The 43YOV’s surgery is set. Einstein here agrees to Friday, March 13, then realizes if you remove the “March” bit it’s Friday the 13th. Superstitious? Bah! I laugh at superstitions. Hahaha! I leave a voicemail and text for Mom, call Dad, who really came through for me this morning, by the way, and who says, “Well, we just had a Friday the 13th and nothing bad happened.” Quite right!

He’ll take me to the hospital as admitting time is 5:30AM and Mom doesn’t do 5:30AM, bless her. And before you know it, it’ll be lights out (temporarily, good dog willing and the creek don’t rise) as Dr. T performs the slice and dice. Mom and I’ll pick up or have delivered my 3-day raw vegan juice cleanse for the hospital stay the day before. Recommendations from Puree’s staff vegan nurse for a “custom” cleanse are safe in my journal.

You know how some people become more, let’s say, outspoken, as they age? Well, I’m prematurely outspeaking all over the place. Truly, I’m not the least bit worried about this surgery, all of it flooding my heart for Zappa. I may’ve snapped a teensy bit from the health news being lobbed at us, though. Walking home from Starbucks, where I’ve made yet another new friend two frigid, blustery nights ago, I see a guy smoking outside one of the neighborhood restaurants or bars.

“I was diagnosed with lung cancer this week.” A piercing look into his eyes, which dart to the left when mine remain focused on him. I pass and still walking, turn my head: “Think about quitting, won’t you?”

I’m pissed.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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