On Cancer, Comic-Con, and the New 2024 Ford F-150 Raptor R

Life has a funny way of blending the ordinary with the extraordinary, turning the most serious moments into stories worthy of a reality TV series. My recent journey to Cleveland Clinic was nothing short of a comic convention—complete with mutant villains, high-stakes drama, and unexpected plot twists.

First up, I’m so grateful for my mom and my aunt, who have accompanied me to all 43 of my appointments so far. They offer me incredible comfort and support as I download and process more information than a conspiracy theorist with unlimited internet access. They also provide endless entertainment with their uncanny knack for turning simple tasks into epic odysseys, side quests, and unexpected detours. Take the shuttle buses between buildings on the sprawling Cleveland Clinic campus, for example.

It should be straightforward: wait for a bus, get on, sit down, and get off. But my mom finds comfort in seeking specific instructions from the “red coat” valet staff, because the clearly marked vans that circle the campus every 10 minutes are apparently for novices. So, while I boarded the shuttle, my mom disappeared into the building to “get help,” and my aunt had to go search for her.

A very animated driver witnessed my mom vanishing on two separate occasions, both times prompting me to ask if he could kindly wait for them. “Why they keep ducking out on you like that?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I said, “but next time I’m bringing leashes!” We both laughed.

On another occasion, my mom left her phone “somewhere” at the clinic, a realization she had on their way home. My aunt suggested they call the phone to see if anyone answered. She dialed, and a man picked up, saying, “Hello?” My aunt, flustered, replied, “Oh, I’m sorry! I must have the wrong number…” Fortunately, the stranger stopped her from hanging up and explained that he had found the phone.

Meanwhile, the oncologist filled me in on what’s been happening in the lung department. Apparently, after they removed one-third of my lung, they dredged what was left, collecting a colorful bag of lymph nodes—12 of which tested positive for what I can only describe as cancer’s version of Comic-Con. It was as if every nefarious, mutant cell—each more bizarre and menacing than the last—had received an exclusive invitation to an otherworldly gathering in my lymphatic system. (Cue squeamish shiver.)

The Price Tag of Superhero Treatment? As my oncologist finished the epic rundown of my treatment plan—four rounds of chemo plus two years of targeted therapy—I couldn’t help but do a little mental math. We’re not just talking about a pretty penny here; we’re talking about the type of financial outlay that could make the Monopoly Man choke on his monocle.

Imagine, if you will, walking into a dealership and saying, “I’d like a brand new, fully loaded 2024 Ford F-150 Raptor R, please.” The one with the Carbon Fiber package and supercharged 5.2-liter V-8 tuned for 720 horsepower and 640 pound-feet of torque. Now imagine signing that contract each year for three years (give or take a few Teslas). That’s roughly the price of my upcoming medical expenses, in showroom-worthy glory.

Some people spend their money on luxury vacations or high-end toys, but I get the deluxe experience of ingesting mutant-busting drugs and enough doctor’s visits to feel like a VIP in a Raptor arriving at my own high-stakes Chemo-Con. And while it doesn’t come with leather seats or a panoramic sunroof, my version promises an epic battle against the forces of evil—complete with the hope of a triumphant comeback.

Stay awesome!

C: