Cindy and I are moving to Denver, which will be our new home for the next 3-4 months. I go into the hospital on Thursday for my second bone marrow transplant. My younger brother Martin is a match and will be my donor. He’s in town going through his own prep program. He will be “harvested” and I will be “engrafted” on the 26th. (I hope his stem cells don’t remember some of the things I did to him as a kid.)
This is my fourth go-around with cancer. I’m not looking forward to the fight but I’m thankful for the treatment I’ll receive and for all those who are in my corner: family, friends, doctors, nurses and people I owe money to.
I hope for many more years of writing, dancing and playing with my grandkids, but I’m also keenly aware that I have a terminal condition. Not cancer. Life. If you’re reading this, you have the same diagnosis. Our bodies all have expiration dates.
When it comes to terminal time stamps, I prefer “Best Used By:” I want to use my days well so that when they’re done, I’m done.