“So how long do I have,” I ask.
“Couple of days, maybe a week. It’s hard to say.”
“But I feel fine. I’m in great shape. Maybe I’ll be ok.”
“No. You won’t,” he replies. “Besides, they say denial is the first stage.”
“Don’t be a prick, Wait, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“Don’t worry about it. Anger’s the second stage.”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad. If I can still function through the weekend…”
“That would be bargaining, the third stage.”
“I guess I’m screwed.”
“Capitulation.”
“You’re just my wife’s gynecologist. You really could be wrong, you know?”
“Don’t backslide. Your bargaining again.”
“Mono, huh?”
“Your wife and children all have the antibodies. Your doomed.”
Crap.
By the time you read this… I will have mono. Or maybe I won’t. Denial? Maybe. On the other side of the coin, maybe I’ve suddenly developed a superhuman immune system (say “superhuman immune system” three times fast.) I’m sound of mind, strong as an ox and pure of heart.
Anyway, I find being doomed somewhat liberating. “Borrowed time,” what should I do with it? Go on a massive bender? One last hurrah? Rob a bank?
Take care of my sick family?
Fuck me.