“Today you are you! That is truer than true! There is no one alive who is you-er than you! Shout loud, “I am lucky to be what I am!

Thank goodness I’m not just a clam or a ham Or a dusty old jar of sour gooseberry jam! I am what I am! That’s a great thing to be! If I say so myself, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!”

Happy Birthday To You!: Copyright © 1959 by Theodor S. Geisel and Audrey S. Geisel. Copyright renewed 1987 by Theodor S. Geisel and Audrey S. Geisel.

Round 2 has gone far better than anyone, Dad especially, could have imagined. We’ve become so accustomed to the bad news that one could say we hoped for better, but expected more of the same. Upon receiving the good news, it’s like Dad won the lottery!

To recap: Dad’s PSA numbers when we began this race: 271. This was very, very bad.

Today’s PSA results: 2.5. This is very, very good. It means, most importantly, that he has been given a real, genuine stay of execution. The hormone therapy has done the good work it was supposed to do, bringing the cancer to a dull, almost undetectable roar and he’s now allowed to live the rest of his life rather than prepare for dying.* I’m postulating, but I think he’s got genuine years ahead of him. It is the best possible outcome, under the circumstances (Stage 4 Cancer being, you know, pretty serious).

The other little tidbit of info that we gleaned was that his kidney function had pretty much normalized. This was a serious concern though comparatively meager when we were at the start of this thing; there were so many other problems it was difficult to quantify what the real impact of kidney dysfunction might mean compared to the cancer. Really, what’s a little kidney problem when your body’s being devoured by cancer?

So that his kidneys are back on the job: it’s like A Very Special Christmas, with Extra Special Guests that drop in on an already great variety show. Think Carol Burnette, with a visit from Charlie Chaplin. And maybe Stephen Colbert and Mick Jagger doing a duet of “The Christmas Song” with Victor Borge on piano. You know, great.

After such excellent news, I decided to take my leave; it seemed inappropriate to stay for the actual hormone shot since he had to drop trou to have it delivered. I celebrated by making an appointment to have my boobs mashed for a mammogram and then got a cup of coffee. Genuine, appropriate honorific. I waited for him in the lobby.

When I spied him, he had just a hint of reserved glee. Calm, but jaunty. “I’m not wearing the catheter!” He spoke in a stage whisper, barely containing the obvious thrill. “I don’t even know what to do!”

His docs, encouraged by the rest of his numbers felt like Dad was ready for a little test: to see if he could take a whiz. Have a slash. Drain the weasel. Water the horses.

And he did. Just like that, no help, no bag, no catheter. Free as a flag in the breeze, liquid gold unfettered by medical grade polycarbons shoved in his doodle. That the urologist had to read the milligrams of pee by flashlight because there was a power outage and the exam room was pitch black just added to the surreal joyousness of the moment.

On our way to get lunch I pondered the magnitude of the morning. “I’ve tried to figure out appropriate ways to celebrate, but I can’t think of anything. Just have another really good pee,” I said.

“That would be great!” he laughed. “Fingers crossed,” he said.

When we got to the restaurant he got iced tea. “Drink up! Drink fast!” we chuckled.

He called me later on the phone to tell me me had in fact celebrated: he drained the weasel in the privacy of his own home, not a medical device anywhere to be found. “Once seems like good fortune; twice seems like a really good trend!” he enthused. “I took your advice and sat down,” he said. “Good thing, too. It’s a little wild yet!”

Good numbers, good PSA, good kidneys, good pee.

It’s been a great day for Dad.

*Let me clarify, lest anyone get too excited. Advanced Stage 4 metastatic prostate cancer is serious, will never be cured, and will be the thing that kills him (unless he gets hit by a bus–but that remains true for anyone, really!). All this hormone therapy is palliative, not curative. Just to be clear. Because it doesn’t do anyone any good to get a false sense of a magic cure, me especially. I’m particularly prone to flights of fancy anyway–any little fantabulous news and I get all stupid and lack of reason-y. So I’m reminding myself, and you, that he’s still sick.

He’s most importantly NOT MISERABLE. And now we can do more things together like go to the zoo with the grandson and eat all the good food he so loves. Go to the coast without a thought for his stupid catheter. Share in the good times with fewer burdens and more giddy-up. And that is the most important thing: live life now.

After all, in the words of Dr. Suess:

If you’d never been born, well what would you be?
You might be a fish! Or a toad in a tree!
You might be a door knob! Or three baked potatoes!
You might be a bag full of hard green tomatoes!
Or worse than all that… why, you might be a
WASN’T!
A Wasn’t has no fun at all. No, he doesn’t.
A Wasn’t just isn’t. He just isn’t present.
But you… you ARE YOU! And now, isn’t that pleasant!

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