If we are what we eat, Joe and I are straight-up pharma. We are not just buying, but eating, what they're selling.
I was thinking the other day that with almost anything else, I would've asked more questions, like thought about alternatives, was there a homeopathic route, what would a naturopath advise, but with the lymphoma, I've been hell-bent on its immediate annihilation, all-out nuclear war. Kill. The. Fucker.
Last night Joe had a PET-scan for which they injected him with radioactive glucose. Once he was done with his round in the machine, he was instructed to refrain from picking up babies or hugging pregnant women for 24 hours. Oh, and drink lots of water, as it helps you pass the radioactivity. Sweeeeet.
Since last week, we've changed our diet dramatically and Joe's is about to change even more as of tomorrow. Here's what's on the menu.
Starting tomorrow and every 21 days thereafter until early January 2010:
Plus I think they're giving him good ole Benadryl during the first round of chemo to offset any allergic reaction and knock him out, and will send him home with tasty, tasty anti-nausea medication.
After that all we need is some weed.
Joe lives pretty clean so this is so weird. [At first, I included myself in that sentence, but as readers of this blog know, I do have a migraine-fueled taste for narcotics.] Joe is always searching for a vice, like the time he valiantly tried to develop a cigar-smoking habit, an effort which ended in dismal failure (oh happy day). But he just doesn't seem to be able to commit to any vice, and beer is too soft to qualify. I can barely get him to take an ibuprofen most of the time; he just hates to mask the symptom. Really, having so many drugs in the house and in his body is so weird.
But we are happy to be pharma, we are fine with that, as long as ultimately it results in the disappearance of The Potato, may it burn.