Our flight home from Tennessee is delayed. Not because of any snowpocalypse, mind you, but because of a maintenance issue for our plane coming from San Diego. (Harry will be pleased to note that, given his recent emails about the media sensationalizing weather for the sake of something to report.) I went along with Rich for moral support but didn't feel like I was but so helpful other than being a willing partner for card games. I've been pretty anxious lately and that weakens my optimistic super powers. But as Rich just said, there's no rule that says I'm not allowed to be fretty.

It's just such an interminable process, these flights and pills and tests. It would be nice if there were a more measurable sign of progress. Sometimes no news is the best news one can hope for. The pills to ward off tiger attacks appear to be working.

We are in a better place than we were a year ago. Last Thanksgiving, we had absolutely no clue what our next plan was, only that the magic surgery didn't solve anything. We at least know now that we are ever so slowly beating back the slime in hopes that it will eventually surrender.

But after a year at war, I feel like taking a break. Much like John McCutcheon's Christmas in the Trenches, I declare this weekend to be a truce from cancer.