In the doctor's office

Today I saw my physician, and this fellow was sitting in the waiting room opposite me. 

I commented, “What an unusual outfit! Is it for a special occasion?”

He answered jauntily, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, “Every day is a special occasion for me. I have brain cancer, and I’m meeting my oncologist. Four months ago he told me I had about a month left, so every time I come to see him, I wear something to make him laugh. Last month it was a rabbit-ear head-dress tied under my chin. ”

I smiled gently, not laughing, and he lowered his voice a little, “I think being able to laugh is what keeps me alive. And sure, you can have a photo. I’ll even stand up for you.”

Dr. Garcia gave me a prescription for a blood thinner, and she sent me to the imaging lab to get a heart monitor that will measure my heartbeats till about the middle of the Climate Strike on Friday. I have seven wires taped to my chest, hooked to a gadget about the size of a cell phone on a belt around my waist. The information may allay a heart attack or stroke. May it be so.

I’m bowled over by your comments on my Blip birthday and since then. I’ve read every one, cried over several, and tried to rake in all that appreciation, though it’s hard because feeling unworthy is my default setting. I don’t know where to store all that praise, so I’ll just offer it back. I’ll be a mirror. What you said to me, imagine I’m saying it to you.

Part of the joy I feel in this time of life is my Blip-friends, your words and images. If this is “social media,” I’ll take a heap of it. For the views, stars, and hearts, thank you. For your time, attention, energy, thank you. I wrap myself in your comments and grin. Thank you.

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