Oh, and lest I forget:

I ran into my friend Willie outside the used bookstore today. He came up to me, looked at my chest carefully, and then said warily, "That's a funny shirt."

"Not really" I replied.

He stuck his hand out. "I got diagnosed with prostate cancer last Thursday."

"Welcome to the club!" I said.

Then he said this: "I don't know what it is, but I have just been exhausted since my diagnosis. I'm so tired all of the time, and so depressed. Even though my doctor says my cancer isn't any big deal, and I can put off surgery, I'm just so *tired*."

At that point, I just gave up and hugged him and said, Me Too, Oh Boy Holy Crap.

Today I had a good five hours of not thinking about cancer, cancer, cancer. And I was still exhausted by the end of it, though not as exhausted as I have been when people have been asking me to *talk* about it all the time.

They really ought to warn you. Seriously: If you get a diagnosis of cancer, the first thing the doctor ought to say is, "Listen: you're fine. You've not got anything wrong with you that's gonna kill you in the next week. That's not how you'll feel, though. So, if you feel like you have the flu, and you just want to sleep, that's okay. It's normal; it's just stress."

I feel so much better now. And Willie and Joann are fine, and Willie will be fine after his robotic whatchamacallit, and all will be well.

And you know what? It *is* a funny shirt. Especially with my boobs, considering it ain't boobinoma.