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San Francisco Journalcon photos

November 26th, 2002

Call Again Tomorrow
Monday. They "haven't received the biopsy report, but the doctor will call you when it comes in". Well, let's not think about that. They perform prostate operations every day at Stanford, my own doctor every Monday and Wednesday, this is a big time, big deal production line operation, one of the best in the west, and the lab gets the biopsy reports back by the week following except, evidently, this Monday following, when they didn't. OK, OK, we're not in control here, we're in the hands of the gods, no need to indulge in any mind fucking until tomorrow. Take one of these pain pills they provided in such abundance, it's five in the afternoon, think about something else.

I was wondering if I'd lose any weight. Four days, two fed through a tube, two liquids only, this usually has some impact. You pay attention to the operation, you don't worry about diets, but, you know, there in the back of my mind, these last couple of pounds I've been unsuccessfully fighting....

Bottom line the old Halston velvet jacket, the black one anyway, fits. The dark brown one needs another couple of pounds, but let's not be picky. So let's see. Five more weeks closeted here over the holidays on my own with a microwave and a bunch of instant dinners. Can I, for example, lose another five pounds? Or should I just order some clothes for Christmas? Nothing too elaborate, you understand, one or two items, but nice. (Manic laughter from somehwere beyond the next room.) Better order now. Losing any weight over the holidays, closeted (as I said) with a refrigerator full of food is, well, an hallucination of some sort similar in tone to maniacal laughter and the howling of fools. A fool.

Writing now is not comfortable. At the moment I'm lying in bed, a laptop beside me, a desktop keyboard connected to the laptop on my lap, my head rolled over to the right. It's painful sitting in a chair, it's OK to lie on my back and my side, but not my stomach and writing this, focusing on the page, on the ceiling, for that matter, a plastic tube connected to a 2000 cc bag propped against the bed seems overly athletic for one week after the fact. And I'm tired, after an operation tired, but I've mentioned that. (And I'm upbeat even if I sound up bleat. No real complaints.)

Tuesday. Left another message with the hospital, on a tape machine this time. "What's up? Any news?" Evidently not. Call again tomorrow.

Not up to doing a photo. Soon, though, I think.