There is a time for every
purpose under heaven.
Just watched a really grim, depressing movie. It was about a post-menopausal spinster of an English professor who has an incurable and intractable case of cancer. She dies miserably. Her last conscious moments were dominated by pain. Excruciating, unendurable pain. Then the coma, then death. Christ!
When I was in the cancer ward after my operation, I had to walk the hall, pushing my IV stand, which also served as a walking staff. Hobbling along, bent over and clutching my incision, I peered in those rooms with open doors to see what I could see. Of course cancer wards are filled mostly with old people, though the occasional youngster will show up once in a while. I didn’t encounter any youngsters during my stay, Providence be thanked. Just old timers.
Old timers? I was fifty-eight at the time. Not so old from my perspective today. Today I’m, seventy-three.
When I had the cancer cut out, I rebounded with surprising verve and vigor. I went back into the business world and more than held up my end of the bargain. Dr. G. told me I would have lots of years ahead of me, though with certain diminished capacities, thanks to the operation’s side effects.
Well, now I’ve had those years, fifteen to be exact, and I find myself in a strange place – outré really – where life is becoming . . . ephemeral.
I look out the window and the old familiar sights have a strangeness to them. Not unpleasant, you understand, just strange. A fatigue of the spirit is the cause. I fear I’m getting ready to move on.
I might succumb to this fatigue and let a pleasant apathy take over were it not for Jo. Oh, she’s quite resilient. She’d shed a few tears if I croaked but Jo’d soon move on. Good For Her.
But I know my kicking the bucket would work a hardship on her nevertheless. So I want to stick around as long as I can to be her (there is no better word for it) companion.
And she, mine.
The late John Denver had a song in which he sang “Turns me on to think of growing old”. Well, he’s full of shit. There’s nothing nice about it. The only thing making it bearable is that little knowledge in the background somewhere that whispers, “Not too much longer, Merlin. Best keep a bag packed”.
I’ve let everything go. Hate, hate, moving the fucking lawn. Always have, but I used to be able to do it without complaint. Now I bitch. I used to keep the house spick-and-span too, but like a lot of other old goats, I’m letting my home go to wrack and ruin. Don’t dust, don’t vacuum, don’t wash the floors, don’t clean the windows, don’t paint. Don’t even change the bed sheets often enough. However I still manage to shower on a regular basis and wipe my ass properly so I’m not too far gone, I guess.
Ah, but I keep the cars clean and maintained. That I enjoy. If I can no longer drive, that’ll be it. I’ll chug a fifth of good Scotch and put a dry cleaning bag over my head.
Well enough of these goddamned cancer movies. Cancer movies now join my brown-list along with slave movies and any movie with Meryl Streep. I’ll not watch any of them. All three are bummers. Why do I watch this kind of crap, anyway?