Better to Be
Tuesday. A run down to Palo Alto for a doctor's appointment today with the surgeon who removed my prostate. Four years now and so far so good. Not something I think about much, but I'm sure there's a certain pucker factor down inside that waits with trepidation on the results of the blood test this visit is all about. If today's test is negative we switch to an appointment every year instead of every six months. The doctor stressed it was very good to mark this anniversary which means, I suspect, he loses fewer of his patients once they remain cancer free for the first four years. That's good. Good is good. As I said, there's a certain pucker factor I'm not totally conscious of as these appointments approach, a certain stress. Hard to imagine four years have passed so quickly, though.
You old guys are always talking about how fast time passes.
And you, Self? It doesn't pass every bit as quickly for you down there in the cellar? You are, after all, along for the ride.
Yeah, but I don't complain about it here in public. Old man.
Other than that, the day passed as most days pass anymore, a certain disoriented tilt due to the aching sinuses and head, an effort required to buckle down and do anything productive at the office. This is neither good nor bad, I suppose, just the way it is. I'm wondering if I can pitch my neurologist on putting me on long term disability for a few months, skip this showing up at the office in the morning, sleep til ten, read the paper over breakfast before noon. Who cares if the world wobbles on its axis if you've got your feet up, wondering whether or not you might take another nap? Certainly not I. Then again I suspect you have to be crawling on the floor and bleeding before they'll sign the chit. This is, after all, American medical insurance (which you're damned lucky to have, you lazy communist!) and a doctor, neurologist or not, can only sign so many chits before they confiscate his stethoscope.
Probably better to be than not to be.