I have always been a big dreamer.  Literally.

While deep in slumber, I have fought epic battles alongside caped super heroes, explored exotic distant galaxies, pitched a no-hitter in the World Series, and romanced a bevy of leading ladies of the cinema.

I’ll ask my buddies to kindly stop laughing now, please.

Unfortunately, I’ve also conducted the New York Philharmonic Orchestra sans pants, gotten lost on the way to my bat mitzvah (never mind that I’m neither a girl, nor am I Jewish), and accidentally collapsed a massive dinosaur exhibit at the Smithsonian Institution in front of a glaring U.S. President, my disappointed mother and disapproving mother-in-law looking on.

Disturbingly, in my dreams I have also conducted my own bone marrow biopsy – without anesthesia.

Analyze that collection of escapades, if you dare.

Very recently, the time had come for my first doctor’s check-up after having been taken off of all multiple myeloma drugs six months earlier.  I was excited, and admittedly a bit nervous, to see if I had maintained a complete response after having waged a non-stop, four-year blitzkrieg against the villainous blood cancer that I had come to loathe.

After a very busy week with hardly a decent night’s rest, I took an early afternoon nap before departing for my next-day’s appointments in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Entering dreamland once again, I found myself wending down an ever winding road, just minding my own business, when a teeny tiny angel popped up on my left shoulder, unfurled its wings, and oh so sweetly whispered:

‘Remember, Sean, it’s the journey, not the destination.’

Seemingly unconcerned by the peculiar oddness of an angel perched on my shoulder, I thought, ‘Okay, I can buy that. Enjoy the journey.’

Suddenly a tiny devil materialized on my right shoulder – the very same shoulder that was still burdened with an unresolved 3.5 centimeter lytic lesion courtesy of myeloma, my arch nemesis.  Sadistically poking me with a miniature pitchfork, he hissed:

‘Still hurts, huh? Say, whoever that numb-nuts was that fed you the ‘it’s the journey’ baloney doesn’t have mye-freaking-loma, am I right?! And they don’t have to shell out four lousy bucks for a gallon of gas just to dodge a minefield of bone-rattling pot holes like this. And no, they don’t have to sit in a traffic jam in a 95-degree heat wave with the AC on the fritz. Is it getting hot in here, or do you have another one of those fevers? You know, cramped up in the car like this and you’ll probably get another blood clot. That’ll kill you in a hurry. You’ll never get to Little Rock, anyway. Might as well turn around, friend!’

His unrelenting demonic tirade seemed to go on for hours. The poor angel could not get a word in edgewise.

Upon awakening, I only half chuckled at the curious dream. Yawning my way out of the groggy daze, I threw my luggage in the car and hit the road.

‘Sean, it’s the journey, not the destination,’ rattled around in my brain as I ventured south.

What normally should have been a pleasant four-hour ride from my home in southwestern Missouri, ended up being seven-and-one-half hours and one of the weirdest car trips I’ve ever taken.

Along the way, I encountered a driving rain (pun intended), survived a blown-out tire, was brought to a standstill behind what appeared to be an empty, overturned poultry truck, and was waylaid by not one, but two sobriety check points. Deemed sober both times, I proceeded onward.

I started to make good time until I came to a maddening slog behind a caravan of three painfully slow recreational vehicles, each one hailing from the ‘flatlander’ state whose name rhymes with Poke-lahoma.

To add insult to injury, the RV pilots felt it necessary to come to a near-dead-stop at the crest of every hill before proceeding down the no-passing-allowed mountain road.

I’ve been in faster rush hour traffic jams on the infamous 405 in Los Angeles.  Heck, I’ve harvested twenty million stem cells in less time.

About an hour north of Little Rock, I carefully made my way through a tiny Arkansas village that I knew all-too-well to be a sneaky speed trap.  I drove  under the posted limit to purposely disappoint the local constabulary because, this time, I was not willing to make a $280 ‘donation’ to the municipal piggy bank for driving ‘37 in a 35.’ As they say, fool me once.

Just as I crept out of town, red and blue lights reflected in my rearview mirror and I was summarily pulled over. There is no way I was speeding! Unknown to me, the little lamp above my license plate was burned out. ‘How much are they going to charge me for this?’ I moaned inwardly.

I don’t have much money, and they certainly wouldn't want my blood.

Thankfully, I was admonished to get the light fixed and sent on my not-quite-so-merry way with no ticket and no fine administered.

I seem to recall brushing off my right shoulder to make sure that there really was no little two-inch tall tormentor hitching a ride.

At this point, the stress of the long evening gave way to the familiar electric tingle of neuropathy pain in my feet and hands.  Fighting sleep, I pulled over and got some coffee with no cream because I was scheduled for a PET scan in just over six hours.

I arrived at the hotel at midnight and fell into bed at 12:25 a.m. By 1:30 a.m., my sleep was abruptly interrupted when the first of five unwelcomed phone calls came to my room.

Who needs dexamethasone (Decadron) when you can get a free wake-up call every half hour?

In August, I’ll share more about my trip to Little Rock and about my test results.  Until then, have a very pleasant journey, enjoy your dreams, but don’t touch that dinosaur!