"Think of it this way," my Thoracic Surgeon explained. "The right lung is divided into three sections, called lobes. Each is about the size of a folded up slice of pizza." He saw the curious look on my face. "Regular, not Sicilian," he clarified. "It's very hard to fold Sicilian slices." I nodded; clearly he had been trained well. * * * Doc P, my Pulmonologist, studied the computer screen. This could not be a good sign. Of course, just having a Pulmonologist is not a good sign. If I had a list of Things I Don't Want to Have, Pulmonologist would be near the top, way ahead of Periodontist and a notch behind Criminal Lawyer. Of course, I wouldn't want to have to have a Parole Officer, a Bankruptcy Attorney or Shingles either. * * * I had never given much thought to the nature of my demise, should that ever occur. However, if I had conjured up a list of potential causes, cancer would not have even been considered for consideration. However, if it had appeared on my list as one of my potential executioners d' jour, it would have been in the quest of completeness, not because I considered it within the realm of possibility. And, certainly it would have fallen to the very bottom, right after being eaten by sharks in my basement. To be clear, I have never had sharks or any other predatory fish in my basement, except for Attila, my kosher goldfish. Moreover, I live over forty miles from the ocean and there is no way that a shark could get to my house - and if it did, it is unlikely that it could open the basement door. The prevailing logic notwithstanding, I opted for shark-proofing my house as part of the termite guarantee. To wit, I had a slightly greater chance of being attacked by sharks in my basement than getting cancer. I was wrong. An entertaining and informative trip for anyone who has had cancer or plans to never get cancer or just likes to be entertained. **Previously published under the title: Fuck you Cancer ..and the Cell You Rode In On