Happy Birthday to ME, buddies. I made it to 44 years old. Almost didn't make it to 43, but because fate has a sense of humor it decided to allow me to continue to live and you all are just gonna have to deal with it.

B-man is down for a nap and Emily is resting while fighting some kind of sinus illness that is probably what kept kiddo home all last week. So far, I've been able to avoid getting pink eye, coughing congestion, and whatever other horrors the sickness has unleashed on the other two. Thanksgiving was cancelled by the 'Rona on top of it all. I'm dodging bacteria and viruses like Neo dodges bullets in The Matrix. My white blood cell count still blows, and the best I can expect is to PROBABLY not die if I get Covid-19. One day I'll have the immune system to see people in congregate settings and not worry about it too much. I figure my 45th birthday is going to have to be damn EPIC. Maybe I'll just celebrate my birthday whenever I am able to. Who gives a damn if it's April, at least maybe the weather won't suck. 

I had some whiskey for my birthday, and cooked up a bone-in rib eye steak. Because why survive cancer if you can't destroy your body in other ways. At least THAT'S a choice! Check out the side by side. That was me a year ago and me last night. I need to get into shape!

I'm going to train for the 5 Boro Bike Tour in May. 40 miles of NYC biking and a great target to hit for health. I'll also do some kind of cancer charity and raise money for it. So... as soon as it isn't 43 degrees and raining... Back on the bike I go!

Also: The Bruins are WAY better than I expected. What a pleasant surprise! Also a pleasant surprise is the ability for ESPN+ subscribers to tune into opposing broadcasts so I don't have to hear the abominable NESN play-by-play. It's truly, maddeningly bad. Think of it: I'd rather hear homer announcers from Tampa, Chicago or Montreal over the Boston broadcast team. I'd rather listen to it in Spanish or French-Canadien. THAT IS HOW BAD IT IS. Between that and the Red Sox atrocity of a broadcast team, I'm firmly convinced NESN heads have placed some kind of bet amongst themselves on how much they can abuse their moronic audience and still get people to tune in. I pay money in order to NOT listen to them!

DEEP THOUGHTS BY JACK HANDEY (or... HEAVY KINKS BY KIERAN HEALY)

So... the rest of my life. Presumably that's what I got, but I don't know how long that will be, which is fine. That's the way it was before cancer, and I kind of prefer it that way. But there's this nettlesome thought that continues to pop into my noggin from time to time.

What if it comes back, buddies? 

What if, in like 6 months when I'm like "Yea, time to prepare kiddo for 3K!" and I get the news I have to start this ordeal all over again? It's a garbage thought to have, and entirely pointless. I may as well worry about a plane crashing into me or an aneurysm. It is completely out of my control, just like about 95% of our lives are entirely out of our control. But man, what an obnoxious thought to have. 

Screw it. I always kind of knew I was going to get cancer, then I did, and I kicked it's fucking ass.  Brandon ain't got a fantasist for a dad, he's got me. Emily doesn't have some fusspot husband, she's got me. And I have them both. It comes back I'll just kick it's ass again, start another CaringBridge and call it a sequel. 

MERCH

This being the United States, I figure why not monetize my illness and family trauma. Working on some ideas for t-shirts and coffee mugs that I can sell and donate proceeds or a portion of sales to charity. When a friend of mine got lymphoma a while ago, I found something that read "Cancer - There are better ways to build character" and it always stuck with me. That sentiment and sense of humor. So I'll take that smart-ass baton and run with it. 

If you've made it this far with me, buddies, you know I don't view this experience as a "fight" or some journey. It was an obnoxious betrayal of my body that took nearly 2 years of my life (3 if you tack on the pandemic), has visibly aged me, has affected the way I interact with people. My son was afraid to horseplay with me for months because he spent half of his life being "gentle" with daddy. It finally took me picking him up by his ankles and using him for upright rows before he realized I wasn't too weak to horse around. Ed. Note - Kieran doesn't torture his son. B-Man was squealing with laughter during the whole process. 

Also, I want to write about it. Cancer killed my mother and maternal grandfather. Their experiences were very different than mine, and the medical world was very different for them than it is for me. They were very normal people who were cut short. I'm tired of hearing about celebrities and their "cancer scares." They can go to hell. Actually getting cancer, and dying from it. THAT is some terrifying shit, and not all of us get to go on to daytime TV to plug some product and tell our "story." Let's hear about normal people and their normal lives.  My mother, Kathleen Louise Healy (nee Funnell), and my Grandfather, Joseph Edwin Funnell. They were incredibly creative people and certainly where I got my absolute desire to get into visual storytelling (sorry Dad, but I'm pretty sure it's a maternal skillset). I want to tell their stories, too. Brandon will never get to meet them, but I want him to know where he comes from and where I inherited my will to survive with a sense of humor (THIS is something I can credit to my dad as well as my mom).

Here I go rambling again....

COUNTDOWN TO SIGN OFF

Anyway, as may be obvious by my infrequent posting, I am kind of moving on from CaringBridge journaling. I have a psychiatrist to help me through the darker stuff, and I am now well enough that I can exist beyond the furniture in my apartment. There's really not much else to say. I just don't have the creative time or the psychological need to blather every thought onto a computer screen. I'm not waking up at 3AM for no reason. I'm not trapped in a bed or strapped to a chemo drip. The worst thing going is lack of patience at my WBC and recovering from major sinuplasty (TRUST ME when I say you don't want pictures of the horror show the came out of my nose post-op, but I am SO WANTING to show you....)

I'll probably do another post around Christmas as a sign off, and hope to have my ideas together by then. 

It's not an understatement to say that this journal has been instrumental in my treatment and recovery. Committing thoughts down and sharing with you all has been life saving. Not hyperbole. When I was throwing my humorous bravado around to mask my terror, it helped. When I was sitting alone in a hospital room, or sharing it with someone in more dire shape than myself and wondering if that was my future, it helped. Those days where I just wanted to give up, when looking at Emily suffer through being my caregiver and what it was doing to her... well, it helped. I'm here now, I'm not going anywhere. I'll probably just start using other creative outlets from here on out.

In fact, I already have.

So thank you to everyone who decided to share this silly, year+ long stupor with me. I love you all. You ever read the acknowledgments at the end of a book? Me, either. So I'm not going to bother with the specifics. If you read this and shared, if it entertained, if it inspired or annoyed or whatever. Thank you. Knowing that there were folks out there taking in my cathartic twaddle means more that words can explain. Seriously, I looked in a thesaurus just now and the words just don't cut it. Maybe in French? At least it would sound better than English. 

Until final sign off, buddies.