morning America, how are you. Hey don’t you know me, I’m your native son.”

 

 

Elvis Fights Cancer

I put on Elvis’s The Wonder of You, and I love the intro with the drum roll and Elvis going, “Ooooh, hoh….When no one else can understand, when everything I( do is wrong (audience applause), you give me hope and consoloation, you give me strength the carry on, and always there to lend a hand in everything I do…”

I don’t think of a specific person, I think of the power of life–laurie, stand-up, all of you who have helped me so much.

It inspires me. I think of how I was under a pile of blankets on a hot day shivering from chemo, waking up with eight tubes sticking out of various parts of my body in the hospital, paddling for a wave no one else could get and taking a laste drop and making it while my buddies hoot, helping my friends with gifts and goodies, and rushing and not nervous to the stage becasuse no matter how hard cancer has pressed me, no matter how desolate my body, the jobs I was unjust downsided from, I would never let anything stop me from retaining the Fred in me. So9me people say this is ego. And trhey’re assholes. They can stare at navels and look into the universe, but what paint brush are you using to paint yourself and your spirit and its connection with everyone else in the canvas of the world. Isn;t that worth fighting for, climbing for, getting not down and springing up and destroying the force that tried to take you down, yes, to…to..to…TRIUMPH with the spirit inside you, where you use all your colors in whatever pattern. But it’s all you, and that’s a painting very few can admire from a distance.

So I gear up today to go in for a “procedure” where they are going to widen my food passage. Ideally everything will go well. Sometimes when I fight fort getting appointments and set them up I wonder if I’m like the guy who rushes to get to a flight that eventually flies into a mountain. Then I smile.

People say, “Are you afraid, scared, frightened.

No, I come out of my corner with fight, defiant, trying to writer jokes and books and be a better friend of those around mine–I will not give up my spirit to nothingness. I feel sorry for anything that gets in my way for thinking it can take me down by making me give up on myself, others, comedy, and life. That tool is not on my belt. And so I grimly, methodically, with a slight stylish dance step, throws the most vicious punches you’ve ever seen, and I live to kill unredeemed who can only live in darkness because there is nothing for them to ever see in themselves.

A so the soul flies away from ther flames and ashes and salutes the sun with a contemptuous laugh.

You wanna make something of it.

 

Esophagus Traffic Jam

I chowed down on some barium fluid. I was standing on an angled platform while the staff vstood in a safe area. A square device was placed against my chest–it looked like a old tv. They clicked and did pictures. The Doctor was DOctor Tongue.
 
Earlier, when the radiology technician old me his name:
“Dr, tongue?”
“Yes.”
“Is he also a gynecologist?”
She stared at me.
“Oh, I get it, You’re heard the everyone else say that line. So now I’m The Guy WHo Said The Obvious Joke. Okay, I’ll own that.”
 
Why was I here?
 
Well, I had difficulty swallowing and was told in a previous exam that was the result of scar tissue from the operation. What they do is scrap the scab and widen the tube.
 
They use barium to illuminate the food tube.
 
So, I see the X-day. Tongue is a cool guy, young and bright and said, “Normally we wait till your doctor tells you, but I can see you’re a bright guy so you can handle this.”
 
“Well, I know I have it.”
 
After surgery, the large food tube become a smaller tube is lot like going from two-lanes of traffic and being forced to merge into one lane–there’s back-up, which has caused me to gag, and then food just gushes out. It lacks the spin vomiting puts on a launch. It’s more like a gust. A reverse slider.
 
The most delicate part about rerstoring two-lanes of traffic in my food tube (esophagus) . Inserting tiny workers to lean on shovels and hold signs up for the foods that want to to to work, signs that say, “Stop” and then they flip them around that says “Slow.” The surgery is expensive because I have to pay these Public Works traffic guys overtime.
 
“You do. It’s small.”He points to an image where there a wide passage–the food tube to my stomach–and then shows a spot near the heart where the tube is much smaller.”
 
 
“Is is about the width of my pinkie?”
 
“Smaller.”
 
Yikes. I’ve been chewing food and trying to swallow and push it through tube that’s as wise as a chopstick!
 
So, the next step is to widen it.
 
“There could be possible perforation of the tissue during surgery, it’s rare but it happens. Scar tissue is tougher than healthy tissue.”
 
So, what is “perforation”? An opening in the esophagus that leaks. It can be repaired with a Stint and no surgery, or you have top go through surgery, and wind up with a tube in your stomach because you can’t eat. I try not to read too much about it, because it’s more like getting a different ending in a horror movie–esophagus removal, tubes, bleech. Have enough on my plate, mainly because I can;t eat.After surgery, the large food tube become a smaller tube is lot like going from two-lanes of traffic and being forced to merge into one lane–there’s back-up, which has caused me to gag, and then food just gushes out.
 
The most delicate part about rerstor9ing two-lanes of traffic in my food tube. Inserting tiny workers to lean on shovels and hold signs up for the foods that want to to to work, signs that saay, “Stop” and then they flip them around that says “Slow.” The surgery is expensive because I have to pay these Public Works traffic guys overtime.
 
I have to schedule an appointment. ER, “PROCEDURE.
 
My cancer honeymoon continues in the world of modern medicine.

 

Duck and smolther

Sometimes I feel good, then the weary quesness crawls through my digestive system. I feel as if I’m serving time in a cell; and in a way, I am walking through an endless maze and corridors of cells in my body. And I know I can’t console myself with any secure thought of health when chemo is doing drive-bys on my organs, or like a drone strike, suddenly doing more collateral damage than going after the suicide bomber. And I have to resign myself to doing time against infestation. Because I am infested. And have to curl up, with a hangover heart, and wait until the fleet of bombers pass over me. I’m a near miss.

Believe in Tagging Out Cancer

Did my chemo regimentation yesterday, Hooked up through a port. Catch-and-release program. The only barbed hook are the side effects–er, effects, nothing side about anything that hits you in the face. But I sit down and take the punch. I believe they’re more concerned about how this new round of chemo is going to hit me. Right now, I still feel okay with a touch of dizziness (But that’s how I went throughout myt twenties–with blueballs.) The docs asre concerned about my white blood cell count and talking about nausea, and I suspect they know more about how this chemo is really going to affect me, but don’t want to alarm me, because everyone has a different reaction. All I can do–well, a sports analogy. A runner is coming down the baseline and you’re the fielder waiting for the throw. You know the guy wants to take you out on the play, but you have top hold your ground and not back down to catch the ball that will tag him out. So He comes chemo being thrown to me, and cancer rapaciously running down the line to take me out, and even catching the ball is going to result in a head-on. And what will happen.
 
So, myabe I can scare it. Cancer is anticipating that I will have fear. So I dig in, ready and hungry for the collision where I can hurt it with a vicious tag. And I stare it down, dig my spikes deeper to destroy it with my taunt powers of revenge. Thinking, you put me here again, and I’m not letting you pat me. Look at how I’m standing. I’m no0t backing down, I’m digging in, leaning, and holding my glove out to take the chemo side effects and drill them down in the piut of your dark and ever hunger stomach of nothingness. I’m snarling and swearing at it and laughing.
 
I believe, believe, and cling. I believe, believeand believe, I can make this play. I believe, I believe.
 
You will never digest me, for I will eat you alive–slowly.
 
And this I BELIEVE!

Don't pin down a butterfly

Why would someone who is not a child pin a butterfly? There’s a writer I never liked and can;t read because his prose is lifeless to me. very academic and cribbed from the masters, but he is regaled”Nabokov. I enjoyed his Lectures on Literature books, but when it comes to the novels, when I open the book it’s like I opened the door to the beginning of an pleasant smell, and if I open it all the way, it’ll put a stink of me. And then I slam it shut.

And he hunted butterflies.

SHAPED BY A SPOT

The surf was flat. It was hot No fog. The sun and the beach has always been in my heart. Back in the Jersey days, riding air mattresses across the bumpy white water to shore. Coming home. Body singed. My hair blonder. Face darker.Eyes bluer. This was me. I the shower.The hot water stinging my sunburn. The sand that itched my crotch in my swimsuit in the car was gone, swirling around the drain.
 
So I paddle out again.
 
Yes, there is Mr 2016 Junior with his surf class. And another minion who sold his surf soul for cash.
 
"You can take whatever wave you want," said 2016 Jr, who gave me crap the day before.
 
I said nothing. Simply raised my hands. The surf was so small I wasn't going to go after knee high waves. If I got a sneaker waist-high, fine; if not, fine. I was out here to get strong, to paddle and get strong. I had already said everything I had to say to this guy. I had a bigger fight. So I paddled bak and forth.Took a break. Pushed off my board, enjoyed the view of this spot that has brought me so many friends and waves and lesson and given me a strength the land could have never provided for writing, performing, and this was still a spot for me--to save me. Please save me, I'm not done. Save me.. How many people have one beyond themselves that is still themselves.
 
I dig deeper in the water until I'm tired.
 
I haven't said a word to anyone.

I didn't even get a wave,
 
And I leave with the best still within me.
 
Saved for now--today that is.
 

Schooling a Surf Class

okay, it's a sunny day and small surf. I want to paddle out to stay strong and prepare myself for the conplex surgery ahead (It was delayed).
So what do I see at the peak, clogging the surf break with ten people, Ed Guzman's surf class instructors and their students on foam boards. They could be anywhere else, like on a beach break. but no, these instructors bring them out fo prime spots because they can rapidly rotate their classes.
Okay.
Now for Fred going to the dark side.


An instructor and his student take off on a wave, and the instructor blocks me out from getting in the wave.


"You're a fuckhead," I said. "That's nice. Push people into waves. How much did you make on that wave? $75?"


Now all the three instructors sarcastically gang up on me saying, "Why can't you have fun. We're having fun.


I said, "Of course you're having fun, you're making money at the expense of someone else's enjoyment. So of course you're having a good time because you're out here making money."
"Go to second peak."


"Hey, this is my surf spot, I like surfing here. I've been surfing here a long time and I never charged anybody to make money."


"why did you swear at me?"


"Because it was my turn to catch a wave, and you didn't wait your turn."


"Hey, you don't care about anybody or anything. You guys could take these people anywhere, but you've clogged the lineup at Cowells and so you come out here to make even more money. You're greedy. That's all you are."


"Well how are people going to learn without surf classes?"


"They paddle out and develop relationships and connect with others and learn the etiquette and proper behavior And you dont' care abot these people either. You would be out here surfing with them unless they paid you. You're all about the money, that's all you see.""
"It's 2016 no0t 1980."


"Yeah, and you're saying 2016 is good because it benefits everything you want and nothing I want."


"I surf when there are good waves."


"You don;t surf here, You take the money you earned here and go surf somewhere else because you've ruined this spot."


"We're out here having a good time what's wrong with you?"


"You don't care about me. I'm just a paper clip on your desk. I'm the one in the way because I'm stopping you from making money."


"Here's a wave you can take it."


"I don't want to take anything you're giving me. I don't want it. I don't want it."


I paddled away from them. I had fired all my bullets, and that wasn't why I came out. I came out top get strong to fight against cancer and my operation.So I sat out here, then paddled back and forth and ignored them until they left in about 20 minutes. So I kept paddling and enjoying the sun and just trying to get back to fighting the cancer inside me--not the cancer outside me.

Get my new CD!

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Get the CD and help support my cancer battle.

 

Here is a 25 track CD of me reading segments from two of my different cancer books. It's funny, moving, and informative. I have had testicular cancer twice, and currently fighting esophageal cancer. The 25th track is a bonus track with me doing stand-up and telling cancer jokes.

You can help support my cancer battle by purchasing books or my CD on this site. Or get the CD at https://www.gofundme.com/fredreiss

PET SCAN

Today I go for a PET scan. Basically cancer like junk food. So they shoot you through with glucose, so in a way I become a piece of junk food. Glucose turns yellow on the scan, and where there is yellow, especially if its in an organ that doesn;t have any need for glucose, then you know that's where cancer is munching out. This is the one time in life I don;t want to light up like as Christmas tree


So i feel like a guy who is lying on his back after his parachute didn't open. I'm slowly moving to see if I've broken anything. Eating with chemo is like having a condom on your tongue that's not ribbed for your pleasure. Fortunately, Spinach and broccoli stil taste terrible so I must have sone taste buds left.


So I'm walking past everyone that's going everywhere else, and ahead I see a toll gate in the shape of the PET Scan, which will tell me if the cancer has been reduced, and if cancer has spread to other organs. This scan will help the surgeon determine how much to carve and remove from me..


All I can do is hope it's shrunk, and work to get stronger so when the surgeon cuts into me I'm a good, solid cut of meat.