When Gotta Do's Gotta Go

     I blow my nose and lift the Kleenex away. It’s red - a bloody nose.
     What’s this? A sign of “the thing” that’s going to take me out eventually? I hope not.
     I have to get the bloody thing stopped, so I stuff a Kleenex up my nostril, lay on my back on the bed, and hang my head over the edge. That should dam the flow, but an acrid taste trickles down my throat.
     Hanging my head is an exercise I’m supposed to do every day anyway, to keep my neck from jutting forward. It’s to...