The kit has arrived. It is safely tucked in the refrigerator. I'll be looking after it until Monday morning.

"What kit?" you ask.

Why the special box kit that will be used to transport the tumor they are slicing out of my arm during my Monday morning surgery and sending to the clinical trial in California. That kit.

The special kit is mysterious. It must be kept refrigerated at all times. I have neither opened the cardboard shipping box that the kit is packed in, nor have I laid eyes on the contents, yet. I fantasize about the special kit and what is inside.

Opening the kit I see some sort of cold incubation apparatus that is designed to keep the cancer alive outside the hospitable environment of my body. I close my eyes and see a sort of purplish translucent octopus host creature inside that will cuddle and embrace the tumor, keeping it at just the right temperature during it's voyage to California on a Fed Ex airplane. The octopus creature will cuddle and protect the freshly removed tumor, and will purr to the tumor, "its alright, we are just taking a short trip. Daddy will keep you safe."

The octopus creature will release the tumor only once the doctors in California have entered a cryptic password into the armored metallic Fed Ex box. This box will then transform into a dainty but dangerous robot named "Shadow Dancer".

The octopus creature, now exposed to the air, will release it's grasp of the tumor and open it's tendrils to the doctors, who greedily remove the tumor. The octopus creature is swiftly swept off the table and into a polystyrene cooler, which is taken directly to the nearest high end sushi restaurant in Newport Beach, where it is promptly processed into Tako Sushi. It is served to one of the Real Housewives of Orange County who is dining there with her pool boy.

Back at the hospital the clinical trial doctors mercilessly use scalpels to process the still living tumor into various samples; Some are genetically analyzed, some are placed in a cryogenic tissue bank, and others begin cell lines that will be treated with retroviruses and dark matter to eventually become a powerful vaccine.

Months from now, I will get an injection of this vaccine, made partially from my own cancer. My body will writhe in momentary agony and my veins will pulsate with the metabolic magic of this vaccine as it enters my body, changing me forever.

Moments later, I become Spiderman.

At least this is what I hope will happen.