Spring has Sprung

 Spring has kicked the door in like a drunk optimist with a sunburn and something to prove. The forecast is screaming ninety degrees this weekend—ninety, in March—because subtlety is dead and the climate has decided to start freebasing chaos. 

Out at the forest compound, everything is glowing that radioactive shade of green that only shows up when nature is either thriving or plotting something. Redbuds are exploding in all directions like botanical fireworks, flowers are crawling out of the dirt with reckless enthusiasm, and the air itself feels thick enough to chew.

Step outside and you’re sweating before you’ve even had time to regret it. It should be wonderful. It almost is.
Except for the part where the universe keeps a loaded gun under the table.

Because somewhere beneath all this chlorophyll and optimism is the small matter of that MRI from last week—the one that came with the charming promise of “results in mid-April.” Forty-five days. A month and a half of marinating in uncertainty while the medical establishment takes its sweet, bureaucratic time sharpening the axe or polishing the pardon. Nothing quite like being handed a calendar and told, “We’ll let you know how worried you should be… eventually.”

It’s a peculiar kind of dread. Not loud, not dramatic—just a slow, steady hum in the background, like a refrigerator full of bad news.
And then, this morning, a flicker.
An email notification. Innocent enough. Could’ve been spam, could’ve been a coupon for vitamins nobody trusts. But no—this one had teeth. A test result. Early. Unscheduled. The kind of surprise that makes your stomach tighten like it’s bracing for impact.

Open it.

And there it is: a clinical dispatch from a real, licensed wielder of Latin phrases and life-altering opinions. An MD. A professional. A person who presumably sleeps at night despite writing sentences that can ruin a man’s week.

Three lines. Just three. The kind of minimalist poetry that determines whether you pour a drink in celebration or necessity.
1.    No suspicious prostatic lesion.
2.    Sequela of prostatitis and BPH.
3.    Overall PI-RADS category: 2 — Low (clinically significant cancer is unlikely to be present)
 

You read it once. Twice. A third time, just to make sure your brain isn’t translating hope into hallucination.

Line one: no obvious villain lurking in the shadows. Good.
Line two: the body is, in fact, an aging machine with plumbing issues. Also not a shock.
Line three: the big one—low probability. Not zero, because the universe doesn’t deal in absolutes, but low enough to exhale without checking for a catch.
 

In plain English? Nothing screaming “doom.” Just the gentle confirmation that time is undefeated and your bladder has opinions.
 

So we mark it down. Another small victory in the ongoing war against that rat bastard—the one that shows up uninvited, trashes the place, and dares you to keep living anyway. The scoreboard ticks forward. Not a win by knockout, but a clean round. You take those.
Of course, the game doesn’t end. It never does. There’s always another scan, another test, another politely worded email waiting somewhere down the line. Sixty more days until the next round of imaging. Sixty days until the next roll of the dice, the next cryptic report written in a language designed to keep you humble.
 

Time itself starts to warp under this system. Seconds and hours? Useless. Days? Decorative. No, now we measure life in months—two months to this scan, three months to that follow-up, six months if you’re lucky and nothing looks suspicious enough to warrant immediate attention.
 

Months become the currency. The checkpoints. The mile markers on a road nobody asked to travel.
 

But here’s the crooked beauty of it: months stack. Quietly. Relentlessly. They pile up into years if you keep showing up, keep reading the reports, keep rolling the dice with a grin that’s maybe a little too sharp.
And years—that’s the whole play. That’s the long con. String enough of those together and you’ve beaten the system in the only way that matters: you’re still here, still sweating in the absurd spring heat, still watching the forest turn violently green like it’s trying to outlive you out of spite.
 

So we take the win. Small, clinical, wrapped in jargon—but a win all the same.
 

Pour something cold. Step outside. Let the sun hit your face like a bad idea.
 

And keep going. That's the plan.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler