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In eight hours I accompany The Artist Formerly Known As Chemo Boy to his first appointment as a remiss patient. Except he’s not remiss. He’s in remission. So, that’s the wrong word.
I could say cured, I guess. But that word scares me. Brings tears to my eyes. Makes me nervous. Makes my heart skip beats. Makes me want him to wear me like a backpack like I wanted him to do when he first got sick, when his lungs first started to fill with fluid, when he first morphed into Chet from Weird Science. (Chet sans flies. There were never flies. Thank God there weren’t flies.)
Again, we walk the uncharted.
How often do we do these follow up visits?
What kinds of tests?
What signs do we watch for?
How soon can he…?
When will this side effect be gone?
What about this one?
Will this one ever go?
It is hard to watch him have to restrain himself from returning to his life 110%, from returning to his passions even 50%. (Well, most of his passions, but those other ones aren’t your business peeps.) I’m talking about going to the gym, weightlifting, and most importantly riding.
He hasn’t been on his dirt bike in so long. I have no idea how long it’s going to take him to get into the physical shape he needs to be in just to ride, much less ride enduros, but I hope it’s soon. Those are his sanity saver. They keep him physically fit and mentally sound. My man sans motorcycle is not my man.
And, with the kids both homeschooling this year, we’ve got no reason not to join him on the circuit (other than my distinct disdain for all things camping). But, I’ve promised to suck it the fuck up, in the name of love and family, and attempt some RV time to join him at the rides.
See, enduros aren’t so much about watching. (Except for the start, you don’t see them again until they return.) But, given the travel time, it’s a lot of lost family time, and would be a great way for the kids to see more of the great outdoors and the state, in general. Plus, I’m sure we can get a wifi signal or do some gourmet cooking on those gas stoves, right? S’mores and cocktails, at least.
So, here’s hoping Dr. W gives The Artist Formerly Known as Chemo Boy the go-ahead for ramping up for this season’s riding series, or I’m going to have one cranking man on my hands. And my hands are starting to get carpal tunnel, if ya know what I mean.
P.S. I can always get dropped off at the nearest hotel right before we pull into a camping location, right? That still counts as like “almost” doing it? It’s like “everything but.” I’m sure it is. I’m gonna ask my Mormon friends. They’ll know. I think it’s like what’s in my heart that really matters. I mean, I can totally hang there during the day and stuff, and then just hit my hotel room for sleepy time, shower time, deuce dropping time. This will work out. I know it will.
P.P.S. And before anyone gets in the comments and starts in about how I should give camping a try, let me give you a quick rundown of my camping credentials. I started camping before I could walk. I continued camping in tents, without tents, in RVs, trailers, motorhomes, 5th wheels, Class-C RVs, Class A RVs, RVs that probably cost more than my first condo, in a sleeping bag under the stars for a week in the Sierras, snow camping at 8,000 feet on cross-county skis for spring break with my family while I was in high school (while my friends were working on their tans in Hawaii), in cabins, on a beach in Mexico, and I would like to say that I feel confident in saying that I DO NOT LIKE CAMPING. IN ANY FORM.
P.P.P.S. So, y’all can appreciate it when I say I’m willing to do this RV thing for my family. Only for my family. And we will be renting said RV, because there is a strong possibility based on P.P.S. that I may only survive this experiment once before I end up under the wheel well begging for Bob to just run me the fuck over. Quite frankly, he may oblige that request. In which case, he’s going to want a fresh RV anyway.