Recently, over lunch with a couple of friends from my church, the subject of Donald Trump came up. We’d already eaten, so it didn’t ruin the meal. One of the women said she had engaged in conversation with someone who claims to be capable of seeing into the future. The “seer” was asked whether the self-important narcissist would be impeached. No, she said, his end will come when the investigation into his extensive criminality reaches to family members closest to him and promises to bring the entire clan down. When he realizes there is no way out, he will commit suicide (I think she said by handgun) in the Oval Office.
After my recent posts concerning suicide and my sister’s volunteer efforts to help bring people back from that awful edge, I wonder whether she would have had compassion for Trump? I wonder whether she would have been willing to attempt to coax him back from the edge? I don’t know. I simply don’t. Perhaps, if I were a better person, I would try to convince him that taking his own life was not the answer. But I don’t think I’m that good. Instead, I think I might suggest to him that presidents before him had tried to take their lives and had not succeeded. This, I might say to him, is another opportunity to claim credit for a “first” in presidential politics.
I realize the very suggestion of such a crass and cruel thing paints me a demon. So be it. That’s the mood I’m in this morning. It’s all make believe. I have absolutely no belief that people possess special powers that enable them to see into the future. In those rare cases in which predictions come to pass, I attribute them either to chance or to strong research and highly educated guesses.
I’ve never had an interest in a self-styled clairvoyant’s predictions about my future because any such prognostications would be valueless. They would be wild guesses clothed in mystery—prophesies spun from the soothsayer’s assumptions and dreams. I choose not to invest energy in worries that might arise from unfounded beliefs built on foundations of vapor and dust.
On an entirely different subject, I think I’m in the midst of what I’ve heard called chemo-brain or chemo-fog. For the last few nights, I’ve forgotten to take my massive batch of “nighttime pills.” So, last night I set an alarm for 9:00 p.m., which I intended as a reminder to take them. The alarm sounded and, instead of taking the pills, I drank an ounce of aloe-vera juice (which I’m also supposed to do to help sooth the pain in my esophagus). I woke up at 4:00 a.m. to pee and, when I was in the bathroom, noticed that my evening pills were in their container, undisturbed. So I took them. That completely screws up the schedule for the remainder of the pills I’m supposed to take during the remainder of the day. I look forward to a drastic reduction in pill consumption as my cancer treatments end. I suspect, though, I’ll have to soldier on through at least late April before I can leave the majority of the stuff behind me. I can live with that. But this chemo-brain is not a happy experience. I forget things and get confused in short spurts. I hope it’s the chemo and not the start of something permanent.
Last night we planned to celebrate the end of my radiation treatment by going to a favorite pub for a drink and dinner with friends. But then we became aware of the fact that another restaurant was offering its New Orleans menu for the last time last night. So, we opted for the latter. We both had friend oysters and assorted sides. It was all good. And I had a Rogue Dead Guy Ale. Its taste was good, too. But all the food, as good as it tasted, was hard as hell to swallow. My esophagitis reduced the meal’s celebratory joy by a factor of eight. Bah! We’ll go to the original pub for a celebration on Friday or Saturday night. I hope by then the problem will have subsided. It will be, after all, several days after my last radiation treatment. My ale was the third alcoholic beverage in literally months. I’m still supposed to minimize consumption of alcohol for quite some time to come, but I’m willing to break the rules a bit for a celebration. So, whenever we get to the pub, I’ll try some wine or, perhaps, a gin martini. Ahhhh, that sounds delightful.