Thursday, March 24, 2011.
The End Of My Time.
I have no idea why, but the thought that I might die on the operating table tomorrow keeps flitting into my mind. There is no rational reason to believe this. I wonder if this is related to that strange urge I had a few times in my thirties, when I hiked to the tops of a few tall mountains. When I stood on the narrow top of Emory Peak in Big Band National Park--the first step off of which would result in about a two-hundred-foot freefall--I thought of taking that step. Not because I was depressed or anything--indeed, I was in the best mood imaginable. I certainly had not made the climb with that in mind. But there I was thinking it. Why?
I am comforted by the knowledge that I am not the only one who has felt such a crazy imperative.
After an agreeably busy radio show, I made my way into the kitchen for supper. Mary Ann laughs as I push myself along on my scooter. The cat Twinnery is wary of the device and gets out of my way.
Pizza from Carmelo a few days ago, and a salad. I was finished by seven. I am not to eat later than that, nor to drink anything--not even water--after ten. The anxiety about tomorrow has been rising all day, and I finally told Mary Ann this. She was surprised, saying that she thought I was completely cool about things. Now she was worried, she said.
I finished the day by publishing a complete Menu Daily for tomorrow. An hour after I go under general anesthesia tomorrow, my newsletter will automatically begin flowing to my thousands of readers, on time and as normal. That fact alone bucks me up.
