Yesterday was the birthday of a woman I hired about forty years ago while I was employed at my first association job. As I have done for most, if not all. of those forty years, I sent her a birthday message; yesterday’s by email. Occasionally, she writes back to thank me for remembering. I do not think I know anyone else whose birthday falls on January 2; so, it’s almost impossible NOT to remember. She has never sent a message to me on my birthday, at least not that I recall. And, except for my once-a-year messages to her and her very rare acknowledgements, we do not stay in touch. She and her husband, now a retired lawyer, live in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. They have children and grandchildren. Except for their liberal political leanings (assuming that is still the case), I doubt we have anything at all in common. We were never particularly close; just co-workers and, very occasionally, she and I and our respective spouses would get together for a Sunday brunch. Since I moved away, those many years ago, we have not stayed in touch except for my annual birthday greetings to her. So, why am I in the habit of sending her an annual birthday message? Beats the hell out of me.
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If my calculations are correct, I have only six more radiology sessions…including today’s. That assumes, of course, the post-radiology PET-scans, etc. confirm that the 25 days of exposure to their magic rays have been effective. But I wonder how—or whether—the scans can differentiate between the effectiveness of chemotherapy and radiology? Wondering about such matters is a pointless exercise; regardless, though, I do it. Curiosity occupies otherwise meaningless moments—empty periods that in other circumstances might become immensely productive petri dishes for anxiety or depression. Absent something to occupy my mind, I hear and feel in my skull the throbbing “thump…thump…thump” of my heartbeat. That noise and the accompanying sensation of blood pounding as it courses through the vessels in my head often delays me from getting to sleep. As far as I know, nothing can be done to minimize or eliminate those sensations. I am relatively confident they are symptomatic of tinnitus; I should mention the matter to my primary care doctor, in the hope he can offer a magical cure. Everything revolves around health-related issues! I am, pardon the pun, sick to death of this crap.
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Jack Frost roasting over an open fire,
Chestnuts nipping at my nose…
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This morning’s sky is trying to be friendly. Its pink grin, peeking over the horizon, cannot hide the icy-cold teeth behind that smile, though. The sun’s diffuse rays occasionally are collected in a prismatic glance downward, revealing a glint of light—the brilliance of which is like the reflection of a spark bouncing off a polished steel sword. When the artificiality of its smile becomes obvious, it rosy cheeks lose their innocence—replaced by the pasty beige of a starving, omnivorous beast intent on devouring everything in its path. Welcome to the reality of greed, as expressed through hunger.
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