One year ago today I went to see an ENT doctor – I had felt something foreign in my throat when I swallowed – and was told I had a tumor. She gave me no hope that it was benign and told me to prepare for radiation and chemo.
Surgery at the end of March – after a biopsy, a CT scan, an MRI, weeks of anxiety – left me with a scarred tongue and throat but, up until now at least, no further treatments. I consider myself lucky but not unscathed. I still have lymphedema, and wear bandanas to cover the bulge in my neck, and I still don’t swallow as easily as I used to; the waiter who asks, “Are you still working on that, sir?” is for once using the right verb.
People with cancer often say it gives them a greater appreciation of life. I always had a healthy appreciation of life, so what I got instead was a greater awareness of death. But it has allowed me to regain my boyish figure.
My cartoon yesterday was about Wordle, a game I have never played. I feel about words the way chefs feel about food: They're not something to be played with.
A friend tweeted this weekend about "pretentious and obnoxious" ways to sign off on a letter or email. An example he gave was: "May you find what you are seeking."
When I was a travel editor one of my freelancers, a man by the name of Larry Tritten, closed all his letters with "Peregrinations," which I found the opposite of obnoxious.
Our building renovation has begun, on our wing, on our stack of corner units. For months we’ve been hearing the sounds of demolition – all balconies are being replaced – from the building across the parking lot, but they’re a lot less theoretical when they’re being produced on the other side of the glass in your sliding glass doors. Rather than self-pity, I’m trying to cultivate pity for the workmen, for whom the racket is never anything but immediate.
Every day a new Covid record and every day a new celebrity death.
I’ve been asked to contribute to a Festschrift and I’m delighted, not just by the invitation but by the fact that I know what a Festschrift is.