“I can see clearly now the rain is gone.
I can see all obstacles in my way.
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind.
It’s gonna be a bright, bright sun-shiny day!”

Okay, so my recovery wasn’t exactly an epiphany, but I did see a bright light and my grandfather beckoning me to join him…wait a minute, I think I saw that on a TV show while in the cold, bony grasp of oxycodone.

Man, did I see some weird shit!

I was never good with drugs, even when I was a sort-of-hippie, I preferred a shot of Cuervo Gold and a Heineken to a toke and a snort (still do, but replaced the Heiney with a Miller Lite). I was strictly there for the babes, babe!

But I got through the surgery and the drugs and the misery…again, and hopefully for the last time—at least my doctor thinks so. He was thrilled that they didn’t have to use fibula #2 because, when they opened me up, they found fibula #1 healthy and thriving—it was the hardware they used to hold fibula #1 in place that was causing all the problems. Accordingly, they took out the hardware, did some needed maintenance on my tongue and lower lip, stitched me up and sent me home after a short stay to lie in bed for 17 days with a feeding tube and the hopelessness and despair of a steady diet of painkillers.

So, I’m back in life as you can see from the pictures I’ve been posting lately. The one attached here was taken with my dog Luna this past weekend at the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Light the Night Walk fundraiser, where they insisted I wear a “Survivor” sticker and carry a “Survivor” lantern, although I really don’t like being called a survivor. I don’t like being called a survivor because when you’ve had cancer, you’re never a survivor, you’re simply surviving.

That’s because cancer has a high rate of recurrence. I’ve had two recurrences, plus a melanoma thrown in just to keep things interesting. I also don’t like the survivor label because none of my cancers were life-threatening (unless they went untreated, of course, as all cancers are potentially lethal if left untreated), not like some of the cases I see when I visit the cancer center at Penn Medicine. Now, those folks have the Big C, whereas I’ve had a bunch of little c’s.

Another reason I don’t like being called a survivor is that we’re all survivors, with or without cancer. I mean, we all know that life’s a bitch and then you die, right?
Well, not so much any longer, as I just survived my 77th year here on planet “I hate you for being a hater!” Once again, I’m humbled and amazed by the numerous birthday wishes I received.

What’s with you people? I’m not worthy!

But I greatly appreciate it, plus the well-wishes, prayers, and the good vibes I received during my latest medical encounter. I’m seriously grateful for your kindness and support, all of which worked much better to keep my spirit strong than any of the drugs.

Thank you!