Thursday, January 20, 2011


Getting old can be full of surprises, such as finding out that one's MELD score is 14 and that if I hadn't had surgery for a liver tumor last summer, my life expectancy was one year.

I shake that kind of information off. Doesn't apply to Immortal Me, cruising down de Nile. I am on record about liver transplants, though. None for me, thanks. If the angelic Christina Green, the 9 year old girl murdered in the attempt to assassinate U. S. Rep. Gabrielle Giffords, donated her liver and corneas to other children, brava, a beautiful gift. I, on the other hand, am a cranky old man of 66 years with a shorter life expectancy than most of us old farts sneaking up on 70. That kind of sacrifice would be wasted on me.

Those who hate me should take merry solace in the fact that my morphine isn't always that helpful. Those who know me well know me better than to hope I will compile my life's assets as though I deserve thanks. Any good I've done, what little there is of it, was inspired, and I have been privileged to witness the play as it unfolded. I am mindful of my blessings, which are, my wife, my daughter, my friends.

I'm a skeptic of demise,
our last days should us surprise,
so let my beaten bones be spread
around about a rhubarb bed —
there let thee my passing no wise dread.



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