My next appointment with the oncologist is a week from today. The suspense is, you should pardon the expression, killing me. News from the previous exam was astonishingly, maybe impossibly good. I’m afraid it can’t get better; I’m also afraid it can.
I’m about halfway through my oncologist’s original two-year projection and I’m running far behind where I wanted to be. I try to keep myself focussed on what I want to accomplish, breaking it down into a series of tasks rather than tryng to swallow the big picture whole, as it were. But it’s harder to screen out the distractions these days. Of course, the distractions aren’t what they used to be.
At this point, I’m down to taking things in hourly increments. One hour at a time, one word after another; lean back to see what I’ve got. It’s not the quickest way to get anything done but forward motion at any speed is better than no forward motion at all.
Although at this rate, it’s going to take a hundred years to get through the next seven days.