God Is Good! (Was: Three Score and Ten)
The news on the cancer front (or, rather, bottom) is sounding good.
The surgeon performed a procedure that was only slightly less intrusive than a prostate exam (one assumes the exact same position) and had the instrument hooked up to a closed-circuit television screen where we could both follow the ins-and-outs of that part of my alimentary canal. He found two rather large hemorrhoids which the doctor felt could be responsible for the suspicious sample results a month ago.
He's an affable fellow and evidently enjoys his work. Or, perhaps, makes it enjoyable by keeping things light and frivolous and even vulgar, if the circumstances call for it. He is the first doctor in nearly thirty years to recommend I go out and have unprotected sex with anyone with an undetectable sero-status. "What are you waiting for?", he asked rhetorically, "It's fun!"
Apparently, I have not been keeping up with the latest CDC studies.
He took a biopsy and had me enroll in a study as soon as I could pull my pants back on. If the news was bad, I would receive $100 for every office visit during which I would either receive treatment or monitoring, depending on which branch of the study I was on. Today's visit would count.
I went into the hall and immediately texted Bing while they completed the paperwork. Later, with a debit card worth $100 in my pocket and while sitting at a Boston Market wolfing down mashed potatos, creamed spinach and meat loaf (who cares about dieting at a moment like this?) I e-mailed The Rector.
I've been pretty easy on myself for the past 24 hours. It's not every day that one returns from the River Styx. Everything still feels rather surreal. I kept a counseling appointment with Sumner and as I was telling him during my client time, even the difficult parts of your life look a lot better after a cancer scare.
Afterward, nothing could keep my attention for very long on the television. I surfed ceaselessly, thanks to the constant interruptions of the usual commercials which aborted all attempts at immersion into fantasy. I found myself looking forward to bed. By the time my regular bedtime rolled around, my body felt as though it were made of lead. I could scarcely lift one foot in front of the other.
I woke once with the television still on; it was tuned to an old "Twilight" episode. It nearly always is when I wake up in time to press the remote "off" button. I had to get up one last time a few hours later when I realized I hadn't taken my meds. That's how loopey I had been feeling all the way home from the surgeon's office.
I know I dreamed something. It wan't a very profound dream, just a very realistic involving a mixture of real people and places with plots and bits of business that my head completely made up. Jews played significant roles: the combination of Rosh Hoshona and the doctor's visit had conspired to attach a Jewish theme to my dream's events. I pretty sure my high school friend, Reuben, was in it. The venue could have been lots of different places: my childhood apartment in Brooklyn; Aunt Tine's house. I think Mom and Dad were in it. They were dead and had come to visit. They had come to tell me that they were "Fine."
The surgeon performed a procedure that was only slightly less intrusive than a prostate exam (one assumes the exact same position) and had the instrument hooked up to a closed-circuit television screen where we could both follow the ins-and-outs of that part of my alimentary canal. He found two rather large hemorrhoids which the doctor felt could be responsible for the suspicious sample results a month ago.
He's an affable fellow and evidently enjoys his work. Or, perhaps, makes it enjoyable by keeping things light and frivolous and even vulgar, if the circumstances call for it. He is the first doctor in nearly thirty years to recommend I go out and have unprotected sex with anyone with an undetectable sero-status. "What are you waiting for?", he asked rhetorically, "It's fun!"
Apparently, I have not been keeping up with the latest CDC studies.
He took a biopsy and had me enroll in a study as soon as I could pull my pants back on. If the news was bad, I would receive $100 for every office visit during which I would either receive treatment or monitoring, depending on which branch of the study I was on. Today's visit would count.
I went into the hall and immediately texted Bing while they completed the paperwork. Later, with a debit card worth $100 in my pocket and while sitting at a Boston Market wolfing down mashed potatos, creamed spinach and meat loaf (who cares about dieting at a moment like this?) I e-mailed The Rector.
I've been pretty easy on myself for the past 24 hours. It's not every day that one returns from the River Styx. Everything still feels rather surreal. I kept a counseling appointment with Sumner and as I was telling him during my client time, even the difficult parts of your life look a lot better after a cancer scare.
Afterward, nothing could keep my attention for very long on the television. I surfed ceaselessly, thanks to the constant interruptions of the usual commercials which aborted all attempts at immersion into fantasy. I found myself looking forward to bed. By the time my regular bedtime rolled around, my body felt as though it were made of lead. I could scarcely lift one foot in front of the other.
I woke once with the television still on; it was tuned to an old "Twilight" episode. It nearly always is when I wake up in time to press the remote "off" button. I had to get up one last time a few hours later when I realized I hadn't taken my meds. That's how loopey I had been feeling all the way home from the surgeon's office.
I know I dreamed something. It wan't a very profound dream, just a very realistic involving a mixture of real people and places with plots and bits of business that my head completely made up. Jews played significant roles: the combination of Rosh Hoshona and the doctor's visit had conspired to attach a Jewish theme to my dream's events. I pretty sure my high school friend, Reuben, was in it. The venue could have been lots of different places: my childhood apartment in Brooklyn; Aunt Tine's house. I think Mom and Dad were in it. They were dead and had come to visit. They had come to tell me that they were "Fine."