Okay.
So.
Soon I will die.
But fuck that.
When i go, I want a party. I want all my friends to come over , bring booze and musical instruments, and have fucking good time.
If you do, I will. And that'a what I want. When it's time for folks to leave, come kiss me goodbye.
And I will be happy. I wil be content. I will be ready.
Wish me adieu, my friends. Thtat's what I want.
If there be one, I will see you on the other side.
But I really do want to have a goodbye kiss. I will be a mess, but I will know you. And I will carry your goodwill will with me whereever there is after this life.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Well, shit
My doctor recently called to tell me he had an astrocytoma, but it was bilateral and was involving his corpus callous,. His balance was shot, so falling was a constant worry.
He was doing okay, but I reckon his reduced mobility led to the development of clots, one of which found its way to his lung, and a couple mornings ago, he died. He was really an exceptional physician, and I'll miss him a lot. He was patient, kind, comprehensive. When I was diagnosed with my cancer, he spent a lot of time in the evening schooling himself on gliomas and following my case.
I was very flattered he called to talk to me about it, and I got to visit him several times before he died. I think he had become more my friend who happened also to be my doctor than the reverse. He was a bit of a renaissance man: interested in art and philosophy as well as medicine. He was well-known around the community.
He was one of 3 physicians I've known (and I've known more than a few) who made me feel that he was treating me, not just my illness. He would sit and chat and ask me about pretty much everything going on with me. I got to meet his wife, a perfectly wonderful woman, and I can't stop thinking about her and what she must be feeling. I'll call her tomorrow and see how she's getting on. They had a fairly large group of friends, so I can know that at least she won't be alone any more than usual, for the most part.
But it's so damned odd, and sad, that my doc would come down the the same sort of rare cancer that I had, and remarkably touching that he reached out to me for support. I hope I gave him some. He called me his "hero" because the cancer didn't get me. And in the end, it only got him indirectly.
It's a great loss, personally as well as collectively and professionally.
He was doing okay, but I reckon his reduced mobility led to the development of clots, one of which found its way to his lung, and a couple mornings ago, he died. He was really an exceptional physician, and I'll miss him a lot. He was patient, kind, comprehensive. When I was diagnosed with my cancer, he spent a lot of time in the evening schooling himself on gliomas and following my case.
I was very flattered he called to talk to me about it, and I got to visit him several times before he died. I think he had become more my friend who happened also to be my doctor than the reverse. He was a bit of a renaissance man: interested in art and philosophy as well as medicine. He was well-known around the community.
He was one of 3 physicians I've known (and I've known more than a few) who made me feel that he was treating me, not just my illness. He would sit and chat and ask me about pretty much everything going on with me. I got to meet his wife, a perfectly wonderful woman, and I can't stop thinking about her and what she must be feeling. I'll call her tomorrow and see how she's getting on. They had a fairly large group of friends, so I can know that at least she won't be alone any more than usual, for the most part.
But it's so damned odd, and sad, that my doc would come down the the same sort of rare cancer that I had, and remarkably touching that he reached out to me for support. I hope I gave him some. He called me his "hero" because the cancer didn't get me. And in the end, it only got him indirectly.
It's a great loss, personally as well as collectively and professionally.
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