health report: all good

Dear friends, those of you of a certain age - my age - will remember the TV show Laugh In, which had many clever features, one of which was the Flying Fickle Finger of Fate. It's a concept I've never forgotten. It hovers, ready to point. YOU. 

Today, the FFF of F passed me by.

Colonoscopy done - all clear, no problems at all. Incredible relief. There was concern about something they'd seen on the scans, and in the back of my mind, I thought of my dear Uncle Edgar, diagnosed with colon cancer at my age, 70, and dead two years later after a terrible struggle. 

But no. Not me. Not today. 

It was funny; as I entered the operating room, the nurse said, "Hi Beth, I'm Suzanne, a neighbour, I've met you a few times at Mary and Malcolm's." I recognized her behind the mask and we had a great chat. And then the doctor doing the op came in and said,"Hi Beth, I'm your neighbour, I live three houses down from you. You say hello to my wife all the time." 

Old home week at St. Mike's! 

Sam met me, got me home in the rain, installed me on the sofa and brought me tea and quiche, and I felt human again. Will take it easy today; because of the sedatives, the hospital instructed me not to operate heavy machinery or sign any legal documents. Done. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you, powers that be. This might have been a very different post. But the finger of fate has been busy pointing at my appendix and left the rest alone, for now. 

Yesterday was torture - fasting and glugging vast quantities of that disgusting stuff. Luckily there were some good documentaries to take my mind off it all: one about "The architecture of Fogo Island," the woman who developed the famous hotel and art studios there - how I'd love to visit it. And "Cheese: a love story," in Greece eating mountains of feta as I glugged. I weighed myself this morning, after a day of fasting and clearing myself out: four pounds down! Not a recommended diet, no. 

I also passed the time yesterday reading a long encyclopedia excerpt about my great-grandfather that someone sent me. Here's a page of his writing in Yiddish, an excerpt of a one-act play.

Delicate swirls and slashes, like hieroglyphics.
Here's my handsome son, wearing a rain jacket and hat his dad left here by mistake and now his:

And here is an unfortunately close to the bone exposé of my working method: