You're not the boss of me

While I was at cancer beading class, a woman said she'd planned a huge 50th birthday bash eight years ago but instead got cancer.  Once she finished treatments, she went on a 2000-mile road trip with four friends.

My first response:  I wanna go on a 2000-mile road trip.

"Where would you go?" asked the person beside me.

Stumped, the only vista that occurred to me was Mount Rushmore. I've never been interested in seeing Mount Rushmore and suspect that it, like the Painted Desert, has a good public relations department; but I know it's a long way from here; and also that it's likely to be cooler than here, where if it isn't already 90 degrees it will be in an hour.

Ah, but here's the rub:  my mother's birthday is tomorrow, and the idea of a six-hour drive up to see her exhausts me. I'm probably not ready for four dead presidents on a mountainside. However, if I need chemo, there's a good chance I'm going to be visiting those dudes before I begin.

I say this because it was reported that in the course of radiation I woke up every hour or so all night one night to announce, "You're not the boss of me."

You want to talk about control issues?  Go grab yourself a tumor or two and see in what ways yours expand.