It was a pretty good b-day. My long-awaited copy of Dylan's "Chronicles Vol I" was finally ready for me at the library, and my Netflix rental of the "Festival Express" DVD arrived in the mail that same day. My wife made a great dinner -- standing rib roast with Yorkshire pudding, Baskin Robbins ice cream cake for dessert -- and my rich girlfriend came up with a hard-to-find bottle of super-premium 12-year-old Redbreast Irish whiskey. Yes!
Rentals and consumables -- nothing's permanent anyway, right?
This was the first birthday on which I gave any thought to happiness at simply being alive, having survived a bout with cancer earlier in the year. I never had any doubt but that the treatment would be successful (and it was, of course), but I certainly developed a whole new attitude about mortality.
Six months of taking all my nourishment through a plastic tube installed in my midsection was pretty sobering, to say the least. The tumor was on my right tonsil, and seven weeks of five-day-a-week radiation focused upon my neck left me completely unable to swallow. I still have damage, some of it permanent, to my taste buds and saliva glands. I'm back to eating solid food, but very slowly, one tiny swallow at a time. Can't sing worth a shit, either; sure hope some of *that* capability comes back! The healing process is said to take three years, so I'm counting on continued gradual improvement.
One good thing: I lost about 60 pounds and six inches in the waist (from 42 back down to 36), all of which I could definitely afford to drop.
I turned 57, by the way; figure I ought to be good for another 25 or 30.