Today, I received what veterans call an “early out.” I am receiving a good conduct discharge on Feb. 2, nine days early. I’ve taken a lot of drugs. I haven’t missed an infusion. I have kept to my diet. I dutifully drink 90+ fluid ounces of liquid every day. I’ve earned it. I’m really a short timer now! (I also hereby reserve the right to change tenses within a single paragraph!)

Short time originated with military lingo. It had to do with being close to the end of one’s enlistment. It brings with it a kind of pressure that meshes well with my angst. (Things are going too good.) Getting killed then is like being the last person to die in a war. It’s top notch bad luck and you get real superstitious as the days go by. I’m like that now. The hammer has not yet dropped. I am being very careful that I don’t become the nail.

I am pleased to report a sign of recovery. At least I guess it’s a sign of recovery. I have begun thinking of others. For the first sixty days after the transplant, when I was drugged out, in pain and wondering whether I was going to make it, I was immersed in self. Every pain, every blotch, every sneeze and every cough was worrisome and reported. I’m no longer there. I can think clearly. Now I have no excuse for bad writing.

I feel the need to remind everyone, there is an epidemic of cancer going on within my generation. Virtually every week, I hear about someone being diagnosed with one kind of cancer or another. I have three close friends who are going through chemo hell as I write this; John, Diane, Sandy. Then there is the prostate crew, Steve, Gus,Mike, Ed and John. Ah yes, I remember it well!

Why is this generation different that all other generations? It can’t be because we’ve lived longer. Most of the cancer victims are in their 50s and 60s. For the most part, we’ve eaten well, lived distant from noxious emissions and taken care of ourselves. Perhaps modern mankind should return to groveling for crusts of bread, living beneath vile smokestacks and avoiding any form of exercise. That’s a remedy our current administration might prescribe. In fact, now that I think of it, they have. Just recall the Dickensian lifestyle. Who lived long enough to die of cancer? Practically no one, that’s who. The bad news about this plan is that we’ve already blown it by spoiling our kids. But maybe they’ll learn from our mistakes and raise our grandchildren in the Rust Belt – better still, China.

I am champing at the bit to see many of you. You know who you are. I thought that the end of the hundred days would mean complete liberation. I was wrong. It turns out that I will still have a lot of “I can’t” rules. I can’t swim. I can’t go in a hot tub. I can’t fly. I can’t go into crowded places, like movies and plays. I can’t eat sushi. I can’t be in the sun. Some say I can’t drink alcohol. Others say that I can have a glass of wine from time to time. I have asked Attorney General Gonzales what “time to time” means. He said it depends on whether or not I’m legal in the country and over the age of twenty-one. In that case it means every half hour. If I don’t meet these qualifications, “time to time” means when hell freezes over; as in enemy combatants can seek relief in court from “time to time.” Well, I’m a citizen and over twenty-one. I’ve got mine, Jack.

I’m tempted to cheat but then I realize that we are talking my life here. It is surreal. The rules, of course mean that I can’t travel far. I can’t hang out on a sunny beach or paddle a kayak. I have to wait for matinees, when theaters are empty, to see a current movie. (On the other hand, tickets are cheaper and I qualify as a senior, so there is a silver lining.) What I can do is eat rather normally. I can go to restaurants. I can see YOU. I can discard my mask. I can hike and bike. I can lose badly to David Brown at tennis. I’m going off the deep end. Time to stop. See you all soon.