Despite my misgivings and the qualms I have about giving in to the inevitable end results doing so seems to represent, to me anyway, I have allowed Doc Coldfinger to enlist me in a hospice program. They came to the hovel yesterday to begin the process. That involved a medical exam by my primary care hospice nurse, Nurse Carebear.

Nurse Carebear claims to be a straight shooter, never pulling any punches. She does appear to be very direct and, unlike most medical professionals with whom I have been involved recently quite willing to call a spade a spade. I used to think I preferred that type of health care professional, but she may be a bit too direct, even for my tastes.

For instance, she came back today to discuss her findings from yesterday and to map out my remaining days. I foolishly decided to test her to see if she is, indeed, as straight talking as she appears to be. I think that I may have have learned my lesson.

I asked her, because of her experience in such matters, just how long she thought I had left before the end. She answered flatly and without hesitation, "Ten."

When she didn't elaborate on that terse answer, I couldn't help myself. Like the damned fool that I am, I demanded to know, "Ten what? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?"

She looked me straight in the eye and replied, "Nine... eight... seven...."