35%

The good news is that my doctor tells me my suffering is not predictive. It's not common or expected but it's not a sign of something failing. There's no reason to believe my radiation is or will be less successful. We may still be on track for a cancer free summer.

And now there is sort of a plan for when the Dexamethason runs out on Monday -- if the inflammation, pain, and fevers return next week, we will go back to the prednisone on a tapering schedule. So start with a mega dose on day 1, then less the next day, and so on, to try to limit the side effects and dependency issues of the drug.

The bad news is that I already have thrush, or what I am calling Athlete's Mouth. Yes, it is that gross. I scraped a bunch of fungus off the back of my tongue already. This was definitely an oversight on their part -- that anti-fungal regimen should have been prescribed a week ago. But I guess there's no sense complaining. At least I'm not in pain. I'm still breathing. I'll get plenty mad at everybody if the cancer doesn't go away. Trust me. Then there'll be so much rage to go around, I won't be tolerable to anybody, medical practitioner or layperson, friend or stranger.

But tonight could be a start. I can't drink. Or smoke. It's Friday night and short of abusing all the oxy I'll probably need, I've got nothing to do with all this steroid crazy except watch Star Trek reruns and see how much of my dismal attitude Kathryn can take before she starts to cry. I am a danger to myself and others.

I've tried not to say this so many times, because admitting it seems like a weakness, or giving away my secret problem, and saying it only makes it worse, but god, sweet sweet Jesus, I NEED A DRINK. So damn bad, just to pour a whiskey, pound a beer. To mix the gin and sink into oblivion.