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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 142 tales I'm forever and forever told of friends of friends who are "terminal" and not expected to live past Tuesday, or who have already died. In the obituaries, however, I notice people still do die of things besides cancer. Old age, auto-pedestrian accidents, heart attacks. (An old poet wrote: "Death has a thousand doors for men to take their exit. . .") I only hear of ONE. Annie from next door tells me how her Uncle Jack's ("You remember my telling you about my Uncle Jack?" Indeed I do!) cancer has spread to his bones now. She details his suffering, and his doctor's inadequacies, and how he waits in agony for the shots of morphine they will not give, whimpering, begging for pills, for a gun, for a knife, for anything. My God. I try to be philosophical. But what in the name of heaven and all the angels do Annie's Uncle Jack, and Sophie Tucker and Babe Ruth have to do with me? Can't they see I don't need any more ghost stories? Can't they feel how vulnerable I am? - Badly scotch-taped together. The day is spoiled. Rats. I am surprised at my anger. Why am I so angry? Maybe I am just tired and overly pregnant. Freeze. Let everything stay just as it is, forever. Freeze. |
