my 26 best friends

It's after 4 am, Thursday morning, August 23rd. In six hours, Yo will wake me up. I will drag my half-asleep body to the shower, making sure I have a T-shirt on the slip-proof floor that doesn't work. I stand on the T-shirt so I don't slip and fall and kill myself. Killing myself in the shower is a bad idea just about any day of the year. But particularly today. Because today a group of oncologists, chemo-therapists, RN's with soft voices, the oncologists' choice of which of the $3 million in drugs they keep in the Chemo Lab are best for drip drip dripping into the vein in my upper left arm - a vein that will carry the poison to the edge of my heart where it will then be pumped forthwith throughout my body - but by some miracle of science a healthy portion will go directly to my throat where the malignant cancer cells found a home. All those people and all those drugs are there in the Chemo Lab to keep me alive. Dying in the shower would just be bad form. Unforgiveable.

I will be one of 18 chemo patients sitting on real, soft leather, tan Lazy Boy reclining chairs with their backs to three walls in a big room in the basement of the Lakeview Medical Center right next to the Lakeview Hospital. That's a good idea because there are 18 different people with 18 different cancers and you never know when the poison will be too strong and it's sayronara or the hospital. They gave me the whole enchalada for my first poison potion and I almost died. I was as sick as anybody can get and still wake up in the morning. I spent four days in the hospital. I'm still here.

(If you read this before 11:45 this morning, you might give me a call, Johnny and just tell me everything will be alright. Or maybe I'll get up early and give you a call. I'm pretty confident about all this. But I'd love to hear your voice before the first drip.

Believe it or not, I am looking forward to my dripping six hours later today. Main reason: they have informed me that whatever drug combination is injected into my body will be 33% LESS...LESS potent, powerful, dibilitating than the first time. They want to kill the cancer cells. And leave me alive. I agree with them 100%.

Yolanda is driving me there. I told her she should go see a movie. Or bring a friend and pig out at a nice restaurant in Orange County for about four hours. Nope. She is staying nearby. She's the world's fastest reader. She started a new 300-page James Patterson thriller at eight this morning and finished it before going to bed. She's bringing two new books tomorrow. I'm bring ten past New York Times Crosswords, two each of Wednesday thru Saturday and two Sunday crosswords - the quintessential puzzle of the week. I'm also bringing this laptop thing - this lap top thing. In case I think of something to say.

It's late. Tired. Off to bed. One third less strength than the first time. And Yo gave me three pills three hours ago that ameliorate the side effects of the poison before you take it. I didn't have that before. All the pills were after the fact.

Goodnight, John. Pleasant dreams. I won't guarantee my dreams will be pleasant. But my visit to Lakewood very well may be. Especially if I finish that Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

Love,

Bill