A living dog is better than a dead lion.
– Ecclesiastes 9:4
Thinking of her whippet who’d been recently castrated, my adult daughter asked if I’d need to wear one of those protective cones so I wouldn’t lick myself. After the surgery, upon my release.
I would if I could, guess I said.
My surgeon says there’s a slight chance they’ll find no additional cancer in the prostate – with it removed, and once they’ve had a chance to examine it. My response was something along these lines: I suppose at that point, it’s too late to think about putting it back?
They harvest a cancerous prostate, no different than harvesting a rutabaga or a summer squash.
It’s never a good thing when in the throes of a compromising position, someone tells you to take a deep breath or bite on a towel.
For my Florence Nightingale, my lady with the lamp: this is the in sickness and in health part.
The catheter, upon having finally been removed and hung on a nail above my workbench: ideal for draining the old engine oil from my lawn tractor or the Simplicity snowblower. We all aspire to something of a far greater value, finding new purpose long after we've exceeded our useful lives.