Hmmmmm. They are terrifying words to write. My husband has cancer. My husband has to have chemo.
Even though it's been five weeks, I can barely write them, much less read them. Worst of all, publish them. Sometimes, the screams inside my head don't stop.
Normally I write romance novels. But somehow, the creative flow dries up when your own personal hero has to get so desperately sick before he gets better. The doctors promise us a cure. But promises can be broken.
Five weeks ago, the hernia turned into testicular cancer. Well, the doctor knew it was a hernia but he was worried enough about something else to order an ultrasound. After that, the something-else "might" be a granular cyst. According to the internet.
But it wasn't. And my personal hero, in spite of being a hot, young grandpa, was way past the demographics of any guy with testicular cancer.
But that's what it turned out to be. Every two days, we got clobbered with worse news. The testicle got ripped out, the CT scan...dammit. Now, I believe in the power of prayer, but hey, God, throw us a bone.
...We just finished the fourth week of chemo now. Which is: a five-day onslaught of cisplatin, each day six-hours long. Then half hours of bleomycin every Tuesday for two weeks. OMIGOD, these simple thirty-minutes knock him so low. Then you repeat.
Now, this is a guy who chased flames up mountains, who stopped up floods, who rescued people and saved their lives...at least he has the aptitude to jab himself with hypodermic needles to raise his frickin' white count.
In the meantime, how totally unimportant is the e-book I released a few weeks ago?
It's not important at all.....