The arrow indicates the crowd pleaser point of interest. “I can’t believe it ain’t cancer!’ Chorus of GI specialists declares. “Go back in and biopsy that SOB again!”. It ain’t all because I’m a white guy. White guys, it turns out, are one hell of a lot more prone to cancer of the goozle than non-white guys. And nobody likes to see anyone win in lotteries of this nature. It makes everyone look bad.
Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read.
I just this morning had my third endoscopy in two months. Not to mention various CAT Scans, etc, and one of those big things involving a donut and a magnet on a rolling human-scale tray. Jeanne tells me it’s the MRI, which I can’t have anymore because of my electric cow-prod defibrillator.
This week I had a manometry, gastric emptying tests, and fights with the VA hospital concerning whether I ought to be letting them do nothing instead of going to the private physicians and them doing stuff.
In fact I’m bankrupting Medicare with my heartfelt cardiac flaws and my Disneyland esophagus darling of gastroenterologists and Asian male physicians. They do the snake swallowing a camera routine, take pics and biopsy it. Look at the pics and say, “Ohshitohdear!”
“It MIGHTN’T be malignant,” they cautiously confide. “We won’t know for certain until the biopsy results come back.”
Well, the nice Asian GI specialist today came after I regained my cogitude to give me a puzzled frown and tell me it ain’t cancer again this time. But it’s inflamed as hell, got a grotesque growth about it, and has every right to rear up on its hind legs and be what it damned well wants to be. Thinks they’d better have another look at it as soon as they can forget it ain’t.
What I haven’t confided to them is the part about Caisse’s herbal tea. Black burdock, turkey rhubarb, sheep sorrel and slippery elm all boiled together half an hour in stainless steel, left 12 hours, boiled again, strained, and taken in increments of an ounce morning, another nights.
I call it making my own luck. I’m not evangelical about it, but if anyone ever tells you you’ve got terminal cancer and you might as well go home and tell the heirs who’s getting what, consider remembering it. Black burdock, turkey rhubarb, sheep sorrel and slippery elm.
My lungs and goozle think it’s death to oncologists.
Old Jules
So Far From Heaven 