“About time,” says the neglected skeleton of my father from his sopping grave outside of Peekskill.
Well, you’ve been reading my blahg…
“When I get a chance,” said the skeleton. “Look, I have to say, and you’re not going to like to hear it, but you’re doing the same thing you always did. You know what Moms Mabley said ‘if you do what you always did, you’ll get what you always got.’ I know you want to highlight how maddening it is to be at the mercy of a merciless system, but, in the case of this dermatology fuck up, all you have to do is pick another fucking doctor….”
Or five more fucking doctors…
“or however many fucking doctors you need to call. Are you going to prove your point about the murderous state of American health ‘care’ by dying of too late diagnosed melanoma?”
You make a not unreasonable point.
“No, YOOO make a not unreasonable point. Don’t forget how immature I was most of my life. You’re giving yourself this advice, Elie, and my two cents is ‘take it’. Seriously, you don’t know this young, conveniently located dermatologist from a weirdly-shaped mole on your ass. Call another one. Make a goddamned appointment. If the doctor turns out to be an unredeemed asshole like that Russian-speaking one a block from your apartment is reputed to be, go see another one. Everything in life is the roll of the dice. You might get lucky, you might get unlucky. Keep going forward, my son. Don’t be like me.”
The skeleton rose from his grave, gracefully extended his arms over his head and did a slow, perfect pirouette. He danced for a while in the pissing rain, surprisingly well, while I searched for something more for either of us to say.