Ugly Day at 73.

It’s been one of those days. rainy and cold.  Things not going as I hope or expect.  It’s depressing and frustrating.  In my foul mood, I looked for blogs by people with cancer.  I found several.  They only blackened my mood.  I need weed.  And booze.  Some good news would help too.

I’ve had the goddamned cancer for fifteen years now with several surgeries along the way.  I look in the pink of health but there is one or more metastases growing somewhere or other.

It’s said, though not widely acknowledged, that when treating cancer, you get three bites at the apple.  I’ve had two.  The third?  Either a trial vaccine or some terrible chemo.  I got a note from the doc: time for two more tests.  Then it’ll be time to kiss my ass goodbye.

But I keep plugging away.  Do I brood over my cancer and its side effects?  I try not to.  Mostly, I don’t.  Days — even weeks — go by without thinking about my new normal vs. the old one — and pain and death.  Brooding would be really, really counterproductive.

My biggest issue is I’d like to do something useful before I croak. And remunerative, such that Jo will be OK.  Maybe not swell, but OK.  Of course she’s got family; five siblings, so she’s not going to become a bag lady.  Of course we wish that we could both go at the same time.  Perhaps a meteor will smash into the bedroom in the AM when we are cuddled up?  Nah.  Maybe some ISIS scum will gun us down at the mall.

One of my biggest problems with the cancer is I’ve never felt free to simply blow up.  Do a drunken rant to my friends and family.  A couple of times I’ve made the attempt but got shut down after a few words leaked out.  Whining. Sell-pity. Wallowing.  “Oh, stop it.  You’re just fine.”  The closest I’ve come is the book referred to at the top of the page.  Nobody reads it but it was fun to write and provided some sort of therapy.

We could move to Jo’s family compound in Illinois, get some righteous weed from a family connection, some cheap booze from Jewel, zone out and wait for the tumor to kill me.  I gotta admit the temptation is strong.

And why wouldn’t it?  I mean, Christ, I’ll be 73 in less than a month.


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