As I have mentioned once or twice, I have been diagnosed with cancer. The prognosis is good, so far. The doctors keep using the word “cure” around me, which means they are confident in their ability to cure me, or they are miserably mean-spirited assholes setting up one terrible practical joke.
Let’s hope for the former, shall we?
However, the cure involves cutting me open and removing bits. Which, fine. Obviously, those bits are not on the same team as the rest of my bits — kind of like senior Dems and the Biden campaign (ooh, topical!). I doubt I will miss them. But that does mean I will be in the hospital for a few days starting Friday. I don’t really know how long I will be in the hospital (the surgeon says two to three days, the nurse says three to six. Since nurses tend to be smarter and more realistic than doctors, in my experience, I am counting on a week) or when I will feel like writing again. The recover process sounds somewhat less than fun.
I will likely have a piece here or there that I pre-scheduled (I have one planned, for example, for Failed Writer’s Journey on Friday itself and will likely have the Sunday Good Read setup to go as well, though it will be smaller than usual), but the newsletter will likely be much more silent than usual for a while. You can thank the cancer later.
Or I come out of this dead, in which case the newsletter will be silent for a very long time. Either way, I appreciate everyone reading along for this last year or so. It has meant a lot to know people enjoy my scribblings enough to volunteer to get them regularly. I hope to see you all on the other side.
Thanks for the good wishes!
Here's to a successful surgery, for starters. May those sharp implements be weilded by experts, and used to the utmost. And here's to rest and full recovery. See you here on the other side.