I hate to be a party pooper but I will not be watching the royal wedding today. I have to exercise, eat right, drop the kids at Spanish, walk the dog, organize my closet, bake for my friend’s dance performance concession stand and make sure I have clean underwear for the weekend. Yet I wish Kate and William well.
In fact I wish them more than that, I wish them luck– because being celebrities in this day and age looks like a hell of a lot of work for not much reward. I mean, who can relax with the eyes of the world on your every move, the paparazzi snapping your foibles for eternal eyes to see, and heaven help them when the lights go off if the Queen is anywhere within 50 miles of them, hoping for an heir. (Could you get that visual out of your mind long enough to enjoy your new husband? )
But I will be celebrating just the same today, April 29, 2011 because I got some fantastic news this week: my tumor markers are WAY DOWN. Last February they hit well into the 300’s and yesterday they came back in the 100’s. Now there’s a reason to party–at least for me.
Yesterday when Kate Middleton should have been drinking bubbly, being oogled by her family and forcing down the butterflies that all brides-to-be have in the 24 hours before betrothal, I was lying flat on a slab encased in pillow-like straps having a PET scan. PETs make sure my metastatic breast cancer hasn’t traveled to sites unknown in my body–which the awesome tumor marker numbers I just got wouldn’t reflect that because they’re only tracking breast cancer–not, say, a new liver cancer. That’s why I need that scan– to make sure everybody’s behaving themselves inside me. (Let’s call the PET scan the MOM scan for bad cancer–I’m watching you, so behave!)
And as I was lying there looking up at the cracks in the ceiling of the PET mobile, waiting to be mechanically delivered into the tube for my 40 minutes of radiation fame I thought about Kate, and William, and the Queen and the whole lot of them–the whole royal gang–and I wanted to feel bad for myself: as in boo-hoo, how come she gets to be royal and I get to be radiated–
but I couldn’t. I tried, believe me, because what better moment to compare and contrast and be the winning sad sack? But I just couldn’t do it.
Instead I thanked Richard my PET scan tech for being so nice, I grabbed a hot steaming latte from the local fresh-brewed place and I bought myself a few pretty things for summer at a retail store. And I went on with my plebian day.
And then later on, when I found out that my tumor markers had come back so low, I thought–I am beating this freaking disease! Wow, I guess that means that in the world of cancer fighters I AM royal!
So here’s to Kate Middleton: may she enjoy her new life as Princess of England. May she never need a PET scan and may she drink champagne as often as celebration warrants in her new crazy, flash-bulb ladened, lucky life. I wish them both–the future King and Queen of England, a long, healthy and happy life.
And I wish myself the very same thing.