In the Edge–CORRECTION

My chemo session on Wednesday apparently has had/is having some of the old stand-by side-effects I recall from earlier treatments; among them, fatigue, sleeping late, periodic stabbing pains, etc. But the analgesics seem to work reasonably well, most of the time. And I haven’t gotten tired, yet, of being so tired so frequently. I try to look on the bright side—too often, though, that is a lot like staring at the sun. I have no obligations on my calendar today, so I will try to experience relaxation of the highest order. I wish I hadn’t let my medical marijuana license lapse. I wish even more fervently that I would already have taken the simple steps to renew it.

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The relevance of knowing—when I wake each morning—into which day of the week I awaken no longer matters. In fact, it never did, but I allowed myself to be taken in by the concept of its relevance. The man I am today may have successfully emerged from the broth that insisted on differentiating between “work-days” and “week-ends;” yet offered no evidence to support that assertion. What convincing argument might be made to justify assigning greater recuperative value to Saturday than productive value to Thursday? Propaganda needs no justification.

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CORRECTION: We learned—within the last few days—that one of my nephews and his wife (my niece-in-law) will visit us soon. It will be a short trip, but one to which we greatly look forward. Within the last couple of years, we’ve been fortunate to have received visits by—and visited—several family members. Most recently, my niece  and my nephew-in-law came to visit and before that, my sister came to see us. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with a week or more I spent in the hospital—but their visit, still, was very enjoyable and greatly appreciated. Before that, we spent time with my oldest brother and his wife, my sister-in-law. I’ve had other occasions in the not-too-distant past to visit with other nephews, another brother, and an array of other “blood” relatives and others…all of whom matter deeply to me.

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The expanse of monotonously flat sand surrounding us was monstrous. I sat in a plush ophthalmic chair that was equipped with all sorts of equipment designed to measure visual acuity and optical health. In front of me, an ophthalmologist in a white coat directed me to focus my attention on an image that was visible through a sophisticated set of lenses…all connected in some way to one another. The doctor flipped a switch, which made the image appear clearer and more precise. After what seemed like a dozen—or more—iterations, the image I saw seemed  to have changed dramatically. It seemed like a highly magnified image of a dense patch of hair.

His explanation stunned me: “With each new view, you were looking deeper and deeper into the distance. But that final image completed the view. You were looking all the way around the planet to see the back of your head.”

“That’s obviously nonsense!” I answered. “What am I really seeing?”

He had hit me with enough force to knock me unconscious. At least I assumed that’s what happened.

“Twinkles, can you hear me? We’re going to try a slightly different treatment this time. You’ll need to keep your head perfectly still for about 30 seconds.”

After that treatment, I had absolutely no recollection of anything before being examined by the ophthalmologist in the desert. Even today, all these years later, I have no other memories. It’s as if my entire life’s experiences simply disappeared. They told me they did not have to get my permission to do any subsequent treatment; I was not competent to authorize treatments. And there was nobody else, other than the laboratory technicians. They could do anything they wanted to do, with no limits.

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