Healing the Cancers of History
From "Some Stones Don't Roll" a remarkable study of a paranoid schizophrenic's last day
The water is running. It is shower time. I had a dream before waking of a friend making love in my sight, no just beyond my sight, on a window ledge, intimate. Bill had no woman. I ended up in the dream making off with the woman on the ledge and silently holding hands with her until whoever she had been with came back, at which point I stood up and went back and got dressed. Did Freud still impart truth, I would fish for a meaning around the desire for pigeons on my window ledge and my own parlous post-prostate condition. Senator Coburn is quitting. He says he has prostate cancer. He says, almost as an aside, that he thinks it is receding. He says he has at any rate five or ten years. When I was revving up to the danger zone on the Gleason scale, I found a prostate doctor who was doing what is laughingly called non-invasive robotic surgery. I said I did not want to have a barbequed organ lingering in my body. I said cut it out. Many opt for the radiation course of treatment. Radiation and seeds. Maybe hormones. You go in multiple times. Your prostate is done is, you hope. It sounds as though the Senator allowed his religious oblations to intervene long enough to make a surgical option impossible. Who knows? There is always a cause for such things. I wish the man well. The President should have heeded him more. Wait a minute. He did and still got whacked by Mr. Coburn's crazed colleagues. Everything has a cause. It will be 2020 until the national cancer created at the end of the 1960s is enough removed to enable a resumption of something like a beloved community black and white together deep in our hearts.
Some Stones Don't Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose) Kindle Edition
The water is running. It is shower time. I had a dream before waking of a friend making love in my sight, no just beyond my sight, on a window ledge, intimate. Bill had no woman. I ended up in the dream making off with the woman on the ledge and silently holding hands with her until whoever she had been with came back, at which point I stood up and went back and got dressed. Did Freud still impart truth, I would fish for a meaning around the desire for pigeons on my window ledge and my own parlous post-prostate condition. Senator Coburn is quitting. He says he has prostate cancer. He says, almost as an aside, that he thinks it is receding. He says he has at any rate five or ten years. When I was revving up to the danger zone on the Gleason scale, I found a prostate doctor who was doing what is laughingly called non-invasive robotic surgery. I said I did not want to have a barbequed organ lingering in my body. I said cut it out. Many opt for the radiation course of treatment. Radiation and seeds. Maybe hormones. You go in multiple times. Your prostate is done is, you hope. It sounds as though the Senator allowed his religious oblations to intervene long enough to make a surgical option impossible. Who knows? There is always a cause for such things. I wish the man well. The President should have heeded him more. Wait a minute. He did and still got whacked by Mr. Coburn's crazed colleagues. Everything has a cause. It will be 2020 until the national cancer created at the end of the 1960s is enough removed to enable a resumption of something like a beloved community black and white together deep in our hearts.
Some Stones Don't Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose) Kindle Edition
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