An 8AM Wake-Up Call

         Eight oh two on a Monday morning. Should have been up at 6:30, 7:30, but, what the hell, you’re only old once. Having sweet comfort time with my wife, not quite awake, I let the answering machine pick up.

         Later, satisfied and ready for the day, I check my messages. My primary doctor’s assistant has called, telling me that my PSA blood test, part of my annual physical at age 75, has indicated higher than normal levels.

         What does this mean? A false positive, which is possible, meaning I can go on with my life, hoping to beat my not-very-enlightened Dad who died at ninety three. I can do better than that, can ‘t I? But, if it’s serious, what then? Prostate cancer, a horrible end of life with chemo and other awful cures which never cure but just prolong the pain and distress and angst for us unfortunates who don’t believe in a jolly old Father who is going to give us a big smooch and sit us on his right hand next to another unfortunate Son.

         What do I do now? My urologist, who is so busy with other unfortunates who may or may not have received a false positive or the dreaded positive/positive, he won’t see me in weeks. What do I do now, in the mean time, the in-between time, and every minute until then, whenever that is, when he declares in his coolly objective scientific apotheosis, whether I live more precious years to learn what life is all about, or I die, not knowing , not living fully, joyfully, to a better ultimate, more romantic finality.

         Which, of course, is my plan, so I can continue to tell you how a Diary of a Dying Man should be written. After all, this “life” should be more dramatic, more measured, more literary. Isn’t that what our golden old age, the ideal older, better last part of life, should be? Shouldn’t we at least deserve that, after all we have gone through?