Since my life really isn’t exciting enough to talk about, I’ve
decided to write about my shitty day as if it were narrated by Sam Elliott.
I walked into the office without using the handicap button.
I hate it when functioning human beings push the handicap button instead of
pushing the door open. It’s lazy. This room smells bad. Like death and
chemicals. The guy with the glasses takes my blood again. Same guy every time.
I wonder if he remembers me. I remember him with more hair, I guess it’s been a
rough six months. They call me up earlier then usual, which is good, this
Entertainment Weekly is more then a month old.
I mosey to the scale. 181, that’s ten pounds lighter then
last time. I wonder if that’s good or bad. The little lady says my blood
pressure looks good, and that’s a good start. Then I get to speak to my nurse
practitioner, Michellyn, pronounced like the tire company. I like her. She goes
to San Diego Comic Con every year and tells me about it. She missed out on her favorite
this year – Mr. Hugh Jackman. That’s too bad. She asks me the usual questions
and I give the usual answers. I like Michellyn, but I know she doesn’t have the
information I need. I need to speak to Flynn.
And here he comes.
Flynn compliments me on my white cell counts. That’s peculiar,
he’s never sounded so intent on complimentin’ my white cells. Somethin’s wrong.
Spit it out doc, what are you hesitatin’ about?
Then he tells me. ‘Parently some of my inside parts are
swelling again. Cancer. I thought I’d beaten that son’bitch nearly four years
ago. I was beginning to get used to life without him. My first reactions are of
despair, fear. This leads me to a whole mess of self sorrowin’, but that won’t
do. That won’t solve anything. I need to take the initiative on this one, and
beat this bastard into the ground. Once and for all.
Just two more tests and I’ll know what to do.