It’s been such a busy year, I’ve barely had time to think about terminal cancer, so the fact that 10 October was my last day to buy green bananas before my oncologist appointment on the 24th went right by me. And now here I am in Milan, at Stranimondi, which is my last out-of-town event for 2017. I’ve already accepted two invitations for next year—a convention in Poland in April and OctoCon in Dublin in October. Anyone would get the idea I think I’m going to live forever.
But the suspense for this appointment is killing me even more than usual, seeing as how last time, the level of cancer had neither fallen nor increased. If there’s an increase, it’s back to chemo.
The prospect of chemo doesn’t worry me. It’s the waiting to find out—the suspense—that has me hopping from one foot to the other. I can still work on chemo, although there are times when I’m slower. But I told my oncologist back in the beginning that I don’t care if my cancer is terminal, I want to fight it aggressively. I’m not going to go quietly or gently into that so-called good night. I’m not going to ‘die with dignity.’
I’m going to live as hard and as long as I can, and when I go, I’m going to skid into my grave sideways with a piece of chocolate fudge cake in one hand and a double martini with three huge olives in the other, yelling, ‘Woohoo, what a ride!’