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| Taken one week before my fiftieth birthday. Not much has changed since then. |
Not to put too fine a point on it, but this is not the year
I imagined having.
I mean, who starts their year, literally the first day of
the year, in recovery from surgery? And who gets dangerously sick because the
recovery time is freakishly, abnormally long, and winds up spending nearly a
week in the hospital? Who does that?
Well, I do. At least, when I’m not looking after Cathy and
her second round of chemotherapy, which is an even more treacherous and unpredictable
ride than the first round, which we only barely began to recover from when it
was revealed to us that nope, she needs to go back on again.
Nuts. Nuts to all of it. Including (but not limited to) my
much-decreased but still tumescent scrotum. Turning fifty has royally
suuuuuuucked. Not for the usual reasons, though. But it’s been a shit-show,
pretty much, all year.
Let me ‘splain. No, there is no time; I sum up.
