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It is now 7:30 PM EST on March 3, 2003... a particularly significant time and date for me on a personal level.
It was exactly two years ago right now... this moment... that a doctor came into my room in the cardiac intensive care unit of the Smalltown, U. S. of friggin' A. Medical Center and Abbatoir and told me that I had a terrible disease that was always fatal. All that was in question at that point was "when" and no longer "if." In my case, he placed the odds strongly in favor of me not being around twelve months from then and suggested I get my personal affairs in order because I might not be able to do so before long.
Doc Coldfinger, as I call him, had just never run into you folks! So far you've individually and jointly combined your efforts via exhortations, jabs, gentle pats on, and often swift, harsh kicks to, the butt, nose tweaking, button-pushing and every other thing possible and imaginable to help me prove medical science wrong one more time. I could try to single out each and every one of you who has been a part of that flipping off of the Grim Reaper one more time in my life, but I would probably overlook someone inadvertently. I don't want to slight anyone, so I will make do with this single, all inclusive ...
Thank you!
Each of you knows who you are and what you did to, and for, me over the past 24 months and so do I. Some come here and speak out, while others slip quietly in, read and slip away thinking I wouldn't notice. I do.
I have notified Doc Coldfinger's office that I wish to have the name of his replacement on my case for when Doc Coldfinger passes on from old age. I damned well plan to still be here for his funeral. The receptionist looked stunned at first and then muttered angrily and barely under her breath, "Fine! Fine! Fine!" then looked me in the eye and said, "Watch it, buster!" so I guess I was heard, even if I have been ignored thereafter and cruelly snubbed since.
Lafcadio T. Lion
Survivor
