I seem to have progressed pretty quickly through the stages of grief… I seem to be squarely at “acceptance” without noticing all the rest. Is it possible that I’m really that firmly pragmatic? Maybe I’m just so comfortably ensconced in “denial” that I can’t even recognize my surroundings. Who knows.

Which reminds me of intriguing lyrics (to a song unfortunately just called “Dead”) by purveyors of profundity They Might Be Giants:
Now it’s over I’m dead and I haven’t done anything that I want
Or, I’m still alive and there’s nothing I want to do.

I had the big conversation with my husband on the way to get my test results. The one where I found out I have no bucket list. The one where I realized that if I had six months to live, I’d do exactly what I always do.

Apparently, I’m living the dream.

So I just keep on keeping on. Doing the daily duties that stop for no disease. The cats still need to eat. And the cats still cough up godknowswhat. At 3am. All over the brown comforter. Which offers little comfort when it’s covered in kittyhork, even when you’re contemplating your own mortality.


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