"Honey, I've Shrunk Your Husband..."

...that's Kevin's cancer talking to me again.

Sometime through all of this--at one low point or another when I wasn't on speaking terms with God (Notice I say I was not on speaking terms with Him, a very different point than suggesting that He wasn't on speaking terms with me)--I began an imaginary dialogue with Kev's cancer.

No, I'm not nuts. Or at least this behavior isn't the defining one that qualifies me as having tipped over an edge.

It's a pretty simple thing actually. Family and friends should only have to endure a certain amount of the preoccupation cancer has become in my life. We were told his cancer had lurked around possibly a decade and more to get to the size it was upon diagnosis. I reasoned that it wasn't going to be eager to give up its residency status too soon, and, since it had my full attention already, our relationship was certain to flourish.

Thus began the cancer/Lorri dialogues.

Oddly, Kevin's cancer has a speaking voice, complete with foppish inflection, similar to the bad lion in Disney's Lion King movie. Or maybe the baby on the TV cartoon/sitcom "Family Guy." I don't know the name of the baby and I can't recall the name of the lion. But each has a drawling superior attitude reflected in voice and words.

Kevin's cancer is particularly arrogant and has occasionally liked to wallow in its presumptive acquisition of our days by talking to me. Sometimes on chemotherapy days I one-up the cancer/Lorri dialogue with an image of his cancer blabbing away about its own superiority all while it greedily sucks up toxic chemo KoolAid like an empty camel in a desert oasis.

I'm holding out a lot of hope that cancer is as foolishly taken with 5-FU as I am with Pepsi. It's not good for me and it makes me feel sick, but I'll drink one every chance I get.

This weekend's Lorri/cancer conversation came about when I realized Kevin probably needed a new sportcoat for an upcoming conference. I don't know if he wore his old coat any during the summer, but I recall that last May he headed off to a conference wearing it accessorized with a scolding from me because he couldn't quite button it--even uncomfortably.

Months later, I knew he had lost weight--we both peer at the scales once a week when he gets weighed at the cancer center. But I hadn't done the math. I paid attention to the weekly, sometimes daily number, and missed the big picture. Friday night found him up and energetic enough to do some closet surfing. Took a little convincing to make him accept that, no, I could not just move the buttons on his sportcoat over the 5 inches it was going to take to make it fit close to his body. (Took more convincing to make him relinquish a too big and nappy sweater with threadbare elbows. "It's warm" was his explanation.)

I don't think Buckley Brothers Feed and Seed Depot is going to be a lot of help on this one. It was a sunny weekend and Kevin was feeling well enough for us to decide to head to the outlet mall.

Success! And surprise. I have a reality check as I notice his shirt and jeans are both a couple of sizes too large. We cleaned out the 'on sale' inventory of the store, lugged our loot out the door and decided to sit in the sunshine for a little bit. Kevin celebrated his new size range with a nip into the candy store for his favorite chocolate covered jelly candy. He calls it "comfort candy" knowing that I can't argue against those terms.

I watched him walk across the courtyard and thought about three sizes. That's how much smaller the new sportcoat is than the old one. Three sizes. And the old one didn't fit comfortably so I'm guessing he's down a solid 4 sizes.

Cancer and I have had this dialogue a few times before. I run my hands across Kevin's chest and stomach, tracing scars that weren't there 8 months ago. And cancer snickers. I cuddle next to him on the Man-Couch and feel ribs I didn't know he had. And cancer sneers.

Tonight we hit the closet again, this time to make room for the new clothes. This involved some trying on of both old clothes and the new wardrobe additions.

He's feeling good tonight. We laugh and share a good time. He looks handsome in new khakis and sportcoat.

Yummy, in fact, and I tell him so.

A work friend of Kev's who, a year ago, was where Kevin is today in his own cancer treatment, told me months ago that he gave a definition to the name of each aspect, each drug, in his treatment. The humor helped him through.

I took his words to heart.

He explained that the main chemotherapy drug of both he and Kevin is easy to define, the name says it all.....5-FU. Garry thought he would need to explain the humor to me; noting, he said, that most of his family, friends and medical care providers didn't seem to catch the irony that this devastating drug which made him so sick while it saved his life went by the nickname of "FU."

I caught the connection instantly--one of those disturbing validations of my own dark sense of humor. F-You.

Mostly it reflects how I feel about the disease that has invaded Kevin's body and our lives. F-You, cancer.

On a bad day the name defines how I feel about the drug itself and how it ravages Kev's body in its greedy search for cancer cells. F-You, chemotherapy drugs. And the pharmicist you rode in on.

On a rare horrible day it reflects what I'm feeling about any medical care provider who has to hurt him with yet another poke or prod, test or treatment. "Is this going to hurt him," I ask. "We'll give him something to take the 'edge' off the pain, " is the reply. I've heard that before and I no longer believe it. F-You. And your idea of the 'edge' of his pain.

But Kevin is feeling good tonight, inside and out. Cancer is losing and I win the debate points tonight in the cancer/Lorri dialogues.
(5) F-U, cancer.