|I've had good times and bad times at the La Quinta Inn in Fresno.|
He calls a doctor in the audience to the stage. She looks in his mouth. She says it’s a canker sore. She asks what he’s eaten recently and then he remembers: licorice. “Well, it looks like you got some licorice in your canker sore,” she says.
|It'll be ironic when we learn that licorice really does cause cancer.|
I hate all diagnostic doctor’s appointments because whether my fears are about nothing (like that time a chiropractor confirmed that the strange lumps on my neck were part of my spine) or something (cancer that could—with a debatable degree of likelihood/unlikelihood—come back), they take me to the same place. It’s a dark place, for sure, but it has its cozy corners. I’ve excised some (some) of the panic and fashioned a kind of deeply sad acceptance. I mean, it’s probably an exaggeration to say I’ve accepted my own mortality. But I’ve accepted that I do a little dance with it at least every few months.
I saw my oncologists today, so it was one of those days. I’m happy to report I’m still cancer-free (knockonwood). I got to introduce the doctors who saved my life to the sweet baby I wanted to stick around for. I don’t have breast cancer any more than Marc had mouth cancer. Tig’s presence in the episode was a wink to the audience, saying, Sure, sometimes our fears are silly. But sometimes they’re legit. Usually they’re some combination of both.