chocolate-covered cancerversary

There's an elephant in the room.  The c-bomb fell in our laps two years ago today.  

It's been a while since we've given any update, mostly because there's not a lot to tell right now.  The idea is that the I-131 I had in November will continue to work for six months, or approximately until May.

My next set of scans and labs have been scheduled towards the end of May.  I see the endocrinologist the week after that to get the results, and then it's just a matter of figuring out what to do next based on what we find out.  

It's been a matter of one day at a time for two years, and I wish I had a better premonition than to say we really have no idea what to expect.  The Hater says that I'm a pessimist, but I would totally disagree.  

A pessimist would claim that the cancer is still growing, that the scans will reveal persisting or new hot spots, but none of it would matter because we're all going to die anyway.  Conversely, an optimist would claim that everything will be clean and my tumor marker will be zero, but it wouldn't matter because life is grand.  

I don't really think I'm an optimist, either.  Not in this situation, anyway. 

I'd like to think I'm taking a realistic approach to this dog and pony show, but I honestly think I'm too close to realistically look at anything.  

This leaves us with few labeling options.  If we ignore the laws of mutual exclusivity, you might say I'm waiting with clouded realistic expectations that have slightly optimistic undertones, except for the pessimistic moments.  That's not to say it's a collectively exhaustive situation either, because some days I don't think about it altogether.  

Some days I just hope that we have fudgecicles in the freezer.

Easter is a time of hopeful optimism, a time to rejoice that no matter what mokeys we're carrying around now, there is hope that someday it'll all be gravy.  And not just any gravy -- we're talking warm chocolate gravy that's simply divine.