So I still have this fucking cancer and no one will ever tell me I don’t have cancer anymore, because even with all these bullshit medications that have taken every hair on my body below my chin, even with the hot flashes and the nausea, there’s going to be that one little tiny cell that might drop dead on its own, but I will never know, and no one will know, they will just keep sticking their hypos in my butt every ninety days and they keep refilling the little white pills I take every day, just in case the shot in the butt has missed its target, and every time I think it’s over there’s another test, another probe that angers me and I get so sad at times I cry and I call someone else and cry to them, and tell them what the last thirteen months have been like, filled with probes and prods, and humiliation, shame, disgrace that only a few of my family understand, one who has cancer also, who understands what it feels like when people tell us how treatable this cancer is, people who will never get those treatments themselves, I hope for their sake; as far as me, well, I have had cancer every fucking day , and don’t care about how treatable it is, and I don’t care how many times I hear men say that I will probably die of something else before I die of cancer, and I don’t care that the doctor says he can guarantee me ten more years, and what if he is wrong? Do I sue for breach of contract if I only last eight? I still sweat when the air conditioner is on. I still wake up nauseous. I’m still pissed off and hungry for something empathy, I suppose. Maybe pity, who knows? If that’s the case, maybe I’ll forgive myself. Maybe not. I only want the past year back. And I hope the guarantee expires before I do. Tomorrow I’ll be filled with life-affirming incantations, smiles, Diet Coke and Baked Lays and a movie on TV. I spent last weekend in Saratoga Springs, and I’ll be spending next weekend in Bar Harbor, in the State of Maine. Life is such a crazy, magical thing.

Peace and love to you all.

Bob