Sunday Morning Coming Down — A Monologue

(He sits, mug of coffee in hand, staring out at the mist like it owes him money.)

Sunday morning. Calm, quiet, foggy, and damp — like the world just woke up hungover and pretending everything’s fine. Last night’s rain put on a full biblical performance, and the Forest Compound loved every minute of it. Everything’s dripping, satisfied, smug.

I slept great, too — which feels like a minor miracle these days. A rare win in this slow-motion carnival called “waiting to die responsibly.”

Right now, I’m stuck in the “hurry up and wait” phase — that bureaucratic purgatory where you spend your time auditioning for the role of Patient #47. The grand suspense? Waiting for some anonymous PET Scan scheduler to call and tell me where I’ll be irradiated next.

Meanwhile, the dogs keep scanning me daily with their big soulful eyes — mostly for signs of breakfast, maybe a little affection, possibly just checking if I’m tender enough to eat.

Funny thing: the moment I retired and joined Medicare, my oncologist suddenly decided those annual PET scans weren’t “necessary.” Oh no, I’m miraculously stable now. Isn’t that something? Amazing how good news shows up the moment the insurance money runs out. Evidently, cancer just isn’t as lucrative under government rates. Insurance money — sweet ambrosia. Medicare — a stale cracker.

So I sit here, staring at my pill bottles like they’re tiny judgmental trophies. Blood pressure. Cholesterol. Diabetes. A whole pharmacological buffet for one. Do I need them? Probably. But then again, so did Elvis.

The arthritis meds, though — now that’s the good stuff. I could build a small, deeply spiritual religion around those.

And then there’s my eye. Always feels like it hurts, but it doesn’t. Or maybe it does — just enough to remind me I’m still technically alive. The vision’s garbage. Everything looks blurry, like the world’s been Photoshopped by someone drunk and unmotivated. One eye’s fine, the other’s doing a solid impression of a cheap camera lens smeared with Vaseline. Glasses don’t help. They just make the blur sharper. I find myself squinting at things now — not because I’m curious, but because I’m negotiating.

So what’s on the agenda today? Heroic nothingness. I’ll sit here, marinate in my own thoughts, and pretend this is “taking it easy” instead of “waiting for the next plot twist.”

(He takes a slow sip of coffee, staring off into the mist.)

At least the forest’s happy. Somebody should be.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler