Hopefully, today I find out if I might have lymphoma. I’m not hopeful I have it, only that I’ll hear.

I had a cat scan yesterday on the recommendation of a radiologist who had diagnosed me as having a “misty mesentery”, an incidental finding based on a cat scan I had late last year when I threw a kidney stone. The pain associated with that episode was roughly equivalent to what Carol Burnett said childbirth felt like: “Imagine pulling your lower lip over the top of your forehead.” Some fun.

My scientific side went directly to the relevant literature. I was reassured to find one study that concluded: incidental findings of lymph node inflammation on CT scan < 10 mm, with no other lymphadenopathy detected, were associated with a benign course. If I recall correctly, while my nodes registered as “misty” they were in the 6-8 mm range. Benign. Like that word. A lot.

My non-scientific side dismissed the diagnosis as an acute finding, associated with what must have been considerable commotion in my lower bowel related to the nearby stress in my kidney.

Regardless, the finding motivated the recommendation I have a follow-up CT scan in six months. Yesterday.

Happy Wife is demonstrably concerned. I can’t blame her — if this were her I’d collapse into a worrisome mass, doing nothing all day but taking up space until I heard she was in the clear. I’m more sanguine about it, and isn’t this always the case, concern for ourselves is less than that of those who love us?

Just called my primary care physician who I asked to receive the report, which I expect is complete by now.

The line was busy.

First things first.

Thank you, Dad. A lot.

I’m quite sure at the time he was telling a good friend what a lady killer I’d grow up to be. He’d have been right about that. A point of pride for him, I’m sure, holding me up there like a trophy, yet lest we forget the wonder of recombination and crossover I’ll remind you that that’s half my mom you’re looking at. But that’s another day. So Dad, today (yesterday really), this one’s for you.

Hot hot hot. I don’t know what’s happening but the temperature in Anchorage today will be well above 83. Someone said 90. It’s not at all unusual for interior Alaska to experience 90s, Fairbanks for instance, but Anchorage? I don’t think so. Weirder still is I seem to have gotten the crud, the kind of infection and symptoms you’d expect in Winter. Congestion, stuffy head, weakness, etc.. Like I said, weird.

Consequently, during my time of weakness wimpiness, Happy Wife has once again risen to the challenge of unfinished chores, seen here sporting a retro bandana watering the raised beds:

BIGGER.

Was my Dad right or what?!

With 20 hours of daylight, bluesky, and 70s+, we’ll be entering our zucchinis in the annual big vegetable contest at our state fair. Assuming one will fit on the roof of the car.

Our fair city viewed from the coastal trail on another stupendous day.

BIGGER.

It was snowing a month ago.

Phonecast says 80 by Monday.

Retrodictive analysis of “metadata” implicates Paul Revere as a suspicious person of interest.

Brilliant, darkly amusing, tragically relevant.

Hat Tip: Popehat Blog

To kill it’s wise to approach slowly and then strike swiftly with something large and flat. Skewed blows or partial contact won’t do it. Some won’t die right away, others not at all. They will flee. These you will have to pursue again and again, and up your game if you’re going to kill them. You’ll feel justified when you see the blood splatter, not their own. In one room and then another, the walls run red. Helter Skelter. Cleanup can be messy. Oven mitts I have found are practical weapons for murder. Not ideal, but I believe it was Donald Rumsfeld who said, “You go to war with the army you have, not the one you may wish you had.”

Murder Victim:

BIGGER.

The checker at the Safeway asked me if I wanted to round up for prostate cancer.

I considered this.

“You know what,” I said, “round up and take another dollar, it’s terrible the number of women suffering from this wretched disease, don’t you think?”

She never even looked up, her attention fixed on the cash register, “Riight.”

It was like years ago when some smart aleck went to Padua Academy (an all-girls catholic high school) and walked about the campus conducting a survey, asking young girls if they would sign a petition to end women’s suffrage. The vast majority did, enthusiastically.

If there’s a connection here, between the Safeway cashier and Pandas, I cannot say.

What a week and weekend it’s been! 70s and bluesky from Anchorage to Seward and beyond. I laid the entire faux wood floor in the beach house last weekend and pretended I didn’t. All week I’d been fibbing to Happy Wife, “Not looking forward to a weekend of work, but I thought it best if you helped me with the floor instead of tackling it alone.” The look on her face when we walked inside late Friday afternoon — priceless.

So instead of working we hiked with the dogs to Tonsina Point.

Gratuitous family photo:

BIGGER.

After dawdling on the beach a while we turned and followed a path into the woods beneath a moss-laden canopy, roughly the same place we saw a bear retreat to several years ago when my family was up visiting and we took this same hike with my brother:

BIGGER.

Imagine a movie or a book where the main character lives his entire life one whole day behind everybody else in the world. Call it: Dude, That is soo Yesterday. Consider the weirdness if this were you. Your friends are talking early one morning recalling the gruesome horror of the previous afternoon and you’ve not witnessed it yet. Or they ask you how your day’s going and you reply, “Just ducky. It’s a beautiful Sunday isn’t it!” And they’re like, “Uh, dude, like it’s Monday with sideways rain?”

Or your wife calls you early one morning to wish you Happy Anniversary.

Oops.

Really, I know our anniversary is June 3rd — seriously! — but when I woke this morning I thought it was June 2nd.

Such a movie would probably work best as a chick flick, or possibly a vampire trilogy where you’re the only one in the world who’s immune from the bite and so your quest is to save others, except your problem is you lack credibility. People don’t want to know what has happened, they already know the past, they want to know the future. Oh well, surely a talented storyteller could make the plot compelling somehow.

Late last week Happy Wife and I enjoyed dinner at the Crow’s Nest, a fancy schmancy restaurant on the top floor of the Captain Cook Hotel. It felt like an anniversary celebration. Why Crow’s Nest and not Raven’s Nest I can’t imagine, given the Raven is an infinitely more fascinating bird than a common crow. Anyhoo, we went there because I had recently redeemed 10,000 points on my OpenTable account for a $100 dinner cheque, and we reasoned that spending it on expensive food would maximize the value somehow.

Happy Wife had the New Zealand Elk in some cherry-infused something or other:

BIGGER.

While I opted for the Alaskan Black Cod w/gnocchi and chorizo:

BIGGER.

Paired with a scrumptious bottle of Antinori Pian delle Vigne (2007).