Um...

A few years ago shortly after I was diagnosed, I went with a friend to the National Book Festival which at the time was held on the Mall in Washington, DC. Earlier that week, still shaky from the news that I’d contracted bladder cancer, I’d Googled a list of first-person cancer books and was astonished when hundreds upon hundreds of titles came up. I joked to my friend that soon there would probably be a National Cancer Book Festival featuring all the authors autographing their works. There would be roundtables and discussions and posters and tee-shirts and seminars and coffee mugs and we would have a grand time. The Mall would barely be able to hold all the tents and tables. My friend asked if I would write a personal experience book and I demurred. Occasional blogs, yes. A book, no. Too much competition in that particular field and, let’s face it, bladder cancer is simply not sexy.
I was a little blasé back then. The cancer had luckily been caught early and my doctors told me the forthcoming operation and a few courses of chemo would most probably take care of everything. Further testing, though necessary, would be pro-forma, and life would return to normal in no time at all.
Now I’m not so sure. With the tenth surgery looming, I’m a little less certain of my immortality. I have two friends struggling with the same disease, and one in particular is a man I’ve admired for years and whose erudition and humor have been an inspiration. He has now been in the hospital for weeks following surgery and an unending list of complications. I fear for his life.
I’ve also read that the many recurrences I’ve had are not a good sign. A cancer that keeps returning is one whose entrenched cells have managed to elude the best efforts of surgeons and oncologists.
Some serious scaredy-catedness is surfacing.
I’ve always accepted the theoretical concept of dying; now I’m beginning to consider its reality. There are things to take care of, unpleasant details I don’t want to attend to. I’ve updated my will and Do Not Resuscitate Order. My organ donor card is current… Jeezie peezie! What’s going to happen to all my stuff! Whoever gets my pedal steel guitar and Dobro better dammed well take good care of them!
Back when I was a kid, my mother used to recount the tale of her own grandfather, a stern and dedicated French architect named Jules Février. Jules designed and oversaw the construction of the Banque de France building in Paris, a greyish edifice with a brass plaque bearing his name. His relationship with his wife must have been tempestuous—he decorated the building’s roof with gargoyles carved in her likeness. He also kept a small book listing the people he wanted to invite to his own funeral. When there was a falling out, he’d unceremoniously scratch out the name of the disenfranchised friend or acquaintance from the guest list. Jules, one way or the other, would have the last word.
Um… I’d always thought my great-grandfather might be a bit odd. Now I’m not so sure; a brass plaque may not be unbecoming, and I like getting the last word in too.