It's due to the Dexamethasone of course. ('Dexy' to the trade.) Dexy
is one of those horrifically potent steroids that flat EATS cancerous
tumors. Along with everything else, alas. Which is why I've managed
to shed a few pounds, going from a chubbily pleasant 254 to a
cadaverous 171.

I've no way of knowing how much of that 83 pounds consisted of
tumorous tissue. And there at the start, following LAST New Years, I
promised myself it was time to shed a few pounds and did, which got
me into the 230-ish range, at which point I was diagnosed with
multiple myeloma and began the more serious business of chemotherapy,
which whisked away the pounds, along with patches of hair (it's coming
in CURLY, of all things!) and tumorous tissue.

But I now possess what every woman wants: To hear a physician say:
'It's time for you to put ON a few pounds.' And I thought of all the
women I've known without being able to recall a single one of them who
was not wishing just the opposite: to LOSE a few pounds, often with
EXACTLY the same life and death fervor I've felt with regard to the
cancerous tissue which has done such a swell job of digesting my spine
that it actually BROKE... from nothing more than a sneeze or some
other incidental stress. A compression fracture, so damaging that it
would be unwise for me to attempt to lift the amount of weight I've
now lost.

Put that all together -- the fervent ladies wish to lose as I have
lost, then to fracture what I have broken, and you must admit there IS
a certain element of humor... that struck me as the physician
delivered the good news, and I began to laugh. And still haven't
stopped. Not completely. But it certainly scared the hell out of the
doctor.

"Time for you to put ON a few pounds, Chief."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

And I began to laugh. Because it struck me that, whatever else this
cancer has done, it has given me what every woman longs for, as if it
were a topic of polite conversation, suitable for those awkward
moments when strangers are forced to spend a whisp of time together
and a polite smile simply isn't enough, as in the elevator between 1
and 12, or the check-out line at the local supermarket. First, the
friendly smile, then the casual: "I've got what you want," perhaps
with another smile, depending on the lady's physique. Then back to
listening to the elevator music or casually examining the contents of
her shopping cart, my eye peeled for ice cream and Danish.

It gives you a nice boost, knowing you have what they want. Makes you
want to flex your stick-like arms or show your turkey's neck to best
advantage. Yup. Things are definitely looking up. Which is why I'm
still laughing now & then.

-Bob Hoover