Not the Freshman Fifteen, But . . .

When you think of someone going through chemotherapy, you probably picture the person as:

A) wan

B) bald

C) puking her or his guts up and, therefore,

D) thin—perhaps even dangerously so.

Well, let me put your mind to rest.

I have no idea if I am wan or not. (Actually, I just wanted to use the word. How many opportunities does one get, really?)

OK, I'm bald. But what with the remarkable hat collection and all, this isn't such a big deal.

And we all know that I have been spared the curse of nausea. (Not the curse of the steamroller, or the early curse of the fog, but those are probably—dare I say it—preferable to puking one's guts up.)

What I haven't been spared, however, is an OUTRAGEOUS appetite. And a consequent propensity to eat completely unhealthy things like Yankee Doodles. And to indulge in multiple desserts per day.

So, yeah, thin is not really the issue. I mentioned this to MOSWO today, and he hadn't noticed. (See why I adore him?) Then he looked in my chart and said that yes, in fact, I had gained a couple of pounds.

A couple?

Wait, that's just since my last visit. When he looked back to December, it was a different story.

Apparently, I've gained five kilos.

Which sounds a lot nicer than ELEVEN POUNDS. (Why didn't we go metric??)

In any event, it seems that I will need to reacquaint myself with the concept of exercise. And perhaps the concept of healthy eating.

But not for another three weeks—MOSWO gave me a reprieve.

(See why I continue to adore him?)