A Completely Reasonable Explanation of the Situation

(As told by someone who has seen too much but now technically only sees half as much)

      So here’s the deal.

• Yes, this confirms eye cancer — the sneaky, aristocratic kind called choroidal (uveal) melanoma.  AKA rat bastard charlie.
• The entire right eye was removed, like a condemned building, and examined inch by inch by people with microscopes and no illusions.
• The cancer itself was mean, ambitious, and biologically rude — but it was fully removed.
• It did not crawl into the optic nerve, did not escape the eye, and was cut out clean at the edges.
• Unfortunately, it has the personality profile of something that might try again someday, so now we watch. Closely. Forever-ish.

And now  the answers to the questions you might want to ask

AUTOPSY RESULTS  OF A TRAITOROUS ORGAN

1. It was choroidal melanoma — a malignant tumor that starts in the pigmented layer inside the eye. Not skin cancer. Not visible. Not polite. It behaves like melanoma does everywhere else: quiet growth, long memory, potential for distant revenge.

2. What kind of cells were running the show? Well Over 90% were epithelioid cells. These are the worst-behaved cells. The kind that don’t believe in compromise. The biological equivalent of a room full of lawyers with knives. There were a few spindle cells — calmer, less dangerous — but they were outnumbered and ignored. And you ask Why this matters? Well Epithelioid-heavy tumors are much more likely to spread, given time and opportunity. Which time always provides.

3. And how aggressive was it? Oh, it was busy. Cells actively dividing — not resting, not reflecting, not repenting. About 25% of the tumor was actively growing at any given moment. Hell, parts of the tumor outgrew their own blood supply and died, which is both horrifying and impressive and strangely somewhat satisfying to know. Unfortunately the majority of the cells were PRAME-positive. Which in cancer language means: “Don’t trust this thing.”

4. Did it invade nearby structures? Yes, but not enough to win. It barely invaded the sclera (the white outer wall of the eye). It did not escape the eye. It did not touch the optic nerve. It crept toward the front of the eye, then stopped — like it heard sirens.

5. Were cancer cells found in blood vessels? Yes. Because of course they were. Some tumor cells were found inside a blood vessel within the eye — basically standing near the highway with a suitcase. And this matters because it means the tumor had access to the bloodstream — not that it used it, not that it succeeded, but that it knew where the exits were.

6. Were the surgical margins clean? Shockingly: yes. I’ll take this as a win for me. No cancer at the edges. No cells left behind. No microscopic squatters hiding in the walls. The surgeons got all of it. Which is rare enough to be worth repeating: They got all of it.

7. Tumor size (because size always matters). This thing was large. About .75 inches across. Up to .6 inches  thick under the microscope. In eye cancer terms, this qualifies as “significant”, which is doctor code for “we’re not pretending this was small.” On the bright side – Still  gone.

8. The Genetic Verdict (The Line Everyone Pauses On) The tumor is Class 2.This is the part where the room gets quiet. Class 2 tumors have a higher risk of metastasis.The liver is the usual destination. While this does not mean it has spread. The damn thing likely had ambition. Think of it as a bad Yelp review written in DNA.

WHAT THIS REPORT DID NOT SAY (IMPORTANT FOR THE ANXIOUS)

It did not say that The cancer has spread. It did not say that the optic nerve is involved. It did not say that there was anything was left behind. It did not say that this is untreatable. And It did not say that I’m on a clock (even if it feels like you are).

 

THE BOTTOM LINE (NO POETRY, JUST FACTS)

I had a serious, aggressive eye melanoma. The eye was removed. The cancer was fully removed with it. There is no evidence it has spread. But the tumor had enough red flags that medicine will now keep one eye open — metaphorically, of course.

 

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT (THE SEQUEL NOBODY ASKED FOR)

From here on out, life will  include regular liver scans, blood tests, oncology visits, and Doctors who say things like “out of an abundance of caution”. Nothing dramatic, nothing cinematic, just persistent vigilance in a universe that does not care.

Welcome to surveillance mode. It appears that the enemy is gone. But there might be a few stragglers out there looking to set up shop. The battlefield remains, and the future is untrustworthy.

I’ll be meeting new people, which is to say: I’ll be sitting in quiet rooms with an oncologist, calmly discussing “the plan” — a document that will exist because entropy never sleeps and medicine refuses to look away.

Meanwhile, I’m already working with a proctologist, because nothing says “dignity” like checking whether the rat bastard might be hiding out in my prostate (not “prostrate,” though at this point either feels accurate). I do have a special MRI scheduled for February 5th, dedicated entirely to answering the question:

“Is there another problem, or are we done being surprised for now?” This is all precautionary.
This is all responsible. This is all deeply, cosmically funny in the way only mortality can be.

 

 

 

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Eleven Days in Bureaucratic Purgatory: A Hero’s Tale of Oysters, Honey, and Medical Chaos

It was November 25th, the Day of the rat bastard charlie eviction—a date that should be printed on parade banners and warning labels. The day when the Grand Poobah decided to boot his sorry rat bastard carcass out the door like a rabid raccoon overstaying its welcome in the pantry of fate.

There was no grace, no ceremony—just OUT, with the same bureaucratic enthusiasm one uses to swat flies or discipline a malfunctioning toaster. Like the baby and the bath water, the rat bastard charlie and the eye, OUT.

And then, like the slow grind of some monstrous administrative glacier, we arrive at December 6th. Eleven full days. Eleven long, simmering, Kafkaesque days in the limbo of government healthcare purgatory. On this blessed morning, the VA finally sends me a notice—a relic delivered by mail, presumably tied to the leg of a half-blind pigeon—announcing they had referred my treatment to Austin Retinal. The letter suggested, in the same fluffy tone one might use to tell a child not to poke a hornet’s nest, that I wait 2–3 days for Austin Retinal to “reach out.” Reach out. Yes. Because medical urgency is best handled with the same speed and initiative as a stoned roommate deciding whether or not to do the dishes. Wouldn’t want to rush the system. Wouldn’t want to show signs of efficiency.

Glad my condition isn’t serious. If it were, I assume the next letter would read, “Oops. Our bad. Hope reincarnation works out for you.”

But I’ve crawled, staggered, and cursed my way back to something resembling 100% functionality—though if we’re being honest, that number is more symbolic than factual. A kind of bureaucratic “100%,” meaning “we’re calling it good enough so we can file the paperwork.” Still, I managed to make it to Nate’s in Dallas for half-priced oysters on Thursday, stumbling like a drunk prophet toward the promise of molluscan salvation.

And oh yes—I overindulged. Two dozen of the ocean’s finest bivalves, each one a slippery affirmation that life, despite its many crimes against me, still occasionally hands out pleasures. A couple beers, too. Enough amber lubricant to convince my beleaguered brain that life is good, or at least acceptably tolerable in a doomed, apocalyptic, laughing-so-you-don’t-scream sort of way.

Locally, my depth perception has devolved into a deranged carnival sideshow. Trying to run the leaf blowers or yank the wait-a-minute vines feels like a low-budget documentary about a man locked in mortal combat with his own visual cortex. I am a pioneer of slapstick tragedy, performing acts of precision in a world that wobbles like a carnival funhouse. Losing half my field of vision turns everyday tasks into treacherous pilgrimages. This morning I attempted the simple act—the profoundly human act—of squeezing honey into my coffee mug. Instead, the honey, that golden traitor, launched itself all over the cup handle as though fleeing in terror from the mug.

So close, so far away, so cosmically rigged against me.

At this point, every grab, every reach, every motor skill engagement requires at least two full attempts, sometimes more, depending on the malevolent whims of the universe. Some mornings I’m convinced there’s a team of gremlins inside my optic nerve rewiring things just to enjoy the spectacle.

Maybe things will improve once they unseal the eyelid. Maybe the great cosmic puppeteer will grant me depth perception again. But for now, the eyelid remains literally sewn shut, a detail that sounds like a metaphor but is horrifyingly real. Being sewn shut is distracting as hell. Distracting in the same way being tied to a meteor is distracting.

The follow-up eye doc appointment is on the 11th, when some overworked clinician will peer into my haunted ocular alley and declare: “Well, it’s healing, or mutating—hard to say. Could be worse.” Until then, I wander half-blind through the American healthcare maze—honey-stained, oyster-heavy, embalmed in bureaucracy, clinging to the blind faith that maybe, just maybe, the VA will send another letter before the sun burns out.

The eye doc sees me on the 11th. Maybe they’ll free the eyelid. Or maybe they’ll consult a manual written in hieroglyphs and shrug. Hard to tell with these folks. The VA works in mysterious ways—mostly slowly.

And just when I thought the comedy routine was complete…

The VA decides to pull a final trick from its bureaucratic sleeve:

The urology referral has reached Baylor Scott & White.

Not in 60 days.

Not in 30 days.

Not in the biblical timeline used for optical referrals.

No—this one made the journey in under 12 days. A record. A blistering sprint by VA standards. An administrative lightning bolt. Of course, they don’t schedule appointments on Sundays—because even the medical-industrial complex needs its Sabbath—so I get to call them in less than 24 hours, bright and early, like a contestant on some deranged healthcare game show.

One referral takes two months, the other arrives before the ink is dry on the diagnosis. No rhyme, no reason. No logic, no mercy. Just the VA, rolling dice in a dim, smoky room, deciding which part of me they’ll attend to based on the whims of a drunken bureaucratic deity. Welcome to the American healthcare circus.

I am merely one of its funnier clowns.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

The Brown Laptop Chronicles: A Gonzo Descent Into the Third Circle

It began on a Tuesday—one of those deceptively normal days when the universe is secretly sharpening its knives. I could still see out of both eyes, including the one harboring the resident rat-bastard charlie. But charlie’s tenancy was up, and the landlord (me) was about to evict him with extreme prejudice. Like I always say, the rat bastard must die.

TUESDAY — ADMISSION TO THE UNDERWORLD

I arrive at Day Surgery around 2 p.m., where they require only the removal of my shirt. Not the shoes, though—apparently, they draw the line at full dignity extraction. An IV is started, and the nurse helpfully forgets to turn off the line, donating several ounces of my finest blood cells to the stainless-steel railing. A preview of coming attractions: leaks everywhere. Then the gurney ride. Why is it always like being smuggled through a warzone in a wobbly shopping cart? Doors open in opposing directions, hallways stretch like sterile cathedrals to the gods of bad decisions, and then a sudden pivot—now I’m being delivered headfirst to my fate. Inside the OR: lights, gadgets, chirps, beeps, enough machinery to reboot Frankenstein. A pillow gets shoved under my legs. Someone lies to me about “just oxygen,” the anesthesia mask comes down, and the Sleep Lady hits me with the good stuff.

**Exit: Consciousness.

Enter: Hell.**

POST-OP — THE FOUR-STOP TOUR OF REALITY

I awaken to that classic medical question: “How do you feel?” Like I just got punched through a dimension, thanks. They want the shirt back on—meaning the bed must be needed for the next poor soul. Soon I’m in a wheelchair, rolled toward the portable cattle chute, and loaded into the getaway car with Super Spouse at the wheel. The next forty miles of consciousness happen in four snapshots: a loop near Lowe’s, Green’s Sausage House, Highway 77, and finally the driveway of the Forest Compound. For the record, the procedure was to remove the eye and replace it with a prosthetic later. Eventually, I’ll even get a big-ass contact lens to accessorize the void. Very cyberpunk. Very “post-apocalyptic pirate.”

TUESDAY NIGHT — HELLO, FIREHOSE

I stumble inside feeling bizarrely okay. Crack open a Coke. Mouth is dustier than a desert corpse. I decide to “get ahead of the pain” with Tylenol 3 + codeine. Ten minutes later: Heat wave. Sweating like a sinner at a baptism. Then the apocalypse erupts. Projectile vomiting—full firehose mode—six or seven rounds, possibly more. Hard to count when your internal organs are trying to exit through your mouth. After the initial purge, the body kept trying anyway, just out of spite. Water only provokes more revolt. Super Spouse performs a heroic midnight drive back to Temple to acquire “don’t-hurl-your-soul-out” medication while I simmer in a fog of confusion and misery.

WEDNESDAY — UP, DOWN, NAUSEA, REPEAT

The day becomes a loop: sit up, sip water, slowly collapse horizontal, nausea explodes, jolt upright. Repeat until madness. At some point, acid starts leaking into my throat. Heartburn? Reflux? A message from the demons? Two Tums later—sweet relief. So begins the Tums Regimen: two tablets every hour because sanity is relative and I’m clearly willing to chew chalk like a goat if it keeps the retching at bay. By evening, I’m managing actual horizontal sleep—1 to 2 hours at a time. Progress! Except minor issue: I’m now exceeding the daily Tums limit like a man training for the Calcium Olympics. Super Spouse rescues me again with Pepcid AC. Game. Changer. Tums gave me 60 minutes. Pepcid gave me 12 hours. I swear the heavens opened.

THURSDAY — THANKSGIVING IN THE NETHER REALM

Sleep, pee, sleep, pee—my kidneys running like industrial pumps. This is when the hallucinations hit full stride. A thick brown laptop materializes in my mind. A beautiful, ornate machine running Windows 10 upgraded to 11. When I open it, it displays a pop-up motif of unknown origin. And the best part? I can enter text with pure thought. My inner blogger ascends to god-tier productivity levels. I’m banging out witty, snarky, brilliant entries—dark humor flowing like wine. I’m explaining the hallucinations, the furry animals I keep seeing, the madness of it all. I’m a genius. I’m unstoppable. I’m also not actually typing anything anywhere at all. Meanwhile, Super Spouse is cooking Thanksgiving dinner, and the smell makes me want to revisit the firehose era. But around noon: A fart. A glorious, earth-shattering fart. Proof my guts are rebooting. I sleep away most of Thursday. Praise Pepcid. Also: congratulations me—now officially allergic to Tylenol with codeine. And apparently a long-time sufferer of acid reflux without knowing it. The pieces begin to click.

FRIDAY — PATCHES, STITCHES, AND NIGHTMARES

Time to clean the eye area. I peel off the patch, expecting the metal shield my hallucinations promised—complete with cooling vents at the cardinal points. Reality offers… plastic. Just a plastic disk. Even worse, I vividly remember the doctor sewing my eyelids shut top-to-bottom in a giant plus-sign pattern. Nope. Just standard sutures. But they felt real. Still foggy, still confused, but inching toward sanity. I prep to resume my ritual Saturday financials—five years of tradition demands it.

SATURDAY — THE GREAT WEIGHT DROP

Up at 7 a.m. Weight: 162.2, down from 182.2 on Tuesday. Congratulations: I have lost an entire Thanksgiving turkey in body mass. Breakfast: cranberry bread and honeyed coffee. I will soon be my svelte, debonair self again—whether I want to or not. Financials take me all day because I keep running out of steam. But by evening, I stay awake most of the day, with only two rest stops. A major win. Big Saturday night for Pirate Pedro: in bed by 8.

SUNDAY — THE RECKONING

I wake early—pain minimal, but the sewn-shut eyelid drives me insane. In that foggy, pre-waking limbo, I start adding to the “blog” again. And then the truth hits me like a frying pan: I don’t own a brown laptop. There is no brown laptop. None of this was ever written down. Houston, we have a problem. The entire Magnum Opus of Dark Humor and Hallucinated Wisdom has evaporated into the ether. Sunday otherwise proceeds uneventfully. Four to five hours upright, three hours down. Repeat. Weight creeping back up: 165.8. Apparently, I can nap after just finishing a nap.

MONDAY — STAMINA: PARTIALLY RESTORED

Up at 6, deleting spam emails like a man possessed. Same vertical/horizontal cycle. Watched a movie start to finish—an achievement worthy of fireworks. By 10 a.m., steam gone. Back to horizontal. Later I start the attempt to reconstruct the blog from the void. Honestly, what I created mentally at the time seemed much better. But then again I was in semi la-la land. Catch Greg Gutfeld’s monologue before face-planting.

TUESDAY — BACK ON PEDRO TIME

Up at 5. Feel almost normal—by my standards. It has taken two plus days to reconstruct the story because hallucinations and faulty memories keep overlapping like cursed Venn diagrams. But through it all: Super Spouse and Sister-Friend Pam treat me like the recovering Grand Poohbah of the Forest Compound. Actual heroes. Soon enough the next wave of craziness will arrive, and I’ll be ready—with a real notebook this time.

________________________________________

Final Words From the Cynical Narrator

You’re not crazy if you’re laughing.

You’re not lost if you know the way back eventually.

You’re not alone—hell veterans always return with stories.

And with my new found love of Pepcid , buy stock

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler