When a person is pitted against dastardly and destructive forces in their very own body, getting through the day can be enough of an achievement. But I strive for greater success than just beating the bad and bountiful cancer beast, and as such, I have made it a goal to see every James Bond movie ever made, in chronological order.

So there I was, on a dark and stormy day, riveted to the actions of Agent 007, who was climbing aboard the Disco Volante. Evil Emilio Largo was at the helm! All of a sudden, Poof! (that was the actual sound) my TV screen went blank.

I looked outside at the storm and guessed that I had lost my power along with a scantily clad Sean Connery. But why were my lights still on? And why was the VCR still moving forward? These are not easy questions when your brain has recently been cooked by Adriamycin and Cytoxin.

I got out of bed and looked at the TV. I smelled a funky burning smell and it started to sink in that maybe my TV had kicked the bucket. But being an optimistic sort, I went and checked the fuse box. No dice. It was gone, it was dead, it was dead and gone.

I do not hold my James Bond film festival responsible for the untimely loss of my TV. Instead, I blame the eight episodes of Season Five of "Six Feet Under" I had watched the day before, in a gross orgiastic feast of episode after episode after episode. How ironic that a show about a funeral home would lead to the death of its medium.

I did what I do in all times of deep crisis: I called my friend Steve. As always, he handled the situation with great aplomb. While offering the appropriate condolences for the loss of a close companion, he skillfully shifted my thoughts to the future and raised the sprectre of a new purchase - always a motivating force for yours truly!

He also told me that the TV was at least twenty years old. Well, he should know, he gave it to me when they upgraded a while ago. Their family has given me so many hand-me-downs that his kids probably think that "the landfill" is just another name for Carolyn Helmke's house.

After I talked to Steve, I thought I could last 24 hours without a TV. Within twenty minutes I realized that this was an impossible mission. So, I got up, got dressed and made haste for Fry's.

Fry's is such a ridiculous place that it is too much of a freebie for me to lampoon. So, suffice it to say that Fry's was its Fry's self when I arrived and nothing had changed when I left thirty minutes later with a big grin and a brand new TV.

Unfortunately, getting the new TV to operate so that I could watch 007 save the free world posed a huge challenge to me and my chemo brain. I spent about five minutes trying to figure out how to hook up the VCR to the TV and then concluded that I needed a nap.

When I woke up I assessed that I had no capacity to find the right yellow plug and plug it to the right yellow plug-let. I considered calling my neighbors Matt and Katie for help but they had spent an hour at my place the previous night de-bugging my computer and I didn't want to bother them two nights in a row.

Then providence struck: Linda called and wanted to know if I had the next disk of "Six Feet Under" to loan. I had left her with a real cliffhanger (Episode 9) and she was desperate to get her hands on the next disk.

Then I did something rather evil that I hope I would not attempt if I was not chemotrodden and bedridden: I told her she could have the disk ONLY if she would get her husband to set up my TV and the VCR before the end of the night.

Poor John. He had already been through a long day at work, and a hellish commute, but he had no power against the combined PLEADING forces of Linda and Carolyn who did grant him a quick dinner but not a moment of rest until he had hooked up the VCR to the TV and Linda had Disk 9 in her hot little hands.

That morning, I had challenged myself to go above and beyond "just getting through the day." Who would have thought reaching my goal would be such an ordeal? But, as usual, I survived and feel much stronger and better for it.