Party like it's July Twenty-Ten

I had my six-month checkup recently. The sad news is: I won't be getting one of those happy cards in the mail telling me there's been no recurrence or metastasis. The reason is, I found out that wonderful fact right in the office. I also found out a little something else I hadn't registered before.

Next July, I'll be considered actually and completely CURED. My surgeon said he could write a note for a life insurance policy and everything. He said they might still give me trouble in which case I should just have them call him. I.e., Call my surgeon, Dude, my life is totally insurable, which means - I'm thinking - that it is more likely to last a long time, than NOT. Can I get a wahoo?

Now if I wanted to overanalyze, I'd recognize that as of July I'll probably be closer to the next crisis than I am to the last one. And I would wonder if the survivor mode I've discovered only lives on this side of the five-year mark. And I would think about how thoroughly I adopted the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and I would worry that serenity won't go with me through the July door.

But I'm not going to do that. I'm just going to wahoo. Life is so much better that way.