April Winchell

What's Your Sign?

Before I dive right in to the hi-larity, let me welcome you all back to the site. The server went down about three days ago, and I have been completely unable to update this little time waster. It has actually been quite difficult to go without it, for reasons that will soon become apparent.

It figures, doesn't it? I can update this thing with pictures like this all day long, but the minute I have something to say, I can't get online to save my life.

Speaking of saving my life, let's get to the update!

If you listened to Mr. KABC last Friday night, you may have heard me talking about a biopsy I had done on a lump in my neck.

On Monday, I got a phone call from the doctor who did the tests. The results were in, and they were positive.

Have you ever noticed that "positive" is only bad is when you have a disease? Why is that? I think it's confusing. I say get rid of all that "positive" and "negative" bullshit and cut to the chase: you're either "Fucked" or "Not Fucked".

DOCTOR: I have the test results.
PATIENT: Well?
DOCTOR: You're fucked.

Makes a lot more sense to me.

In any case, I had trouble processing the information. Hearing the word "cancer" is much like listening to Celine Dion; it's difficult to hear anything else afterward. I attempted to absorb the conversation with the doctor as best I could, but by the time I hung up, I had completely forgotten everything she told me.

I pretty much fell apart after that. And of course, I kept thinking of all those stories people tell about friends who dealt "so gracefully with cancer", people who "never complained" and "kept a positive outlook", and frankly, that just made me feel worse. Because I just wanted ice cream and presents, and to kick God really hard in the nuts.

The first thing I had to do was call my mom. I actually felt guilty for doing that, which is sort of silly, but I really didn't want to upset her. God love her though, she was awesome, as usual. Her voice stayed perfectly steady throughout the call, and she didn't wig out at all. At least, not while I was on the phone.

Then I called Mick. I was in tears by the time he picked up the phone. When he heard my voice he said, "What's the matter? Did John stand you up?"

My friend John did not stand me up. John never disappoints me. But more on that later.

Next, I had to pull out of "Unfabulous". This kind of broke my heart, because I've been struggling so hard to get more on-camera work, and I really need the tape on myself. But learning lines and being funny was completely beyond the realm of possibility.

After that, I took some Excedrin PM and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like 100 hours. I must have dozed off at some point, because I woke very early in the morning with my eyes completely swollen shut. When I was able to pry my eyelids open in the bathroom, I thought I looked a lot like the Geico Gecko. Or Don Ho.

The next day, I had to get a doctor. It took almost 6 hours, lots of red tape, and my using the word "fuck" a lot when speaking to schedulers. Almost everyone I spoke to said they couldn't see me for a week, which was insane. I really just needed someone to look at me and and say, "You're not going to die". The idea that they wanted me to wait over a week for that still makes me furious.

But the doctor I saw was great, and the prognosis is very good.

I have a mass on my thyroid gland. It's a big fucker, and my entire thyroid will have to go. Fortunately, it is a slow-growing cancer, and one of the easiest to cure and treat. According to one doctor, "It's the second best cancer to have!", which was, of course, terribly exciting. I had hoped for the first best, but that was on back order. Fortunately, I have enough Neiman Marcus points that I should be able to upgrade.

Mick felt that it would somehow be helpful to give the mass a name. I thought about it at length, and decided to call it "Angela Glandsbury". I also decided that it should have its own TV show called, "Goiter, She Wrote".

So I'll be having surgery on September 1st at UCLA, and I'll be left with a big scar at the base of my throat.

This is where you come in.

I've decided to have a contest. I need a story about what this scar is from, because I anticipate I'll be asked about it a lot. And I want a good story, because the word "cancer" doesn't really get people chuckling all that much.

My friend John suggested I tell people I got it in a fight, which I like. He then suggested I say it's a dueling scar, which is even better.

My black Nazi bastard trainer Frankie suggested I tell people I was choking on a bone at Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, and another patron gave me an emergency tracheotomy with a butter knife. I really like that, but I may embellish it and say the other patron was Richard Riordan.

Along with the thyroid, they will probably take out a few nodes to insure this hasn't spread, though they say the odds of that are remote. In fact, the doctor asked me to imagine the smallest possible number, and then said the chance of this having spread to my bones or lungs "is smaller than that".

While that made me feel better, the possible risks have made me feel worse. There is a very small chance that the nerves to my voice box could become paralyzed in the procedure. This is bad news for me, but good news for anyone who's ever heard me on the radio.

It certainly would be divine justice if I wound up sounding like Jack Klugman, who I have referred to as “The Hoarse Whisperer” for several years now. Knowing what I know now, I can almost say I feel bad about that.

Almost.

I thought about what my career could be like if I were to lose my voice. I decided I would get a text-to-speech synthesizer, and do a radio show that way. I would open every show like this.

I will be in the hospital for a day or two. I honestly do not know when I'll be able to get back to work after that, but I imagine it won't be too long. The doctor says my voice will be very husky for a while, so I've asked my agent to get me in on every tampon commercial audition that comes up. I'll also be available to leave Kabbalah-inspired outgoing voicemail messages in Demi Moore's voice.

While I'm not looking forward to having the surgery, I am perhaps more disturbed by the treatment afterward. Fortunately, chemo and external beam radiation are not indicated, but I will have to take a dose of radioactive medication about 6 to 8 weeks after the surgery. Sometimes, when the dosage is high enough, they isolate people in the hospital who are on this medication.

In my case, the doctor thinks I'll be able to take it at home, provided I stay away from children and pets for three days. Seeing as I have neither, this shouldn't be too difficult.

More challenging is the fact that I will have to treat my poop as "Radioactive Waste".

Please think about that for a moment, because I really want it to sink in.

For a brief time, I will have radioactive turds. Are you picking up what I'm laying down? You'd better not, unless you have lead-lined gloves.

As exciting as that is, it's hardly the same as having Spidey powers. Radioactive crap is not very Stan Lee, and frankly, I don't see a summer blockbuster coming out of that.

And that's the news from Lake Woebegone.

My Friend John

Many of you have commented on the references I have made lately to "my friend John". So let me tell you about him.

About two months ago, I came across John's profile on myspace. I knew immediately that this would be someone I could connect with, because we both shared a deep, abiding disdain for all the same things. And there is no stronger foundation, I think, than a common disgust.

But John turned out to be much more than a fellow spectator. John is one of the most honest and most gifted writers I have had the pleasure to know.

He never spares himself. He never tries to make himself look better. He reveals everything, even that which he would probably prefer we didn't know. He isn't self-conscious about his expression. There is no artifice or conceit, just pure communication that is by turns funny and heartbreaking.

If this was all I ever discovered about John, I'd feel like I got my money's worth. But he also turns out to be one of the kindest and most decent people I've met in a long time.

This is a very strange period in my life. There have been a lot of losses and changes, and I've been feverishly trying to reinvent myself as a tough girl with a thick hide. But it's hard to experience life's pleasures while wearing a thick woolen overcoat and barbed wire mittens.

All I've really been able to feel in this guise are dull sensations. I drink a sort of thin, diluted solution that never really quenches my thirst. So the idea that someone can add such pleasure and dimension to my life is a revelation. I am surprised by how much I feel, and how grateful I am.

Reading this now, I imagine it might be hard to understand what I'm feeling, and how much John means to me.

So let me put it to you this way.

Yesterday, I was walking to the gym. I was at a stoplight and the sun was shining on my face, and a salt breeze was blowing in from the ocean. I closed my eyes, and I started to cry.

I wasn't thinking that I was sick. I was thinking that I was lucky.