People keep asking how I’m doing. What can I say? Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious seems about right. It’s a perfectly reasonable medical term—somewhere between “stable” and “still breathing.” I even wrote a poem about it, because apparently that’s what happens when you don’t understand your lab results.
This month, I finally had another blood test.
I wasn’t sure if I’d get a passing grade or be asked to repeat the class. They drew five tubes of blood to produce 42 different measurements. Forty-two. I assume that includes my GPA, cholesterol, and possibly my attitude. My oncologist understands all the numbers and codes. I recognize a few—mostly the ones that look alarming.
Every time I meet with him, he asks how I’m doing. I tell him, “I don’t know. You’re the one with the decoder ring.” Since I didn’t record our last session, here’s my translation of what he said: “You’re not worse… which, in medical language, means you’re better.” He wants to see me again in three months, presumably to make sure I’m still not worse. I expect this to continue for years—just long enough for us both to feel like we’re accomplishing something.
However, I have noticed one concern.
I’m not getting younger.
I had to make a special trip to the doctor because of a mysterious rash on my chest. It turned out to be Shingles—which I’m told is supposed to be a major production at my age. Mine was more of a cameo appearance. It showed up, caused a little trouble, and left before intermission.
But something else slowed me down.
For ten years, I directed a Christian writers’ conference, which means I accumulated enough materials to supply a big event. Two storage units full—books, equipment, and a heroic inventory of Eyewitness. Then the facility was sold, and my rent doubled. Now, I fully understand what “rent” means: You pay for something you never get to own, and if you stop paying, they help you understand that fact very quickly.
While clearing out one of the units, I rolled my ankle. No big deal—until the next day, when I needed a walker to travel the great distance from my desk to the bathroom. Fifteen feet has never felt so ambitious. Fortunately, I spend most of my time sitting at my computer writing, which is the only athletic event I still dominate. After a week, I was fine. Well… mostly.
The ankle decided to share its enthusiasm with my left hip, which now hurts like my right hip used to—before it was replaced. If God wanted to, he could heal it instantly. I know that because he’s done that kind of thing before.
Years ago, I was snow skiing—performing what I believed was a world-class turn—when I launched a ski, crashed, and landed on my shoulder. I heard something pop. Loudly. The pain was intense, but worse than the pain was the thought of being hauled down the mountain by the ski patrol.
So I prayed. “Lord, I really don’t want to go to the clinic. If you wanted to, you could heal my broken shoulder.”
After a bit, I lifted my arm, rotated it around… no pain. Either I had misdiagnosed myself, or God had quietly said yes. I didn’t know for sure until two months later when a doctor looked at the scan and said, “Your shoulder was broken, but it’s perfectly healed. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The Bionic Man
So… what about the hip? We’ll see. I may become the Bionic Man.
I don’t lack faith, and I do know how to pray—but I’ve learned that I don’t get to write God’s prescriptions. He always answers. Sometimes yes, sometimes no, sometimes “watch this.” In the meantime, the experiences give me lots of great stories. Opportunities. Conversations I wouldn’t otherwise have.
At the oncology clinic, more than a hundred doctors, nurses, and patients have now encountered the life of Christ through my writing—often in ways they’ve never seen before. That alone is worth all the aches and follow-up appointments.
And here’s the surprising part: I’m writing more than ever. With new research, brainstorming, and outlining tools, I’ve completed two first-draft books in two months—something I’ve never done before. Apparently, limitations are excellent time-management coaches.
So how am I doing?
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Which, loosely translated, means: Not worse. Occasionally wobbly. Always thankful. And still writing.
Precocious Words
It started one day when I felt quite atrocious,
My writing was messy, my grammar ferocious.
I needed a spark that was bold and ambitious,
A word so grand, something bright, and delicious.
I thought and I thought. My words were explosious,
When out popped a word that was highly composious.
It jingled and jangled. It rhymed with precocious.
Yes, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Some say that word is absurd and pretentious,
Too long, too loud, and maybe too boisterous.
But I say it sings with a joy so contagious,
It tickles the tongue and stirs hearts outrageous.
So if you feel glum or just mildly contorcious,
If your poem’s flat or your prose is monstrocius.
Just shout this long word. It’s not preposterous.
It’s simply supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
For super means “more,” and cali means “fair.”
Fragilistic means “handle with gentle care.”
Expi means “pardon.” Ali means “strange,”
And docious means “learning”—a wonderful range.
So gather your words, the weak and the strong,
The short ones, the sharp ones, the ones that belong.
Then blend them with laughter, both deep and devotious,
And make them supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.