It's 10:30 p.m. (OBTW, the timestamps you see on all my blog entries are Pacific time, or about three hours off), I'm at Jim and Elena Bjostad's, and the next time I enter anything here it will be during, or most likely after, my first Chemo session.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to get this going, and I'd be lying if I said that I'm not facing tomorrow with a certain amount of trepidation. I'm not worried about the physical discomfort--anything that making me feel like crap will be killing a lot of stuff in me that I want killed. I'm not sure that I fully understand the nature of my fear. It's something primal, something visceral. I do know that standing here in the spare bedroom of two of my dearest friends in the world, more than anything else I miss my son.
As I said above--not making a blatant appeal to sentimentalism, but--wish me luck. Here we go...
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Seems you have your warrior face on, go get'm...
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