I see via Twitter it’s World Cancer Day and I guess I should observe, if not celebrate.
I continue in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” mode. I don’t ask the doctors anything, they don’t tell me anything other than “come back in three months.”
I had lunch with some friends in L.A. last week. One of them’s gone through at least as much shit as me, and we were all afraid he wasn’t going to make it. All things considered, he looked pretty good, if frail, having lost a ton of weight.
“They say if we make it through the sixties, the seventies are downhill—before the ‘Final Summons,’” he said. At least I think that’s what he said. Maybe it was “the Last Call.”
Had dinner with another bunch of friends, one of whom had his prostate removed, and swears by it. Another friend, who had the radiation, didn’t make it–to dinner, that is: Too distraught by the death of his sister.
Two other friends were sharing heart attack stories.
But I have developed a new way of urinating: Left leg well forward, maybe halfway around the bowl. I tend to shoot left, and that way, if I miss entirely, at least I won’t spray the wall.