What Happens In the Bathroom,

stays in the Bathroom.

It's one of our secrets to a happy marriage. Sixteen years of marriage hadn't brought any reason to violate this basic tenet of cohabitation.

Cancer breaks all the rules.

Any sense of embarrassment about the sharing of body function information has dissipated. We've written it all repeatedly until our hands are cramping.

Six days into this and we are getting daily deliveries of big thick envelopes. Every medical office that might possibly come in contact with Kevin's bum needs a review of his medical history, a detailed account of his digestive processes and a personal statement of occupation from his cancer.

Scheduling appointments, getting treatment/diagnosis options and staying on top of insurance eats a huge amount of energy. The inefficiency in the name of privacy is maddening for both patient and provider.

To this computer savvy family, the repeated handwritten rehash of the same information seems like an enormous waste of available technology. Once on the computer should be enough then ctrl + C for further use.

Working together over the phone, we filled out yet another form tonight. In "descriptive language" as requested.

Me: "You know I could have gone my whole life without knowing that bit of information."

Kevin: "And I would just as soon not have you know. So feel free to forget it."

Yeah, right.